not want his son a widower or his grandchildren motherless. It was all too common and with heartbreaking results.
He knew how lucky he was in so many different ways. He had been blessed with kind, loving, good-hearted parents, who had set him on the best course when they encouraged him to go into service.
His father, Edward Falconer, had owned a small grocery shop in Rochester, Kent. His parents, his brother Tom, and he had lived in a flat above it. Being rather crowded never ever bothered them, since they were a loving family and enjoyed each other’s company.
It was his mother, Olive, who had recognized he would make a good butler if he had the correct training. She knew he was efficient, well organized, had good manners, charm and a special way with people.
It was she who had suggested he visit Fountains Manor nearby to seek employment. He had done so, and had been taken on immediately by the Honourable Arthur Montague, who was struck by his politeness, pleasant voice and good looks. He had risen through the ranks with ease and rapidity, learning about wine, food and clothing in order to improve himself.
Philip had always thought that his eldest, Matthew, took after his own father in wanting to be a salesman, and had rented stalls. Now James was following in their footsteps. But his dream was not of a little shop in a country town or stalls in a market, but a grand emporium like Fortnum and Mason – catering to the rich.
Hearing James’s plan today had given Philip genuine pleasure, and Esther as well. There was no doubt in their minds that their grandson had a prodigious intelligence; he was clever, smart, had enormous ambition and drive. These two particular characteristics were essential to success. Anyone aiming high who did not own them was doomed to failure. Whether he could achieve such a lofty dream was another matter, though.
As Philip walked along, striding out at a brisk pace, he decided he would select some of his books on the red wines of Provence for James to read. That was how he would begin to teach his grandson – lead him into the wonderful world of vintage wines.
After a while Philip had to slow his pace. There were too many people on the streets tonight. Men and women hurrying home after a long workday; couples were strolling along in a more leisurely fashion, obviously out for an evening of entertainment at a restaurant or the music hall.
Philip loved London, thought of it as the capital of the world. They had a Queen-Empress in Victoria, the aging widow, and Britain was the richest and greatest nation on the planet. Yet he hated the fact that this age of Victoria, momentous in so many ways, was also a hungry and deprived age. Millions of its citizens went to bed with empty bellies.
Gladstone, Disraeli and Salisbury – politicians all – raged and argued in Parliament about the terrible conditions, but did nothing positive to change the game as far as he could see. Certainly there was nothing much he could do either, except to help a friend in need from time to time. And this he did whenever he was asked. His conscience ruled his head and his heart. And at night he prayed for better days ahead for the common people of England.
That night James found it hard to go to sleep. He felt calmer about his mother and knew the doctor had been correct. She had caught cold, and it was nothing worse. What kept him awake was the sudden worry about his father – how would he react when James told him about his dream? Now he had confided in his grandparents, he thought he would have to explain to Matthew that he did not want to work on the stalls at the Malvern forever. He had ambitions of his own … of being a merchant prince. Even his grandmother had brought that matter up to him as they had been driving over to Camden Town in the hansom cab. He didn’t want to upset his father, but he knew within himself that he would have to follow his dream. It was like a burning flame inside him.
Knowing his father the way he did, understanding that he was a fair man, one who saw everyone’s point of view, James was sure he would not object to his leaving the stalls.
Not yet, of course. He would have to be seventeen or eighteen before he could think of moving on. Could his father manage without him? Would he use Eddie? He would need help. Perhaps he could hire somebody.
He tossed and turned in his bed, his mind whirling with dire thoughts. How would he approach Mr Henry Malvern? The owner of the Malvern Market was a pleasant man; he usually came over to speak to his father, and always had a word for him. But James was smart enough to know that this didn’t mean a thing. Mr Malvern was pleased at how well his father ran their stalls, had made a success of them, but that didn’t mean Mr Malvern would give him a job at the Piccadilly office just like that. Why would he? Why should he?
And there was another thing. He was a working-class boy. Might Mr Malvern think he was stepping out of his place? Maybe. Maybe not.
An education was what he needed. James had been to school. He could read and write very well; he knew his geography and English history. And he was a dab hand when it came to arithmetic. The teachers had told his parents he was gifted and an excellent pupil.
Yet he still needed to know more. Knowledge was power; his grandmother always said that. It came to him in a flash. He would speak to his grandfather, who was going to teach him all about the noble grape and the great wines of France. That’s how Grandpapa had put it. And lend him books about wine. He knew his grandfather would be pleased to lend him books about many other things as well. There was a big library at the Nash house in Regent’s Park.
Lady Agatha would surely agree to lend him a book or two. Or three. He would take care of them, handle them with respect.
He let out a long sigh. Books. That was his answer for gaining more knowledge. He had to work hard in the next few years, bettering himself in every possible way he could. When he eventually went to see Mr Malvern, he had to be absolutely acceptable in every way.
That was the new goal of James Lionel Falconer. Having found the answer to his problem, he relaxed and soon fell asleep. He would awaken the next morning with new determination to be the best. And, later in the week, he would take a deep breath and tell his father that he had to follow his dream.
Alexis Malvern stood in front of the cheval mirror positioned near the window in her bedroom. She studied herself for a moment, turning to one side and then the other, and decided she would pass muster.
At twenty-five, she knew her own mind, and some time ago she had given up wearing crinolines, except for very special evening occasions. She felt they were too cumbersome for her and the life she led. Instead she favoured the crinolette hoop, made of steel and cotton, a framework worn under the back of the skirt only. This meant that the skirt of a gown was slim at the front and the sides, with a big bustle at the back, supported by the hoop tied around the waist.
This afternoon her gown was made of a rich cream silk. It had a high neck, long slender sleeves and a tight bodice that accentuated her slender waist. From the waist down, the front of the skirt was flat, with pleats at each side, which, in turn, became the bustle.
Her clothes were designed by Madame Valance, a Frenchwoman, who was everyone’s favourite at the moment. Her clothes were elegant and stylish and not as flamboyant and flashy as some of the other fashion designers in London.
Walking over to the bed, Alexis picked up the hat which had been made to match the gown. It was a cream silk bowler, but more of an oval shape than round like the kind men wore. Trimming the rim of
