assistant.
Sophie’s mind was racing. An extra five shillings a week! That might even be enough to move out of her awful lodgings and find some nicer rooms somewhere. Of course, it would never be anything like Orchard House – that had gone forever. But at least it might begin to feel something like a home.
Mrs Milton continued: ‘I will expect you all to work your very hardest today. So to begin – Ellie and Violet, all of those boxes need to be cleared away. Sophie, you may finish that display over in the window. Edith and Minnie, I want to see those display cases polished until they sparkle. I won’t have Mr Sinclair finding so much as a speck of dust in my department!’
Edith looked furious to have been given something as lowly as polishing to do when Sophie had all the fun of arranging a display. As she went to fetch dusters, she shot the other girl a poisonous glance, but Sophie ignored her, determined to focus only on her task. A tower of hat-boxes stood before her, each containing a lovely new spring hat to be removed from its delicate tissue paper wrappings, uncovering a riot of silk flowers, huge chiffon bows, frills of lace and nodding ostrich plumes. Some were topped with artificial birds or fruit, others wreathed in layers of frothy net and tulle like something that might be served up in the store’s Confectionery Department. She turned each hat to and fro in her hands, deciding how it might be best displayed, enjoying the soft brush of velvet against her skin, a satin ribbon sliding between her fingers, the crisp delicacy of a net veil.
They were strangely evocative things. A pink organza recalled a frock she had once had for dancing class; a green-striped bow reminded her of one of Miss Pennyfeather’s Sunday hats; this velvet was like the dress she had worn when she had first come to Sinclair’s. Already, it seemed like a very long time ago, although in fact it was barely two months.
At fourteen, they had said she was too old for an orphanage: she was considered no longer a child, and old enough to support herself. Instead, they had sent her to an employment agency, where two ladies had looked her up and down as she stood there, dressed like a child with a muslin pinafore over her frock, her skirts barely touching the tops of her boots.
‘She’s very small, isn’t she, Charlotte?’
‘Undersized. Not much work in her.’
‘And look at those hands! Soft as butter.’
‘A spoilt little thing, I should say.’
Sophie had wanted to protest that she was not spoilt, but they had begun to fling questions at her. Could she cook? Could she launder? Could she work a typewriter? She could only shake her head. It had soon become clear that a girl who had passed no examinations and who had no idea how to begin to set about cooking a dinner or scrubbing a floor wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with options when it came to finding a way to earn money. French conversation and dancing were all very well, but they would do nothing to help her now.
It was as she was trailing miserably back from the agency, a few flakes of snow just beginning to fall, that she had first found Sinclair’s. Work on the building had still been going on, but the enormous hoarding around it was already plastered in advertisements, and in spite of the cold, people were lingering to read them. But what had made Sophie stop and stare was an enormous sign that read, in scarlet letters, Staff Wanted. Almost in a moment, she had known that sign was meant for her.
The next day she had put up her hair and let down the skirts of her most grown-up gown. She had perched on the edge of a hard chair, carefully answering the questions put to her by Mr Cooper – a serious-looking man with a close-trimmed beard and a severe black suit. She had felt almost absurd relief when he had offered her a position as a salesgirl in the Millinery Department, starting at ten shillings a week – just enough to afford bed and board in a cheap lodging house for working ladies.
It was what Papa would have wanted, she had reflected as she toiled back to her lodgings through the snow. She knew that he would have expected her to buck up and make the best of things, just as people always did in the military tales he loved to relate. Perhaps she might not be facing wild beasts or a native uprising in the jungle, but she could be brave and not make a fuss about embarking on this peculiar new life.
Now, with the hat display almost complete, Sophie paused for a moment and gazed down at the street below her, thronged with Hansom cabs and motor taxis, cycles whizzing daringly between them, and omnibuses, bright with coloured advertisements for Pear’s Soap and Fry’s Chocolate Cream. The pavements were crowded with people and as she watched, Sophie felt a flutter of excitement to see how many of them were casting curious glances up at the huge facade of Sinclair’s.
‘Now, Sophie, there’s no time for dreaming today. That looks very nice but if you’ve finished I wish you’d run some errands for me,’ came Mrs Milton’s voice, and Sophie started guiltily back from the window. ‘These hats need to go down to the dressing rooms on the first floor. They’re for the mannequins to wear in the dress parade.’
Edith, still busy polishing, looked pleased at the sight of Sophie being asked to do something so menial. ‘I’m sure Her Ladyship won’t care for that,’ she whispered loudly to Minnie.
As a matter of fact, Edith was quite wrong, Sophie thought crossly as she went down the stairs, carefully balancing the stack of hat-boxes. The truth was that she was happy to have any chance to look around the store and felt proud that she already knew almost every corner. The mannequins’ dressing room was one place that she had not yet seen, and what was more, she was intrigued by the mannequins themselves – lovely young ladies who had been hired especially for the purpose of modelling frocks and furs and hats. Once the store was open, there would be a dress show once a day, where they would parade before the store’s most important customers in a specially decorated salon in the Ladies’ Fashions Department. The mannequins were called the ‘Captain’s Girls’ as rumour had it that Edward Sinclair had insisted on selecting every one himself. Sophie had heard it said that they were as glamorous as stars of the West End’s chorus lines.
She soon found the dressing room in the maze of staff corridors on the first floor, and tapped politely at the door. Hearing no response, she went inside. Like every room at Sinclair’s, the dressing room was beautifully furnished, with soft chairs, looking-glasses, bright lamps and several rails of beautiful gowns, but it was otherwise empty – with the exception of one dark-haired beauty, who appeared to be half in and half out of an evening dress. There was no doubt that she must be one of the Captain’s Girls. Sophie began to retreat at once.
‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t know anyone was here,’ she murmured, but before she could close the door again, the girl looked up and smiled at her.
‘I say – don’t go!’ she exclaimed in a hearty voice that didn’t match her appearance in the slightest. ‘Come in, do, and maybe you can help me with this ghastly thing. I simply can’t make it fasten.’
Sophie put the hat-boxes down on a table, but as she approached the girl she had to bite back a gasp of amazement. It was as if a goddess had appeared before her, dressed in a white silk petticoat. Tall and statuesque, with a mass of rich, chocolate-brown hair piled on top of her head, enormous, long-lashed dark eyes and a creamy silk-and-velvet complexion, she was by far the most beautiful girl Sophie had ever seen. No wonder Mr Sinclair had chosen her to be one of the Captain’s Girls, she thought, trying not to stare.
‘I can’t seem to get the silly old bodice done up,’ the girl was saying cheerfully, clutching uselessly at the evening dress. ‘Do you think you could help? Oh thanks awfully. This is the frock I’m supposed to be wearing for the first dress show tomorrow, you see. I’m due to go to see Monsieur Pascal, so he can decide on a hairstyle to complement it, and I don’t suppose they’d like it much
