A Fallen Woman. Nancy Carson
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her father.
The word ‘marriage’ soon entered Benjamin and Aurelia’s vocabularies. He was desperate to get Aurelia into his bed, and she was desperate to quit her father’s dominion. So they swiftly arranged a wedding. Every day and every night thereafter would be a honeymoon – or so they both envisaged.
Within a few months it was obvious the marriage was not working. Aurelia fell pregnant, however. Her expanding belly, subsequent lack of interest in the normal bedtime activities of young couples and confinement disadvantaged him for too long. The introduction of a pert young nanny into the household was a tempting distraction. She was not as striking as Aurelia, but was pretty, petite and alluring; in all, a dangerous attraction. And the more dangerous the attraction the more reckless the chase, and, ultimately, the more exhilarating the consummation.
The nanny was a living, breathing young woman who tantalised him with her youthful figure and cheeky smile. He would brush past her, catch the scent of her perfume as it drifted to him, and she would turn her head and smile provocatively with her large expressive eyes, at exactly the same time that he turned to look at her. She recognised his interest and played on it. They schemed to be together and he would engineer any opportunity to visit her bedroom.
Thus, their marital problems had begun, so that by this time in August 1892 – two children later –Benjamin and Aurelia both had cause to regret their marital haste.
* * *
Brierley Hill’s High Street was a stretched-out thoroughfare, the busy main highway that carried the horse-drawn traffic and steam tramcars between the larger towns of Dudley and Stourbridge. The road was lined on either side with black, cast iron gas street lamps, public houses and terraces of shops with doors invitingly open. The spaces over shop windows were bedecked with painted wooden boards and sometimes enamelled metal panels, painted in black or green, with fancy white lettering, informing the passer-by of treats that lay within, or which upright citizen owned the emporium.
One such panel announced the Drapery, Mourning and Mantles Establishment of Eli Meese, Esq. It resembled every other store on High Street, except for the long entry at the side with a floor of criss-crossed blue bricks and a door let into one wall, which was the entrance to the living accommodation. These quarters occupied three further storeys, part of a drab, soot-besmirched, red-brick terrace with flaking green paintwork to the window frames and doors. Within these walls Eli resided with his wife, seven daughters and two servants.
The shop at street level was the target for two disturbingly lovely young women who bore a perceptible resemblance to one another. As they made their way along High Street in the warm sunshine wearing dazzling white summer dresses, not only men, but women too turned to look.
They were half-sisters, sharing the same father, but until fate intervened some year or so earlier, they had not been aware of each other’s existence. Now they were as close as sisters could be, often discussing their secrets and innermost feelings about their respective husbands and the state of their marriages. So it was that Marigold Stokes knew and understood that Aurelia was so desperately unhappy, while she herself was perfectly content with her own lot.
As they opened the door of the shop, a bell tinkled, signalling their entrance, as did the sound of their dainty heels on the dry, unvarnished floorboards. The musty smell of cotton prevailed, and the two young women caught each other’s eye and wrinkled their noses simultaneously. Countless bolts of cloth, the finest that Manchester could produce, and in the very latest colours, patterns and textures, lined the walls and every appropriate flat surface.
Harriet Meese, Eli’s second daughter, unattractive of face but more alluring of figure – and unreservedly pleasant of personality – was on solitary duty behind the counter.
‘Aurelia! Marigold! How nice of you to call.’ She put down the needlework that generally occupied her during quiet moments and got up eagerly from her stool, wearing a smile of pleasure at seeing the two visitors. ‘Is this a social call?’
‘Oh, definitely a social call,’ Aurelia answered with an engaging smile, ‘but with added profit for you, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m so glad it’s you to serve us, Harriet. We’ve called to choose some stuff for new dresses for a certain very lucky person’s wedding.’ She turned to Marigold for confirmation.
Marigold duly nodded and smiled; she was the less self-assured of the two girls, lacking formal education, and generally took her lead from Aurelia in matters of commerce and couture. Marigold had just celebrated her twenty-first birthday.
‘I hope you mean for my wedding,’ Harriet suggested with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Why? Is there some other we don’t yet know about?’
‘I’m not aware of any.’ She gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘At least, not among my circle of friends.’
‘So what lovely materials do you have in stock?’ Aurelia bubbled; she was out of that house which depressed her so much, and had shed temporarily its burden of oppression for the brief time she was away from it. ‘Time’s running short and we have to get new dresses run up at Mrs Palethorpe’s. We reckoned that if we could decide on some stuff today we could take it directly to her and save time.’
‘I happen to know that Mrs Palethorpe is rather busy, though, Aurelia,’ Harriet remarked apologetically. ‘I’m sure you can guess she’s making mine and all the bridesmaids’ dresses too. They should all be finished by Friday, though. She’s the best dressmaker for miles, so it’s no wonder she’s so busy.’
‘That’s why we want her to make our dresses, Harriet – because she’s the best.’
Harriet smiled her innocently crooked smile. ‘Indeed. So what colours do you fancy?’
‘I thought blue,’ Aurelia answered. ‘Silk or satin. Blue for Marigold too, I think.’ She looked at Marigold for confirmation, for they had tentatively discussed the options earlier.
‘A different blue to Aurelia’s, though,’ Marigold answered in a small, almost apologetic voice. ‘I’d hate folk to think I was copying her.’
‘Blue is a good colour for both of you. It will contrast the lovely dark hair you both have, and bring out the colour of your eyes.’
After Harriet had shown them materials in an abundance of blues, but with the girls prevaricating, she had a flash of inspiration. As a slave to exclusivity, she had been withholding a bolt of material for her own use first, but she did not want to lose the custom of these girls just for the vain fancy of being the first woman to be seen in this beautiful new fabric. Therefore, she decided to offer it.
‘I’ve just remembered…we have a lovely iris-coloured silk, new in…’ Harriet swept out of the door at the rear and into the storeroom, returning with a rustle of skirts and the said bolt of silk, which she dropped on the counter. At sight of it, Aurelia’s eyes lit up.
‘Oh, I say, I do like that.’ She ran her fingers sensually over its smooth surface. ‘What do you think, Marigold?’
‘It’d suit you down to the ground and no two ways, Aurelia.’
Aurelia mused over this latest offering but said, ‘Maybe you should have this stuff, Marigold.’
‘No, you must have it if you like it,’ Marigold responded unselfishly. ‘I think I fancy something paler anyway.’
‘Then how about that pastel blue satin?’ Harriet suggested, pointing towards a particular roll of cloth they had both considered suitable. ‘It’s very good quality, and I’m sure Algie would admire you greatly in that.’
Marigold smiled to herself at the prospect as Harriet dutifully extracted the bolt from the pile. She tried to picture it made up into a suitable dress to wear at a late summer wedding. ‘Yes, I reckon it’ll do nicely,’ she agreed,