A Fatal Freedom (33 page)

The next three days were busy ones for Ursula. On her way to
Maison Rose
on the Wednesday, she had to deliver the morning’s mail to Brown’s Hotel, where Mrs Bruton was still staying.

After leaving the letters with the concierge, she used the Davies Street exit of the hotel. As she stopped to draw on her gloves, Ursula saw the front door of
Maison Rose
open and a man propelled roughly out of the building. He stumbled down the steps and collapsed at the bottom.

The man collected himself, dusted down his trousers and picked up his bowler hat, then he raised his fist and shook it at the closed front door. As he did so, Ursula recognised his striking yellow and caramel striped waistcoat. She had last seen it in Shepherd’s Market, with its wearer importuning Count Meyerhoff. Rachel had recognised him as Albert, Joshua Peters’ valet. It hadn’t been possible to see who had ejected him from
Maison Rose
but the odds were on the count. What was going on?

The valet staggered a few steps in the direction of Bond Street, then leant against the entrance to another building, took off his hat and produced a handkerchief to wipe his face. He was still recovering as Ursula made her way into
Maison Rose
.

No one else seemed to be around. She went to her office and settled down to send out what seemed a goodly number of accounts to new clients.

Five minutes later the count entered. His mouth was a thin line and a tiny tic pulsated at the corner of his left eye, always a certain sign that something was amiss.

‘Statements must be sent to all clients who have invoices that have remained unpaid for more than a month,’ he announced without greeting her. ‘They must be sent today.’

‘Today?’ The outstanding invoices were arranged in alphabetical order by client, not by date. It would take time to identify which needed a statement sent.

‘You question my instructions, Miss Grandison? It is as well you remember who gives them.’ The count’s usual charm had vanished; underneath the continental suavity there lurked a bully.

‘It was only that Madame Rose has dealt with an impressive number of clients this week and many new invoices need to be issued. But, of course, I will start immediately on identifying the ones that need statements.’

‘Count!’

Madame Rose appeared in the doorway, her face stormy. ‘My laboratory, if you please.’

The count hesitated for a moment. ‘I shall return later to check progress, Miss Grandison,’ he said smoothly and followed Madame.

It seemed the laboratory door had not been shut properly because the sound of angry voices easily percolated through to Ursula’s office. Madame Rose and the count were speaking German and perhaps assumed they could not be understood by anyone within hearing distance. There had been no reason for Ursula to inform them she had studied the language in Paris. Her command of it was not as good as her French, but it was enough to be able to understand the gist of their argument.

Madame was afraid that sending out statements would alienate her clients. When the count insisted that it was only good business practice, she became irate and accused him of wanting to dominate. ‘You Germans, you want to rule the world,’ she flung at him. Ursula, having tried and failed to shut out their voices, expected the count to retaliate that he was Austrian, not German; there had been an Austrian girl in their Parisian school who had spent some time explaining that to call an Austrian a German was tantamount to insulting them. However, the count retorted that Madame Rose should remember who controlled the money side of their business.

To this, apparently, Madame had no answer. Ursula saw her pass the glass door to her office in an angry flash of white coat, head held high.

Ursula buried hers in the invoice file and added another unpaid bill to the growing pile of those needing statements.

A moment later the Count entered wearing a tight smile. ‘You progress, Miss Grandison?’

She nodded.

‘You will, please, send out all necessary reminders this evening; together with new invoices.’ he added crisply.

Despite sending out for a sandwich and working through the lunchtime period, Ursula had to remain some hour and a half beyond her usual departure time.

* * *

The following day Ursula had a meeting with Mrs Bruton at Brown’s Hotel. Adjusting the curtains of the sitting-room window of her employer’s suite to Mrs Bruton’s satisfaction, Ursula cast a glance across at the
Maison Rose
building and wondered fleetingly how matters were progressing there.

‘Now, dear, these builders’ estimates for Nevern Square that you have been collecting,’ Mrs Bruton waved the little bundle of papers she had been studying. ‘I am not happy with these prices. Today I wish you to visit each of them and obtain lower ones. I am sure you can persuade them their charges are far too high. And they must give quotations, I don’t want to be told at the end of the job that they were out in their estimates. This one, for instance,’ she picked out one, ‘it is quite outrageous.’

Ursula took the bunch back. She was unsurprised by the request. ‘I was once told by a New York entrepreneur that estimates are very often inflated to allow for a reduction when clients complain.’

‘Such a help to have someone working for me who is so efficient and knowledgeable,’ Mrs Bruton purred. ‘Now, could you be kind enough on your way out to order coffee to be sent up? And please deliver a report on your activities by the end of the day.’

It had taken all that time to visit each of the builders and argue with them. She had then to prepare and deliver the report her employer had ordered. Late again for the evening meal at Mrs Maple’s, Ursula was disappointed to find that Thomas Jackman had not fulfilled his promise to keep her up to date with his investigation, nor retrieved her new winter coat. Ursula tried to tell herself she was uncharitable to care so much for a mere item of clothing when Millie seemed in such dire straits, but the fact that she had worked so hard and guarded her expenditure so carefully in order to acquire the garment meant she could not take its loss lightly.

Ursula reminded herself that her situation was nothing compared with that of Alice Peters, suffering in prison, facing trial for murder and the hangman’s rope if she was found guilty – a prospect that was beginning to seem more and more likely.

Taking a plate of the food that had been kept for her, she retired to her room. During her rounds of the builders, Ursula had managed to fit in a visit to the circulating library she had become a member of to see if there was a novel available that might lift her spirits.

‘You are in luck, Miss Grandison,’ the librarian had said. ‘This has only recently been published and it has been excellently received.’ The title seemed promising and Ursula slipped the book into her bag with the builders’ estimates.

The book did indeed prove compelling and she soon found herself caught up in an exciting story. By the time she went to sleep, she had read half and looked forward to finishing it the following evening.

Friday was one of her
Maison Rose
half days. When she arrived, Hilda Ferguson, Madame Rose’s assistant, was rearranging the jars of products displayed in the salon’s vitrines.

‘Madame and the count have gone to visit someone in the country,’ she said excitedly. ‘Madame told me he’s very rich and they hope he will invest money in the business. She took a bag full of products for him.’

Ursula was amused to see how excited the girl seemed. Usually she was a shadow attending on Madame. Now, chubby cheeks pink, forget-me-not blue eyes alive, small hands moving rapidly as she sorted out the rows of jars, she seemed transformed.

‘Last night Madame made up two new batches of cream,’ Hilda said as she closed the glass doors. ‘She said you are to help me fill the jars.’

‘No invoices to send out?’

‘Yes, we had a full day of clients yesterday, but Madame said filling the jars shouldn’t take all the morning.’

Ursula left her jacket in her office. On the desk was a pile of invoice details and bills that needed cheques made out. She was not sorry to leave the deskwork and join Hilda in the laboratory.

A chrome forcing machine had been set up and Hilda had already filled several jars. She showed Ursula how to place a special seal on them and add a lid, then she wound the machine’s handle to fill another jar with creamy mixture.

‘What about a label?’

‘We’ll do that when all the jars have been filled. We’re starting with
Crème de la Printemps
, then we’ll do
Crème de la Rose
. Madame told me that was the first preparation she created.’ Hilda passed a filled jar to Ursula for its seal and lid and placed an empty one underneath the machine’s nozzle. ‘I shall be glad when this week is over, Count Meyerhoff has been so rude! I was surprised Madame allowed it. He would not have dared to speak to her like that if she was a man; a man would knock him down!’

‘What did the count say?’

Another filled jar was passed to Ursula. ‘Madame had lost a button on her white coat and he said she looked like a gypsy. He complained that her hair was untidy and went on and on about how important it was to give the right impression to their clients. I left the room, of course, but I could hear him shouting even though I’d closed the laboratory door. Then at last Madame said something that sounded really angry but she was speaking German so I don’t know what it was, and after that he went out.’

‘Was this yesterday?’ Ursula remembered the argument between Madame and the count she had overheard on the Wednesday.

Hilda nodded. The jars were being filled quickly now and Ursula had to work at keeping up with her part of the process.

‘I hope they set off in a better mood this morning,’ she said after a little.

‘The count wasn’t saying much but Madame was wearing a wonderful pink silk jacket and skirt, and a small hat to match, ever so smart. Such a change to see her without that white coat.’

Ursula made room for more jars by pushing the finished ones to one side.

‘For the last two days the count has found fault with everything.’ Hilda’s hands moved automatically, continuing the filling process. ‘He complained that the shelves were untidy, just because one jar was out of place. He made me so upset I dropped it and it broke and he told me if it happened again I would have to leave.’ The girl brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes. She looked very upset. ‘I was so pleased when I got this job. My grandmother used to live in Devon, but she came to live with us in Tottenham when I was eleven; her legs wouldn’t work no more, not as legs. She had a book that had been handed down from her mother with all these receipts for using herbs and plants for medication, and for keeping the skin soft and clear, and she taught me all about them. I was so interested and started to make some. Only simple ones but my mother said she thought they helped clear her skin of spots.’

Ursula lined up more finished jars. ‘Are you going to make your own creams, like Madame?’

‘She mixes them in secret, doesn’t want anyone to know their receipt. But at least I know what sort of ingredients she has to choose from. And I’m going to night school to learn more about science,’ Hilda gave a charming little giggle. ‘There’s only one other girl in the class and she says she joined because it’s a fine place to meet young men.’ She grew serious again. ‘And I’m doing a business course as well. I want to be able to start up on my own one of these days, like Madame. I don’t want to go into service or become a shop girl.’

Ursula was impressed with the girl’s ambition. It was the first time she had had the opportunity to have a proper conversation with her.

‘How long will it take before you can start your own business?’

Hilda shrugged, ‘Several years, I think. Maybe once I have created some products I am pleased with, I can start in a small way with friends and hope that they will tell other friends.’ She looked round the immaculate laboratory with its well-stocked shelves and large jars full of ingredients. ‘A place like this would cost a great deal to set up. I am not like Madame, I do not know men like Count Meyerhoff who have money and rich friends who will invest in someone like me. What do you think, Ursula? You are American where it seems fortunes can be made overnight, am I foolish to think I can create my own business here?’

Ursula looked at this girl who could conceal ambitious plans beneath a subservient attitude while quietly learning the secrets of running a beauty salon. ‘People who make fortunes never question whether they can or not, they just get on and do it. I think you have exactly the right attitude, Hilda. Stick to your plans and you will get there.’

‘Oh, I will.’

‘Tell me, Hilda, do many English girls want to become independent like you?’

‘There’s quite a few want to be a bit more adventurous than people expect. Another girl at the college was telling me the other day that she’s joining the Women’s Suffrage Movement. And I’m going to as well. We women should have the vote; why do men think it’s only they who decide who is to govern us and how?’

‘I’ll introduce you to my friend Rachel Fentiman, she’s involved with the Movement. She thinks they should be more militant.’

Hilda stopped filling jars for a moment. ‘Militant? What does that mean? Surely not something to do with the army?’

‘I don’t know but it will definitely be something aggressive. Rachel mentioned chaining herself to some railings outside Parliament, oh, and breaking windows.’

‘What will that achieve?’

‘She says it will be in the newspapers so that more people will know about the Movement and the government will realise how serious women are about getting the vote.’

‘I think that sounds a great idea!’

‘You don’t think it could alienate people?’

‘Where has being nice and polite got us?’ In charge of the shiny chrome machine, the girl looked positively militant herself.

* * *

That evening Ursula finished reading the book that had so enthralled her. Gradually, as she read, she found herself piecing together fragments of the conversation between the count and Madame Rose that she had overheard the previous Wednesday together with other oddments from her time with the
Maison Rose
. The picture they began to create was a worrying one and she continued to read with a growing sense that she should talk to someone in a better position to judge whether it could be important.