The Marriage Certificate (3 page)

Peter and Felicity Sefton lived in
a stone cottage in Wiltshire, not far from the market town of Marlborough.
They’d been there ten years and had chosen it because they liked its pretty
appearance and quiet location. Felicity was a schoolteacher at the local
primary school, while Peter was a private investor, trading shares from home.

Peter was comfortable researching companies and markets,
analysing charts and weighing up when to buy and when to sell. He enjoyed
investing, always hoping to make a decent return, but unfortunately not always
succeeding. Still, that was investing, impossible to be right every time, but
right enough of the time to make it worthwhile.

Apart from shares, he sometimes bought gold sovereigns if he
spotted them at a tempting price. He regularly checked jewellers’ windows,
auctions, and antique markets. In fact, it was a call from a dealer contact in
the trade that had sent him to Marlborough that afternoon. The dealer had a
couple of coins for him and after they had chatted for a while and concluded
their business, Peter had wandered over to the nearby antiques centre
eventually leaving with the marriage certificate.

He was no novice when it came to genealogical research.
Using the Internet and other records, he had already researched his family tree
and often at family gatherings, he was asked about it.

‘When are you going to find the blue blood?’ Uncle John had
once teased. ‘I’m sure we’re related to that aristocratic family with the same
name.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ Peter had countered in reply. ‘Felicity
would love to be Lady Sefton but so far I can only find coal in our blood. Most
of our ancestors, certainly the ones living a hundred and fifty years ago, were
either mining coal below ground or sorting it on the surface.’

‘Uncovered any secrets or skeletons in your research?’

‘Not really, but I have discovered something quite sad.’

‘Oh? What was that?’

‘My great-great-grandfather, Francis Sefton, he would be
your great-grandfather, was a victim of a coalmining disaster back in 1878. The
coroner’s report described him as Victim Number 185, identified only “by his
trousers and his wedding ring”. The deaths were caused by an explosion deep in
the mine.’

‘How awful. I’m sure I’ve never heard of it.’

‘I’m not surprised. My father hadn’t either and yet your
grandfather was one of the five children who were orphaned as a result of the
accident.’

‘Amazing … what happened to their mother?’

‘She’d unfortunately died two years before. It must have been
pretty grim for the family at the time … no welfare state to provide a safety
net. I must admit, it sent a chill down my spine when I first found Francis’
name on the list of victims.’

‘What about the children afterwards?’

‘The eldest son was about twenty-one and he took over as
head of the household, but he and his brothers continued to work at the
colliery.’

‘I suppose there was no alternative. I wonder why my
grandparents never spoke of it.’

‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps they wanted to block it out and start
afresh.’

 ‘Makes you feel a bit guilty though,’ Uncle John had
continued. ‘We’re always moaning about our lives, but hard physical work in a
coal mine for low pay can’t have been much fun.’

‘Exactly what I thought … with genealogy, you just never
know what might come to light.’

After dinner that evening, Peter
remembered the marriage certificate. ‘Just popping out to the car to get that
certificate,’ he said to Felicity as he got up from his chair.

‘Don’t be long. It’s below freezing, you know.’

He went out to the garage crossing the shingle driveway. It
was frosty and the small stones crunched and stuck to his shoes. He retrieved
the certificate from the car’s glovebox, taking it back into the cottage. He
looked at his watch …
probably just enough time to fire up the computer
,
he thought,
and run a search on a couple of family history websites
. He
called out to Felicity: ‘I’m going to have a quick look on the computer … see
if I can turn anything up about the couple who got married.’

‘OK … that programme you like is on at ten.’

‘Yeah, OK … just a quick look.’

Eric Huntley returned to his office
at Leyton Council and took out the folder for
Cambria
, 59 Stephenson
Street. Fetching a coffee from the machine, he returned to his desk and began
to scan the contents.

Harry Williams, the previous owner, had died in July 1996
with no known relatives. The council’s Bereavement Officer had searched the
deceased’s house for a will or family papers but had found nothing of
significance. Police enquiries had revealed little, other than the neighbours
thought the deceased’s family came from Kidwelly in Carmarthenshire.

Initially the house had been cleared of perishables and
locked up. A year later, looking even more dilapidated and unoccupied, the
house had attracted a number of uninvited guests. The immediate neighbours
wondered if the house had squatters and had contacted the police.

The police found that the lock on the back door had been
forced. They discovered signs of damage and vandalism. Someone had tried to bypass
the electricity meter and at the base of the stairs, an attempt had been made
to start a fire. More alarmingly, they found a number of used syringes in one
of the bedrooms. The police had recommended that the council make the property
more secure. Eric’s predecessor had organised the fitting of steel shutters to
the doors and ground floor windows, and the clearing of the house. The folder
contained some quotations from second-hand furniture dealers and house
clearers. Several pieces of antique furniture had been sent to auction. The net
proceeds after deduction of funeral expenses had been deposited in an account
pending the tracing of any heirs.

There were copies of two letters in the file from the
Council Solicitor outlining the action taken so far. The first letter explained
that they had established that Harry Williams had a bank account and a savings
account. They had advertised in the local press for relatives to come forward,
but without success, this despite the local media interest the death had
attracted at the time.

Eric briefly switched to some cuttings from the local paper.
A reporter had tried to find out what was known of the reclusive Harry
Williams, who had died alone in his home and shockingly lain there for three
weeks before his body was discovered. Various comments from neighbours were
quoted: ‘
He hardly ever went out, certainly not in the daytime
.’; ‘
He
used to get all of his shopping at the small corner shop close by. He usually
went in the evening, because it didn’t close until ten o’clock
.’

One neighbour claimed that she had tried to offer assistance
at times, but had always been rebuffed. Another mentioned that: ‘Mr Williams
never appeared to have any visitors. He didn’t take holidays. He’d allowed his
house to go to wrack and ruin.’

A photograph taken around the time of his death, showed the
house in a slightly better state than when Eric had just seen it, but even
then, it was obviously in a bad way.

The second letter from the Council Solicitor gave the
address of a firm of probate researchers, Highborn Research, based in London,
whom the council had contacted to see if they could trace any descendants with
a legitimate claim to the estate. The letter was twelve months old. Eric
decided to ask the Council Solicitor whether any further progress had been
made. If not, he would recommend disposal of the house via public auction on
behalf of the deceased’s estate, with a condition of sale being a requirement
to renovate the house within a limited time period.

Eric dialled the Council Solicitor’s number and was put
through after a short delay.

‘Hello, Mr Huntley. My secretary’s just handed me the
details of the Williams’ case. What did you want to know?’

‘Can you tell me whether Highborn Research managed to find
any relatives?’

‘Let me have a look ... ah, yes, here’s a letter from them.
No, they regret to say that they failed to trace any close kin.’

‘Right, well I think we should go for a compulsory purchase
order. The house is in a terrible state. I’ve been down there this morning. It
really lets down the whole street.’

‘Fine. I’ll get onto to it right away and get the ball
rolling on the legal side. Might take a few months, but at least we can send it
to auction, get it off our hands and put the proceeds into the deceased’s
estate.’

‘Excellent. Let me know when the Compulsory Purchase Order
is due to be served. I can fix the notice on the property when you’re ready.’

‘Will do.’

‘Many thanks. Goodbye!’

Eric replaced the receiver and felt satisfied that progress
was finally being made with at least one of his empty properties.
Ah, one
other thing
, he thought. Before putting the file away, he picked up the
phone again, spoke to Waste Collection, and instructed them to send a team to
Cambria
,
59 Stephenson Street, to clear all of the rubbish from the garden.

‘Good morning, Miss Ince, thank you
for coming. Do sit down,’ Thomas Crockford said in a polite and kindly manner.
His daughter had left the room after the introduction and closed the door
behind her. ‘Now let’s have a look at your application.’ He quickly scanned her
carefully written letter.

‘This is to be a new position, running the bespoke curtains
and drapes department here at Crockford’s. We are an expanding business you
know …’ He paused to read further and then looked at her references. ‘These are
very good. I see you’ve been working at
Davis & Davis
in Oxford
Street since you left school and that after your apprenticeship you have been
specialising in drapes and hangings – excellent. Now, how old are you, Miss
Ince?’

‘Twenty-three, Mr Crockford, sir.’

‘And where were you born?’

‘Paddington, sir.’

‘Just Mr Crockford will suffice, Miss Ince. Now,
twenty-three is rather young for a position of this nature, but I do see that
your department head says that you have had a good deal of experience and that
you stood in for your senior while she was incapacitated for a month,
recovering from illness. Tell me a little of your customers. What sort of work
have you been doing?’

‘We have a good number of wealthy customers, Mr Crockford. You
can imagine that the area we serve has many households of prosperous means.’

Mr Crockford nodded in agreement. He was listening intently
appreciating the description of the type of customers he was also hoping to
attract.

Rose continued: ‘The lady of the household generally makes
the decisions on colours and patterns, but we are often asked to advise and
assist. Usually they come to our establishment initially or, in the case of old
and valued clients, they prefer that we visit them at their residence and
provide a selection of swatches and pattern books for their inspection and
perusal. Once the choices are made – these could be for curtains, swags,
mantles, counterpanes or door coverings, for example – we take measurements and
then obtain the material and make up the order according to the customers’
requirements. We are usually retained to hang and install the finished
articles.’

‘What happens if, for example, you find that the rails for
the drapes are inadequate or poorly positioned?’

‘We either send a specialist artisan or the customer employs
someone to install the requisite fixings, but this is discussed when the
measurements are taken and before we accept the order.’

‘I see,’ considered Thomas, ‘and what about the actual
making of the items? What is the extent of your experience in this regard?’

‘Early in my drapery apprenticeship, it became apparent that
I had a talent for dressmaking and seamstressing. For two years, I was engaged
on duties associated with alterations and repairs, but later advanced to “made
to measure” dressmaking for our wealthy individual clients. My senior, who was
also involved with curtains and drapes, started to take me with her on outside
visits associated with the bespoke service offered by
Davis & Davis
.
She sought permission for me to transfer to drapes and hangings permanently and
so for the last four years that is what I have been doing.’

‘Excellent! Well, let me tell you a little of what is
happening here and how your experience might fit into my plans. Leyton is expanding
rapidly with dozens of new villas being built to accommodate a growing
population. The wealth and influence of London is spreading here, you know.
Affluent citizens looking to move to the district, to escape the noise and
smell associated with the city, have discovered that by moving just a few miles
out, they can enjoy far greater space and amenity than in the centre of London.
I want to provide a drapery service to them, to rival that of the great emporia
of the West End.’ Mr Crockford spoke with enthusiasm. ‘I have increased the
size of the business three-fold in the last ten years. We now have five
apprentices and a porter. Mrs Robins looks after haberdashery; she’s been here
for fifteen years. My daughter, Louisa, is in charge of women’s attire. For my
part, I concentrate on our male clientele, in addition of course to the general
running of the establishment. The bespoke curtaining and drapes department will
be a new addition to the services we offer, but I believe there is sufficient
untapped potential and demand in Leyton to ensure an adequate supply of work
and commissions. It may be slow at first, but I am confident that if the
quality and suitability of our work is high, then the customers will come to us
rather than look further afield. You would have one junior assistant assigned
to you and I already have two outworkers in mind who could make up orders off
the premises.’

Rose began to get the feeling that he intended to offer the
new position to her, but her expression betrayed none of her excitement. She
listened attentively.

‘I can provide accommodation for you here at the shop with
your own room and seniority over the five apprentices who also reside here.
They share rooms on the top floor. I am a widower, but employ a housekeeper,
Mrs Jones and her servant. My daughter and I also have rooms here. You will be
required to exercise a level of supervision over the younger girls, but Mrs
Jones acts as housekeeper and housemother to them. Naturally, your experience
will put you on a par with Mrs Robins, as far as the seniority within the shop
is concerned.’

So he’s a widower
, thought Rose,
and not an
unattractive one at that, but perhaps a little too old for me
. Rose had
never had a romantic attachment or relations with a man. Marriage and family
were still not something she wished for, but marriage to a successful draper …
that could give her a shortcut to achieving her ambitions. She smiled inwardly.

For his part, Thomas Crockford was quite taken with Rose,
although any romantic idea was quickly dispelled when he considered the age
difference. Mrs Crockford had been dead twenty years. She had died in
childbirth along with the second son she bore, both of them dying coincidently
on the third day after his birth. At the time, his son David was only three and
Louisa was eight. Louisa had provided the tonic and distraction he had needed
to pull him from depression and she had given him the incentive to carry on
with his life and business.

Thomas Crockford was impressed with Rose’s knowledge and
experience. The fact that she had worked at
Davis & Davis
in Oxford
Street would go down well with his customers. He noticed, to her credit, that
she had little trace of a ‘London’ accent. The more he considered the lovely
young lady seated on the other side of his desk, the more certain he became
that she could be the right person to take control of his new department.

‘I would like to offer the position to you, Miss Ince. Would
you like to take a tour of my establishment? If you have any questions then do
not be afraid to ask. If afterwards you feel disposed to take up my offer of
employment, then I am sure we will be able to agree terms and can set in motion
the necessary arrangements to effect your move from your present employer to
Crockford’s.’

They passed an hour looking around the shop; Mr Crockford
describing the way he ran the business and the standards he expected from his
staff. His attitude seemed firm but fair and nothing he said in any way caused
disappointment or doubt to dampen Rose’s growing enthusiasm for what she was
seeing and how it suited her ambitions. Louisa joined them. She seemed relaxed
and friendly, not stuffy or distant. Rose felt that even though she was her
employer’s daughter, she and Louisa could perhaps become friends.

At the end of the tour, Rose was entirely content with what
she had seen. She confirmed her acceptance of the terms offered and shook hands
with Thomas and Louisa Crockford. She was engaged to set up and run the new
department on a trial period of three months, with a starting salary of fifteen
pounds per year. This was a significant increase on her existing rate of pay.
She agreed to give
Davis & Davis
one month’s notice and would start
at Crockford’s on the first Monday in June 1898, moving into her room the day
before.