Sighing sadly as the bell tinkled over the door, she let her thoughts become occupied with work. Customers streamed in all afternoon until the shelves were practically empty again. Her sisters had stayed all day making confectionery with Amity coming out twice to take first their mother’s place and then Charlotte’s, so each could have a few minutes to eat cheese and bread and their cook Lydia’s cold sliced beef in the back. They’d even brought in another chair during their busy week to amend the normal singular stool that only Beatrice favored.
After that week, things would return to normal, and they would bake a meat pie or, at the least, warm up Lydia’s food from the night before. Sometimes it was a cheap and cheerful treat to buy ham sandwiches from one of the sandwich boys who sold up and down the street.
At last, it was time to turn the sign to “Closed.” Edward began to sweep at once, while the rest of them stared at one another in mutual exhaustion. Charlotte could put her head down on the counter and sleep right there.
“Your sister is right,” Felicity said to Bea and Amity. “We are growing, and we do need help. I think we shall start by training this boy on whichever confectionery he would be most apt, maybe all three so he can help out with anything at a pinch.”
They all looked at Edward who blinked back at them. It seemed like a lot to put on a twelve-year-old’s shoulders, but it might be his best chance for a lucrative future if he had no other prospects. He smiled and nodded reassuringly.
“I would like to learn, missus.”
Their mother nodded. “That’s settled then. When you’re not cleaning or delivering or stocking shelves, you’ll be learning the trade from each of my daughters.” She sighed. “And whenever I can get away from the counter, I shall teach you myself.”
Charlotte sent a knowing look to Amity, who sent it on to Bea. Felicity might sigh over doing so, but she’d been a wonderful teacher and had always said she enjoyed it.
“All my girls can make every confection in this shop, don’t let them fool you with how they’ve divided their chores. But it’s true that some have a special talent for one thing over the other. No one can blend flavors into chocolate fondant like our duchess, nor curl a marzipan pig’s tail like Miss Charlotte, and no one can take the toffee off the stove at precisely the right moment like Mrs. Carson.”
Edward nodded solemnly, looking daunted.
“But if you can do any of those things passingly well,” Felicity added, “then you will be a tremendous help to us.” She clapped her hands, then brushed them off. “Today is done and dusted. Are we all ready to go home?”
However, after Charlotte and her mother had said goodbye to everyone, including Edward, locked up, and began the short walk home, Felicity surprised her.
“I think you should be in charge of Edward. He was a grand find, and I’m pleased you hired him. You have a good head on your shoulders.”
Before Charlotte could thank her, there was a noise behind them of a window breaking and a crash, both unfamiliar sounds on New Bond Street. They whirled in their tracks.
Chapter Four
“Gracious!” Charlotte’s mother exclaimed.
In front of their shop door, where a moment earlier they’d been standing, was a brass table lamp surrounded by broken shards of glass, glazing, and pieces of the window frame.
“And that’s that!” yelled a female voice from above.
Looking up, Charlotte saw the window that had broken when the lamp went through it. A six-over-eight sash was hanging dangerously askew.
“Extraordinary,” Felicity said.
It was exactly that. For above their shop was a pillow maker. That was all the woman had done Charlotte’s entire life. She took the finest goose down, stuffed it in the most luxurious silk and satin cases, and made pillows that were sold in various shops on Bond Street, in the Burlington Arcade around the corner, and on Oxford Street. Moreover, the pillow woman, as Charlotte thought of her, was nearly always silent. At that instant, she couldn’t think of her real name.
“What should we do?” she asked her mother.
A moment later, the door that sheltered the staircase to the second floor flew open and a man exited in a hurry. With a grim expression, he looked at the mess on the pavement and at Charlotte and Felicity, and then he hurried off.
“I suppose we should look in on her,” Charlotte’s mother stated and marched toward the open door.
In all her years, Charlotte had been upstairs only once, when she was about six, to be introduced to the tenant above their heads. Everything had been clean and tidy in the spacious suite of rooms, one containing massive boxes of down and shelves of beautiful fabric, and one containing the pillow woman, who was also the sole seamstress. She’d seemed old to Charlotte back then and hadn’t been too friendly. While being calm and quiet, focused on her work, she’d told the six-year-old not to touch anything in case she had sugar or chocolate on her hands.
At the top of the stairs, they encountered another open door and entered.
“Hello, Mrs. Hafflen, are you all right?” Felicity called out. “Are you well?”
“Who is that?” came the voice, not soft as Charlotte recalled but sharp. And when they went in farther, nothing was as it had been years ago. It was plainly chaos. The bins were in disarray and goose down was everywhere. In fact, some tiny feathers were floating in the air since the man had recently walked through and disturbed them.
“Careful not to breathe it in,” her mother said, putting her gloved hand to her mouth and nose. Charlotte did the same until they’d passed through the room into the front one that overlooked the street. Amazingly, in the middle of more muddle, Mrs. Hafflen sat by the broken window sewing on her whisper-quiet Singer machine, her foot pumping the treadle under her skirts.
She looked up while continuing to sew at a slow, constant rate.
