Velvet (9 page)

Velvet studied the outfit. ‘Oh, it’s very smart,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think the colour is quite right for you, Madame. It’s a little too strong. The colour would wear you, rather than you wear it.’

‘Oh, how wise!’ Madame said. ‘You really were wasted in that laundry, Velvet.’ She deliberated a moment. ‘Well, in that case, as I like this outfit very much and am determined to buy it, you shall have it instead.’

Velvet could not speak for a moment, she was so overwhelmed. Then she said, ‘I would not dream of . . . I mean, it would take me so long to pay you back, I really could not . . .’

‘It’ll be a gift, of course,’ Madame said. ‘If you’re to be my assistant, then you must be dressed accordingly. I’ve already looked through some of my gowns from last season which can be altered to fit you, but I want you to have something new and very fashionable, too.’

Velvet fought down the urge to fling her arms around Madame. Never before had someone been so generous and acted so kindly towards her. Never, indeed, had she had a new gown of her very own, one which hadn’t been worn by at least two people before. She gave Madame a little curtsey. ‘I am very grateful, Madame,’ she said, ‘and will endeavour to be the best maid – or assistant,’ she corrected (as Madame seemed to be about to object to the first word), ‘that anyone could want.’

‘I’m perfectly sure that you will,’ Madame replied.

After ordering the green gown in Velvet’s size, they carried on shopping, going next to Harrods in Knightsbridge, as Madame had a wish to ride on the marvellous moving staircase which had lately been installed. They managed this very well, certainly having no need of the tot of brandy which the Harrods assistant was offering to those ladies rendered faint by the experience.

It had been quite the most splendid day of her life, Velvet decided later. And didn’t her new name fit her new life so well? Kitty would never have experienced such things. Kitty would never have had an emerald-green gown bought for her, or ridden on a moving staircase, or become someone’s assistant. Kitty would still be living in a squalid room at the beck and call of the cold-hearted and bitter man who had been her father . . . But perhaps if Kitty had been a better daughter, then that father would still be alive, she thought suddenly, and felt horror and guilt creeping over her, almost overwhelming the pleasure of the day.

Another few days passed, during which there was Madame’s little dog, Emile, to exercise, Madame’s extensive wardrobe to take care of, her hair to arrange, her silk stockings and personal laundry to attend to, her breakfast and lunch to take up, her bedroom to tidy and her appointment book to keep. Velvet might have been daunted by any of these things, but George was always on hand to offer advice and guidance.

George had been with Madame for a good while. ‘She rescued me from the gutter,’ he told Velvet starkly. ‘I would have starved if it hadn’t been for her.’

‘What were you doing back then?’ Velvet asked.

‘I had a raree-show,’ George replied.

Velvet smiled back sympathetically, knowing that at one time nearly every street entertainer in London had had a raree-show: a set of pictures concealed inside a box mounted on a stick. For a small sum, a ha’penny or two, the customer was allowed to look through a peephole in the box to see a prospect of Venice, a succession of pictures of scantily clad women or a panorama of scenes from foreign lands.

‘Did you not make a fair living from it?’

‘I did at first,’ George replied, ‘but then the box was rained upon a few times, the pictures became shabby and torn, and it seemed that every other beggar in town had a peep show. Eventually I got down to my last penny and then I lost that, too.’ He shrugged. ‘I was at my very lowest and hadn’t eaten for several days when Madame came across me. I had literally fainted in the gutter.’

Velvet’s heart began beating fast as she imagined the scene: George, stretched out on the cobbles, pale, thin and near death, his dark hair awry, beseechingly looking up at his rescuer with sea-green eyes. Oh, if only she, Velvet, had been the one who had found and saved him!

‘I regained consciousness to find her kneeling down beside me saying all manner of solicitous things. I was delirious and thought I was in heaven and she was an angel! She summoned a cab and took me to her house, then called her own doctor and spent two days feeding me nourishing soups. At death’s door, I was, and she pulled me back into the land of the living.’

Velvet looked at him. Whether he’d been at death’s door or not, he would still have been most awfully good-looking, she thought. Finding herself blushing again, she hastily looked away.

There was very little that was gloomy and portentous about the atmosphere of Darkling Villa and although Velvet was not privy to the sessions which Madame gave for the most affluent of her clients, it never gave the impression of being a frightening place where spirits walked or wraiths appeared from the Vale of Darkness. Madame did not give herself superior airs, either, but was always interested and friendly towards Velvet, constantly maintaining a kindly concern in her welfare.

Velvet didn’t have long to wait to witness Madame’s considerable talents at first hand, for there was to be a Dark Circle, a gathering of ten or so eminent people at Darkling Villa, all anxious to contact a relative or friend who had passed over. Mrs Lawson was to bake small savouries which her daughter would serve, there would be glasses of port wine and, after a short recital on the pianoforte by a guest pianist, everyone would be seated for a séance. During this séance, instead of the more casual arrangement with spirits which Madame often utilised, she was intending to go into a proper trance.

On the afternoon of the séance, she spoke to Velvet. ‘I shall want you to be in the front room in charge of lighting. I’ll ask you to turn the lamps down and up at different times. Before that you will be needed in the hall to greet our clients, hang up their mantles and hats, and show them through to the front room, where George will be waiting with the port wine.’ She looked at Velvet carefully as if to judge her reaction and added, ‘I’d like you to stay in the room for the séance. I trust you will be quite happy to do this. You don’t feel apprehensive?’

Velvet said that she did not.

‘Because those experiencing close contact with spirits for the first time can sometimes feel rather overwhelmed.’

Velvet shook her head. There was only one thing she was nervous about. ‘I’m quite prepared to hear messages from other people’s relatives,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I don’t wish for any of my own. From my father in particular.’

‘I believe you mentioned that he quite recently passed over.’

Velvet nodded. ‘Yes, but not . . . peacefully. I was a little frightened of him in life and I don’t want to be in contact with him in death.’

‘What was his calling?’

‘He was a children’s entertainer,’ Velvet replied. ‘Mr Magic. He presided over parties for the children of wealthy people.’ She managed to smile. ‘It’s strange, that, because actually he didn’t like children at all. He certainly hated me.’

Madame put her hand over Velvet’s and squeezed it sympathetically. ‘You’ve survived the past and are a better person for it,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be pleased to know that I rarely get a spirit trying to contact someone who doesn’t want to hear from them. They have better things to do on the Other Side than send messages to someone who is indifferent.’ She patted Velvet’s hand. ‘And besides, I shall be very much occupied trying to channel messages for the ten very important guests I shall have around the table.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Why, I have two Members of Parliament, a very famous novelist and two titled ladies amongst the group.’

‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Velvet asked.

‘Well, when they come in, perhaps say a word or two to put them at their ease.’

Velvet quashed a feeling of panic. She? Speak to members of the aristocracy? ‘How shall I do that?’ she stammered. ‘What shall I speak about?’

‘Dear girl!’ Madame said. ‘You must learn to make small talk! Ask if the weather was clement for their journey here, if there is any likelihood of fog, or if they have come far. Move people who are on their own towards each other so that they may converse.’

Velvet nodded and relaxed a little. She thought she could probably do that. She would act like her father had acted when meeting one of his customers in the street: all smiles and compliments, pretending an enormous interest that he really didn’t have. The difference would be that she
did
feel interest – and an enormous respect – for what Madame was doing. To give comfort to the bereaved must surely be one of the most satisfying and important jobs in the world. And after all hadn’t her mother, who’d been educated to a reasonably high standard before marrying somewhat below her, taught her how to make conversation with her betters; how to be polite without being obsequious and to enquire kindly about someone’s status without appearing vulgarly curious?

Early that evening, after a quiet afternoon embroidering a cushion for Madame with the signs of the zodiac and some practice in her best speaking voice of ‘
Good evening. So pleased you could come tonight. Have you travelled far?
’, Velvet took her place in the hallway. There had been some excitement earlier when the telephone had rung for only the third time since Velvet’s arrival, making her jump out of her skin, and George had taken a message to say that the caller was sick and unable to attend that evening. George replaced the receiver and then picked it up again and dialled ‘0’ for the operator, so that Velvet could hear someone, far away and crackly, speaking on the line. She found this quite amazing – almost as unbelievable as the thought of speaking to spirits.

Velvet was wearing her new emerald-green costume and her hair was pulled back from her forehead with a curved comb topped with a green ribbon bow. Really, she thought, pleased with her reflection in the hall mirror, no one would ever guess at her humble beginnings, would ever know that her mother had taken in washing and that only three years ago, when her father had been going through one of his worst gambling phases (she couldn’t remember now whether it was horses, greyhounds, cards or dice), she had survived for near a week on stale bread someone had thrown into the street for the dogs.

The door knocker sounded and Velvet took a deep breath and opened it. ‘Good evening, madam,’ she said to the woman standing there in the purple of half mourning. ‘Do come in and get warm. It looks like snow, don’t you think?’

The woman, smiling, agreed that it did indeed look like snow and, Velvet having relieved her of her mantle and hung it up, wafted her towards the reception room, where George stood with the port wine. Another knock came and Velvet left the first woman to answer it, a smile ready on her lips.

The smile died away, however, because instead of a hallowed member of society, it was Charlie who stood there. Charlie, wearing his old tweed jacket and a flat cap, with mud on his boots.

He took in what she was wearing, her outfit and her ribbon, her lips shining with the tiniest touch of lipsalve, and his jaw dropped. ‘
Kitty?
’

It was in Velvet’s mind to close the door with a firm ‘
No, I am not
’, but she glared at him for just a little longer than she should have done, giving him enough time to stutter, ‘I mean, Velvet, of course.
Velvet
.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I came to see you.’

‘But how did you know I was here?’ Velvet sighed. ‘Really, Charlie Docker, are you going to follow me wherever I go?’

‘Your friend Lizzie told me. She felt sorry for me, I reckon.’

Velvet looked behind her, but George was occupied speaking to the first lady. ‘You should have come round the back, for a start,’ she whispered. ‘Anyway, I’m not allowed followers, especially tonight.’

‘Why not?’

‘We have an evening of mediumship. A Dark Circle,’ Velvet said, unable to stop a slightly self-important note from creeping into her voice. ‘Madame is sitting for a number of well-known clients.’

‘What, you think she’s genuine, do you?’ Charlie’s voice registered amusement. ‘Why, these so-called mediums are two a penny now.’

Velvet turned on him crossly. ‘Please go away. I can’t talk now.’

‘When, then?’

‘Well . . .’ Velvet hardened her heart. ‘Really, Charlie, I don’t want to be unkind but I’m trying to make something of myself now and . . .’ Her voice drifted away. She could hardly talk about her hopes for a future with George when the man himself was standing so close by, and nor could she talk about such hopes to Charlie.

‘Who is this?’ came a sudden voice, and Velvet and Charlie both turned to look at George. In his butler’s dark livery with gold trimmings he was taller, broader and infinitely smarter than Charlie.

Charlie was about to speak up for himself but Velvet answered quickly, ‘No one. A carpet salesman!’

‘My good man,’ George said. ‘This is an area where the quality resides. No one here buys carpets at the door – especially the front door.’

‘But I –’ Charlie began.

‘Away with you!’ George pointed down the road and Charlie, after a moment’s glance at Velvet, retreated. The door was closed behind him. ‘You have to be firm with these fellows,’ George said.