The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Dilly Court
let the bed bugs bite,’ Jane called over her shoulder.
Clara had intended to put the fireguard in place before making sure the back door was locked, but she needed first to check the contents of her button box. She trusted Fleet, but she knew she would not sleep unless she was certain that her collection was intact, and she sat cross-legged on the floor, close enough to the dying embers of the fire to take advantage of the last vestiges of warmth. She opened the box and scooped up a handful of the small buttons, allowing them to slip through her fingers in a kaleidoscope of colour. Her most valued items were a set of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons from the bodice of her mother’s wedding dress. The gown had been cut up to make clothes for herself and Lizzie when they were children, but she had persuaded Ma to let her snip off six of the twelve buttons. Then there were the much larger millefiori buttons that she had found lying in the mud on the Thames foreshore while out walking one Sunday afternoon with Pa. He had bought her a penny lick from the hokey-pokey man and she could still remember the taste and the sweet icy sensation on her tongue. A brass military button winked at her as if to divert her attention from its fellows, and she held it between her fingers, wondering as to the identity of the gallant soldier who had gone into battle with this button on his uniform. Then, last but not least, there was her favourite, her special button, it was still there glittering in the firelight as it had done when it lay lost and forgotten in the snow.
The fire crackled and a blue flame licked around an ember and was immediately extinguished by a draught of cold air. It was time to close the memory box and go to bed. Clara snapped the lid shut, turned the tiny brass key in the lock, and rose to her feet. Tomorrow would be her first day as shopkeeper. She must get some sleep, although her stomach was churning with excitement at the prospect of being in sole charge. She could do it, of that she was certain. This was the start of a new and better life for her and her family. There was just one problem – Patches Bragg.
Trade was slow next day, but the freezing conditions did not encourage housewives and maidservants to venture out unless absolutely necessary. Clara spent the time rearranging the shelves to her satisfaction, but while she worked her mind was wrestling with the problem of how to raise the eight guineas she needed to pay her father’s debt to Patches. She was deep in thought when the shop door opened and Lizzie burst in, pink-cheeked and flustered.
‘Clara, you’re here. I wasn’t sure if you would be opening so soon after Miss Silver’s funeral. I mean, it doesn’t seem very respectful to carry on as if nothing has happened.’
‘Miss Silver only closed the shop on Sundays and on Christmas Day. She would come back to haunt me if I let her down.’
‘It’s not funny, Clara. I don’t know how you can treat the woman’s death as a joke.’
‘Far from it. I was very fond of Miss Silver, and I owe it to her to look after her legacy.’ Clara stared at her sister, frowning. ‘What’s the matter? You’re all of a twitter.’
‘I should think I am. Miss Jones sent me out to purchase blonde lace, only I don’t know how much she needs. It was all said in a bit of a panic.’
‘Does she want it in black or white?’
‘I’m not sure. Madam is going out to an important function this evening and the lace on her gown is torn. Miss Jones was very particular that it had to match.’
‘I’ve got Chantilly lace as well.’
‘I’d better take both. You have to come with me, Clara. I’ll be in trouble with Miss Jones if I bring the wrong material.’
‘I can’t shut up the shop simply because Miss Jones is fussy.’
‘Please come with me. You’ll need to bring the unwanted lace back to the shop because I won’t be allowed out again.’
Clara had never seen her sister in such an agitated state. ‘All right. I’ll close the shop for an hour. There aren’t many customers about this morning.’
‘Thank you. I can’t afford to lose my job.’
‘I’ll have to warn Jane not to open the door to anyone but me, and I’ll fetch my bonnet and cloak.’
‘Why is Jane here?’
‘We had to leave Wych Street. I was going to tell you when I had a chance. I’ll explain on the way to Bedford Square.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Clara said, shivering as they came to a halt outside the four-storey terraced house in Bedford Square. ‘Miss Silver never made house calls.’
Lizzie opened the gate which led down to the tradesmen’s entrance. ‘Maybe she would have made more money if she had. I don’t know, Clara, I’m not a businesswoman, but Mrs Comerford is very rich, and if Miss Jones is satisfied she’ll tell her so, and then who knows? Maybe Mrs Comerford will recommend your shop to her friends.’
‘I’m only doing this as a favour to you.’ Clara followed her sister down the steep, ice-coated steps to the tradesmen’s entrance.
Lizzie knocked on the door and it was opened by a tiny scullery maid who could not have been more than ten years of age. The child scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen and Lizzie led the way through a maze of narrow corridors and up the back stairs. On the other side of the green baize door was another world. A marble-tiled passage opened out into a wide hallway with large, gilt-framed mirrors reflecting the ornate candle sconces. The scent of beeswax and lavender mingled with the spicy aroma of crimson and gold chrysanthemums, arranged in large urns. A liveried footman cast a sidelong glance at Lizzie, and Clara was quick to see a blush staining her sister’s cheeks.
‘Miss Jones sent me for material to mend madam’s ball gown, James,’ Lizzie said hastily.
‘And who is this young lady?’ He looked Clara up and down with an appreciative grin. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to wander round the house uninvited.’
‘This is my sister Clara.’ Lizzie hesitated, eyeing James warily. ‘I’ll have to find Miss Jones. Stay here, Clara.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after her,’ James said, winking at Clara. ‘I always enjoy the company of a pretty girl.’
Clara put her head on one side, looking him up and down. He was a handsome fellow, tall and broad-shouldered, and he obviously traded on his good looks. She was not impressed.
‘I don’t need looking after,’ she said coldly.
Lizzie cast her a sidelong glance, shaking her head. ‘Be nice to him,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But not too nice, if you know what I mean.’ She snatched the basket of lace from Clara and hurried off towards the staircase.
‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, miss?’ With a sweep of his hand, James indicated a dainty hall chair. ‘You’re likely to have a long wait. You know how ladies like to chat.’
‘I’m in trade,’ Clara said stonily. ‘I don’t have time to chat, as you call it.’
James bridled visibly. It was obvious that he was not used to his clumsy advances being spurned. ‘I can see the family likeness. Lizzie is as prickly as a briar rose.’
Clara was saved from replying by the sudden appearance on the staircase of a young man dressed for outdoors. He was plain to the point of homeliness except for a head of golden curls, which would have been the envy of any woman. He strolled down the stairs, coming to a halt in front of Clara. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
She rose to her feet. This person was obviously a member of the family and by rights she ought to have been waiting for Lizzie below stairs. ‘My sister, sir. Lizzie Carter – she ran an errand for Mrs Comerford’s maid. I have to wait to take the unwanted lace back to the shop, but I’ll be gone as soon as she returns.’
A slow smile spread across his even features. ‘My mother always demands the best. Only she would send a servant out in such inclement weather.’
James