Mrs Boots. Deborah Carr
instantly felt mean for her thoughts.
The mantel clock chimed the hour and Florence and Amy stood. ‘We should return to the shop,’ Amy suggested.
Mr Boot winced slightly as he stood up. ‘I apologise. I have taken up more of your time that I intended. When would be convenient for me to call on you tomorrow, Miss Rowe?’
Hoping to make his day as relaxed as possible, Florence said. ‘If you call on me at ten o’clock, then we could make our way the short distance up the road to Snow Hill and catch the train from there to Gorey.’
The eastern terminus was so much closer than the one for the westbound train. Let the poor man rest as much as possible on his first days here, she thought; after all, it was what he had come to the island to do.
He gave a slight bow with his head. ‘I shall look forward to our adventure, Miss Rowe. Thank you.’
Florence stared at him thoughtfully. There was something different about this man, but she couldn’t work out what it might be. She was surprised to realise that she was looking forward to their outing, too. ‘As am I, Mr Boot.’
She followed Amy from the living room and down to the shop. Father rarely permitted the shop to be closed during the daytime and already Florence could see five disconcerted customers waiting anxiously by the front door.
Amy rushed over and unlocked it, turning over the closed sign to mark the place open, once again. ‘My apologies for making you wait,’ she said sweetly.
‘Anything wrong?’ one of their regular customers – a short, sour-faced elderly woman with an overly large hat – had grumbled.
‘Father has an unexpected guest,’ Amy explained, widening her eyes over the woman’s head as the lady marched past her to the display of postcards Florence had put together that morning.
‘I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence; I’ve been waiting ten minutes to buy a map from you. This really won’t do.’
Florence was tempted to give the woman a snappy retort. Their father never let his clients down and would be mortified to think he had upset anyone by his actions. Without having known about Mr Boot’s arrival prior to his appearance, even Florence could tell, simply by her father’s temporary closure of the shop, that he had thought him important.
She opened her mouth to speak, and just then Amy said, ‘I doubt it will happen again any time soon.’ Her sister looked at the brown wrapping in the lady’s basket. ‘I suspect you were able to choose some nice material from the haberdashers while you waited?’
The lady beamed at Amy, her complaint forgotten. ‘I did, as a matter of interest. I spotted a fine fabric in their window display and simply had to have it.’
‘All is well then,’ Florence said, wanting to be sure the woman didn’t take her complaint to their father when he returned to the shop. She would hate for his day to be ruined by someone else’s criticism.
‘It is.’ The woman held up a copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge in her gloved hand. ‘My daughter tells me this book might be something I’d enjoy. What do you think?’
Florence’s thoughts had been consumed by the unusual man she had met earlier. Hurriedly thinking of a reply, she wondered if the daughter had yet read the book, not minding so much that she had been held back from being able to read more of it by now. ‘I’ve read a little,’ she admitted, ‘and I enjoyed it very much. I’m afraid I’ll need to check we have your name on the list of customers who have ordered the book.’
She hoped the woman was on the list; the thought that she would have something else to grumble about worried Florence. She took the lady’s name and went to check.
Movement by the store-front window caught her eye. The front door to their flat was open and she could see her father and Mr Boot speaking outside. She stepped forward into the shadows behind the counter, hoping to watch Mr Boot unobserved. There was a kindness about him that emanated from him as he chatted to her father. For someone who had come to the island to recover from the loss of his mother and overwork, he still displayed a positivity about him that made her smile.
Mr Boot turned to walk away and, spotting her, waved.
Mortified, Florence waved back, before lifting her father’s order book diverted her attention back to checking for the customer’s name.
Florence couldn’t understand why she was acting so strangely. She was usually so contained and sure of herself. There was something about him that intrigued her though. Was it because he was so successful? No, she was never impressed by that sort of thing. Or simply, she wondered, could it be that he came from a different background to any of the men she had previously come across in her social life? Most of the men she knew worked for a living, and most of them were around her age. Mr Boot had already done very well for himself and was over a decade older than her. Could it be that he was more interesting than the men she knew? Possibly. She wasn’t certain. Either way, she realised she was looking forward to her outing with him the next day, very much so.
They sat opposite one another on the train. Florence was relieved the weather had remained warm and sunny and she had been able to wear her new straw hat for the outing. Not that she expected Mr Boot to have any interest in the latest fashions like she did. Or, maybe the fashions were different in Nottingham; it was a city, after all and not a small island whose connections were mostly closer to France than England.
Mr Boot seemed more relaxed today, she decided happily. The train slowed to a halt at the Georgetown stop. She realised he was staring at her, and as he smiled at her she couldn’t help thinking what kind eyes he had.
He cleared his throat. ‘How long does the journey take to Gorey?’ he asked, turning his attention out of the window to the passengers waiting for others to alight before stepping onto the carriage.
‘About twenty minutes,’ Florence replied. ‘To be honest it’s a few months since I came this way.’ As she admitted this fact, she couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t made the effort before now. ‘If I want to walk to the sea front, it’s only a couple of minutes from our flat to Havres des Pas. My father doesn’t like me walking alone by the shipyards along that way though, so I temper my outings there, too.’
‘I had never thought what it must be like to have daughters before, but I can imagine it must be worrisome for a father when they are independently minded.’
For a second she wasn’t sure if he was criticising her, then saw the gentle twinkle in his eyes and knew that he was merely thinking of something that had just occurred to him.
‘Yes, Father does worry about me and Amy sometimes. Our older sister Adelaide is married now. She’s a teacher. However, I don’t think Amy and I are probably as compliant as the daughters of some of his friends.’
He looked confused. ‘In what way, may I ask?’
‘I suppose in that—’ she considered her words, delighted with his interest ‘—we aren’t as timid as maybe most of them are. We have opinions and share them more openly than Father would like.’
He frowned. ‘Opinions about what?’
She didn’t want to offend him; he was older than her, after all, and she suspected slightly more old-fashioned than her friends. He had asked though, and she wanted to be honest with him. ‘Mrs Beeton says in her Book of Household Management that the mistress of the house should consider herself as “the commander of an army”. She believes that women running their homes should feel as important as men do going out to work.’
‘Is there anything wrong with that sentiment?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It’s just that it is not my ambition to simply run a household.’
He thought