Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [11]
He looked at her closely. ‘I can see by your face that you didn’t care for it there.’
Grace felt a fluttering of panic, but tried to speak calmly. ‘I did not, sir. And so we decided to leave.’
‘When was this?’
‘We left near a year ago. And since then we have been fending for ourselves and . . . and doing quite well. We sell watercresses on the streets.’
He nodded. ‘And as your sister is older than you, at least she is able to provide you with some of a mother’s attentions.’
Grace inclined her head. There was no reason to tell him that Lily was, in fact, only older than her if you counted the years; that actually it was the other way round, Lily would need her care and attention for the rest of her life and could never manage on her own.
As the nearby funeral service neared its conclusion and the group at Miss Solent’s graveside gave their responses to the priest, James got to his feet, saying he must join them. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat as he bade her farewell and Grace froze with shame, thinking he was going to offer her money, but he did not.
‘I’m a lawyer’s clerk at Lincoln’s Inn,’ he said, handing over a business card. ‘If at any time I can assist you, do please call into the office and ask for me.’
Grace could not think of any possible circumstances where she might need his guidance, but she took the card, which read:
‘I can see by your face that you wouldn’t ever presume upon me, but if I can help you at all, please allow me to do it for my sister’s sake.’ He smiled a little sadly. ‘Susannah was a great girl for helping young ladies in distress, you know. Who’s to say that she didn’t somehow contrive that we should meet here at her funeral?’
Grace smiled. ‘It’s a pretty thought,’ she said. She got to her feet, tested her ankle and found it quite pain-free. ‘Thank you for your attentions,’ she said, ‘and may I wish you as good a day as possible.’
‘Until we meet again,’ said James, giving a slight bow.
The Necropolis train did not leave Brookwood until after three o’clock in the afternoon, so Grace went into the small chapel and, making herself as inconspicuous as possible in the back row, thought of all that had happened to her over the last few days, endeavouring to make sense of it. Occasionally – for she was extremely weary – she found herself drifting off to sleep, but when she did she had a frightening recurring dream that the baby was still inside her and she was running hither and thither looking for somewhere safe to give birth to it.
When half past two struck (and her life made no more sense to her than it previously had), she decided to join the train ready for the return journey. Reaching the little station and discovering that the engine was not yet in position, however, she waited with the mourners as they spilled out from the refreshment rooms on to the platform.
From a young age Grace had studied people, and this had come in useful since going into the watercress-selling business, for she’d quickly learned who might be best approached in order to achieve a sale, and who would be a waste of time. Looking at the top-hatted funeral directors shepherding their flocks of mourners, she could not help noticing that one set of undertakers seemed more assertive than the others. They were more voluble in their condolences to the bereaved; more solicitous in their care; ever ready with an extra shawl or black-edged handkerchief; patting, comforting, cosseting and mopping tears; speaking to the bereaved families of a ‘good death’ and ‘the solace of a fine funeral’.
This was Grace’s first encounter with the Unwins.
Mr George Unwin owned the largest firm of undertakers in London and was willing – one might even say eager – to supply bereaved families with their every funereal need. At the Unwin Undertaking Establishment one could choose from twenty-nine different coffins, all with interchangeable silk interiors and a choice of brass or silver coffin furniture. They could provide glass carriages pulled by black-plumed