Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [54]
Ordinary funerals were hurried on or delayed until after Prince Albert’s, which was fixed for the 23rd December, and Grace, desperate to call upon Lily in order to discover the truth about her mysterious suitor, soon realised that she was not going to be able to do this, for at six o’clock in the evening two days later, the funeral workers were again summoned into the red room by Mr Unwin. Mrs Unwin was there also, dressed in a very smart watered-silk mourning gown, a black fur bolero over her shoulders, a three-row black pearl necklace around her neck and looking, Grace heard one of the girls mutter, like Lady Muck.
‘Staff and servants,’ Mr Unwin began portentously, ‘following the death of our queen’s dearly beloved husband, a message has come from Buckingham Palace to say that the queen wishes everyone in the land to make a decent mourning.’
Some of the servants exchanged puzzled looks.
‘A decent mourning,’ Mrs Unwin repeated, adjusting her pearls in order to draw attention to them. She had been waiting for just such an event – a major and significant funeral – in order to give them an airing.
‘In memory of our dear Prince Albert, the whole of Britain will be required to wear, at the very least, a black armband,’ Mr Unwin explained. ‘And those who have connections with Court will be required to be in full mourning for three months.’
Mrs Unwin gave a wise, sad nod at this. The Unwins had absolutely no connections with Court, but Mrs Unwin had decided that she and Charlotte would be in mourning for six months at the very least, would correspond only on black-edged paper and also have the family brougham relined in bombazine.
‘Half-mourning will follow for another three months after, and then quarter-mourning,’ said Mr Unwin.
‘Indeed.’ Mrs Unwin dabbed her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief, planning her wardrobe of flattering lilacs and mauves.
While his wife was engaged in looking sorrowful, Mr Unwin went on, ‘With regard to mourning wear, some of you will know that my cousin, Mr Sylvester Unwin, owns the Unwin Mourning Emporium in Oxford Street.’
The workers nodded. They all did know.
‘He has asked for our help.’ He paused momentarily for effect, then went on, ‘The mourning store has been utterly inundated with shoppers, both personal and postal. They begin queuing outside at six o’clock in the morning, and are still arriving at six o’clock at night.’
‘They have tried to order entry by timed ticket,’ put in Mrs Unwin, ‘but still can’t cope with the vast number of people.’
‘He can’t take their money fast enough!’ Mr Unwin shouted, becoming rather over-excited. His wife nudged him hard, and he continued in a more sober fashion, ‘What all this means is that Mr Sylvester Unwin has asked for as many staff as we can spare to go to work temporarily at the store in Oxford Street. Everyone will be given brief training as to how an exclusive store works, and each of you will be partnered by an experienced person. We will only keep a skeleton staff here.’ He paused. ‘Skeleton staff. Rather good, what?’
There was a little respectful laughter before he read out the names of those not expected to go to work in the store: the blacksmith and his boys, two country-born grooms and a few elderly seamstresses were clearly unsuitable for waiting upon gentry. All the young women, however, including Grace, were to go along first thing the following morning.
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Chapter Nineteen
The Unwin Mourning Emporium was close to Oxford Circus in London’s famous Oxford Street, and positioned quite close to Jay’s Mourning Warehouse, the first and most famous of those large stores which sold nothing but mourning clothes, accessories and ephemera. A great deal of rivalry existed between them regarding who stocked the most garments – and the most fashionable garments – and who had the most aristocratic customers. Occasionally, a lord, lady or minor member of the royal