Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [56]
‘It is a grand and noble thing that in someone’s hour of anguish and despair we may be able to soothe their troubled spirits,’ he began. ‘Prince Albert was a much loved member of our royal family, so by mourning him sincerely the country is showing its respects and helping our dear queen through her darkest hours. To this end, do not hesitate to offer your customer a little extra garnish to their mourning outfit in order to prove how much they care. If a gentleman seeks a black band for his top hat, suggest he has gloves or black spats, too. If a woman requires gloves, offer a veil, a jet mourning ring or a new black bonnet in addition.’
He cleared his throat. ‘When mentioning the purchase of these items, remember to indicate to the customer that mourning clothes should not be kept in the house for any great length of time following the death, for custom dictates – and who are we to contradict? – that it is unlucky to keep them under one’s roof for more than one passing.’
Grace heard this with some shock, knowing that half of London could barely afford to put food in their mouths, let alone purchase a new outfit each time a member of their family died. She gave her full attention to her new employer for the first time, seeing a man with a black tailcoat, shoes that were polished like dark glass, a shirt so snowy-white it could only have come freshly from the seamstress and black leather gloves soft as butter. Sylvester Unwin prided himself on his appearance.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘not everyone who comes through our doors over the next few days will be here to honour the memory of Prince Albert. Some will be mourning a member of their own family. Here I ask you to recall that helping the bereaved into full and fashionable mourning helps focus their minds and ease their pain. In my charity work I’m often called upon to aid ladies who have been widowed, and I emphasise the fact that they owe it to their husbands’ glorious memory to go into the very best mourning gowns they can afford.’
There was more of this ilk, but Grace found it difficult to concentrate on Mr Unwin’s words. There was something about his appearance which jarred, something almost repugnant, but she could not work out what it was. She appraised his appearance yet again, but could see nothing amiss. On the surface, he was perfectly respectable. Was it something about his posture, then, or his face with its port-wine nose, or perhaps it was just his oily manner and the many faux-modest references to his charitable works that made him so objectionable to her?
Suddenly, mid-sentence, Mr Unwin smacked his hands together and pointed at Grace. ‘You, there! What was I just saying?’
Grace went scarlet and shook her head to say that she didn’t know, making Mr Unwin shake his own head mockingly in response. There was a ripple of laughter from the regular staff.
‘Is that what you’re going to do when my customers ask you something – shake your head at them?’ said Mr Unwin. Playing to the crowd, he came down the steps and stood in front of her. ‘Can you nod as well?’
At close quarters Grace found Mr Unwin’s presence almost terrifying: the bulk of him, the strength, the faint aroma of something sweet and pungent.
‘I said, can you nod?’ he demanded again, putting his hand on her head and pushing it up and down.
Grace, frightened, nodded despite herself.
‘Ah!’ crowed Mr Unwin. ‘She can nod!’
He turned around and went back to his position of superiority on the stairs. ‘You see how you must all be alert to what the customer is saying! No matter if you are serving your first customer or your eighty-first, be alert and be aware. Never let an opportunity for a sale pass you by.’
Grace looked up at him, trying to hide both her fear and her loathing. That smell; that acrid, sugary smell . . . where had she smelt it before?
And then she remembered. It had been at the funeral of Cedric Welland-Scropes, when the last man to go into the church had passed her. And perhaps even before that, too, although she could not have said precisely