Dilly Court - The Button Box

‘Mine?’ He ran his hand through his unruly hair, causing it to curl around his brow in wild profusion. ‘Are you sure?’

Betsy leaned forward, eyes shining. ‘Oh, yes. Let us hear something you’ve composed.’

‘Is it sad?’ Jane asked wistfully. ‘Sad music makes me cry.’

‘Let him play and then we’ll find out.’ Clara settled back in Miss Silver’s favourite chair, resting her feet on the brass fender, as Nathaniel launched into a hauntingly sweet melody. In his skilful hands the violin seemed to sing and the music filled Clara’s head and made her heart swell with joy and sadness. It was as if all the emotions she had ever felt had been transposed into sound and she closed her eyes, floating away on the tide of Nathaniel’s lyrical creation. She was still enraptured when the piece came to an end, and as she opened her eyes she realised that Jane was crying and Betsy sat with her hands clutched to her bosom, gazing at Nathaniel with moist eyes and a wistful smile.

He dropped his hands to his sides and bowed.

‘That was so beautiful,’ Clara said in a whisper. ‘It melted my heart.’

‘Yes, it was lovely.’ Betsy jumped to her feet. ‘You are so clever, Nathaniel.’

Jane sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Your music made me cry, and I’ve lost my hanky.’

‘You are all too kind.’ Nathaniel placed the instrument in its case, treating it as tenderly as a mother would a newborn infant. ‘It still needs some work.’

‘What is it called?’ Clara asked. ‘I’d love to hear it again some time.’

‘I haven’t given it a title; perhaps you can help me there.’ Nathaniel glanced at the mantel clock. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. It’s time I returned to my lodgings.’

‘Don’t go yet,’ Jane cried. ‘Please stay a little longer.’

Clara rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for our supper and for allowing us to hear your composition. It was wonderful.’

‘It was my pleasure, but now I really must leave you.’ Nathaniel made his way through to the shop, pausing to wrap his muffler round his neck. ‘I’m sure that Luke will come round, Clara. He obviously cares a great deal for you.’

She tossed her head. ‘He can do as he pleases. I choose my own friends.’

‘Does that include me?’

‘I’m proud to know you, Nathaniel Silver, and very much indebted to you.’

‘Nonsense. You were my aunt’s choice and I respect her wishes.’ He stood aside as Clara unlocked the street door. ‘I haven’t forgotten the tickets for the Gaiety. As soon as I’m in a position to get some I’ll bring them round.’

She held the door as he stepped outside into the bitter winter night. ‘You’re welcome to call at any time.’

‘Thank you, I will.’ Nathaniel backed away, smiling, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the pool of yellow light that surrounded the gas lamp.

Clara was about to close the door when she saw the dark shape of a man lingering in a doorway on the far side of the street. She could not be certain but it looked very much like Luke. It would be typical of Luke to spy on her; he had done it before and she had found it oddly touching, but now it had become irritating and downright insulting. Nathaniel was just a friend, and he had been magnanimous enough to allow her to keep her inheritance without challenging his aunt’s will. The mere fact that they had a roof over their heads tonight was because of the generosity of the Silver family. Clara locked the door, snatched her button box off the counter and went into the parlour.

Betsy was in the process of helping Jane to negotiate the narrow staircase. ‘We’re going to bed. Will you be up soon?’

‘Yes, don’t worry about me.’

‘I said I’d share the back room with Jane. You’ll have to sleep on your own for the first time,’ Betsy said, smiling.

‘At least I won’t be kept awake by you snoring.’ Clara blew them a kiss. ‘Night-night.’

‘Don’t 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.’