Ettie recalled reading of the cholera epidemic which had started in Broad Street, Soho. The disease had killed a multitude less than fifty years previously.
The cart swayed and bumped on past the slums, each row so dingy and dilapidated that Ettie couldn’t tell them apart. Over the cobbles and side roads the nag plodded until they entered a narrow lane called Silver Street. Here there were more shabby shops and drinking houses. Ettie shivered again remembering the East End taverns she had passed in the company of Sister Ukunda on the way to the market. The nun always instructed her to avoid the eyes of the drunken men loitering outside. She had done as she was told and thought nothing of it, then. But Sister Ukunda was no longer her companion. Why would they have come to Soho, if it wasn’t to be their destination?
Her suspicions were confirmed as the cart pulled up outside a shop with a weather-board frontage and two large windows beneath, over which a smoke-stained awning hung. The shop’s exterior was faded and scuffed, but a sign announced in bold green and gold letters, ‘Benjamin & Son. Salon of Quality Tobaccos.’
But Ettie thought the premises did not look quality at all, but drab and dreary in comparison to the splendid sights she had witnessed today. ‘Benjamin & Son. Salon of Quality Tobaccos’ came as a bitter disappointment.
‘Good afternoon,’ said a man as Ettie climbed down from the cart. ‘You must be Miss Henrietta O’Reilly.’
‘Yes, sir, I am.’
‘I trust your journey was comfortable?’
‘Yes, sir, thank you.’
‘You have no valise, Miss O’Reilly?’
Having turned fourteen at Christmas, Ettie had never been addressed as “Miss” before.
‘No sir. And the nuns called me Ettie.’
‘Then I shall too, Ettie.’
Her cheeks reddened as she looked up at the young man with wiry sandy-coloured hair and very blue eyes. He wore a stiff wing collar and silk cravat with silver pin. Though the shop he had stepped from looked dark and uninviting, his smile was warm and friendly. From under his jacket he took out a silver fob watch attached to a chain on his waistcoat.
‘The cab made good time from Poplar, I see.’
Ettie had no idea of the hour, but she returned his smile.
‘I am Lucas Benjamin and am very pleased to meet you. Welcome to my salon, Ettie; a rather pompous title for a tobacconist, but it was conceived by my father and goes some way to explaining its use. Like the salons of Paris, both tobacco and trivia are enjoyed by our customers during their visit here.’
He indicated the way in and Ettie turned to thank Arthur. But he was already urging the pony onwards as the clink of hooves chimed over the cobbles.
Ettie entered the gas-lit salon, finding it far larger than it looked from outside. Ornate lamps shone down upon the many shelves overflowing with jars of tobacco, pipes and miniatures of snuff. Under the glass cabinets were displays of cigars, cheroots and cigarettes in all shapes and sizes. A heavy, musty aroma hung in the air, but not, Ettie decided, unpleasantly.
‘I am a merchant in every conceivable kind of tobacco,’ Lucas Benjamin explained proudly. ‘The salon provides a private space for smoking and intellectual discourse as our customers select their purchase.’
He walked over the highly polished parquet flooring and drew aside a deep blue velvet curtain. To Ettie’s surprise this revealed yet another room. It was furnished with sumptuous looking button-backed leather chairs placed around a low table set with three crystal decanters and matching tumblers. To the rear was a mahogany sideboard. Its polished surface was arranged with yet more tobaccos, pipes and cigarettes. Ettie had only ever seen a person smoking when at the market, though the old gardener had sometimes enjoyed a broken half of a thin cigarette as he worked. She had never imagined such intimacy existed for the sole purpose of talking and smoking.
‘You look somewhat surprised. Is this not to your liking?’
‘Oh no, Sir, I think your salon is very …’ she panicked for the right word, ‘interesting.’
‘Most certainly, yes,’ Lucas Benjamin agreed. ‘The salon was Papa’s inheritance from my grandfather. But sadly …’ he paused, giving an indecisive shrug, ‘Papa was taken early by illness and Mama decided that I should come home from my studies at boarding school and help her to continue the business.’
Ettie saw a wistful look come over his face, as though he was considering what might have been had he not followed in his father’s footsteps.
He let the curtain fall back into place and smiled benignly. ‘Many gentlemen find it a chore to source their preferences. The salon relieves them of that duty and caters for every taste.’ He coughed politely. ‘Sitting at leisure in the salon a gentleman may smoke to his heart’s content.’
‘Lucas, why didn’t you call me?’ A pretty, but delicate-looking young woman appeared from a door set in the shadows.
‘This is my wife, Clara,’ said the tobacconist, swiftly taking her arm. ‘My love, this is Miss O’Reilly, but we shall call her Ettie.’
‘Good day, Ettie.’
‘I am very pleased to meet you,’ Ettie answered nervously.
‘And I, you.’
Ettie found herself staring at this tiny, diminutive figure whose pale countenance was extremely striking. The crimson dress she wore was extremely beautiful but did not flatter her complexion. Her eyes would have been beautiful if they had not been somewhat faded. Her fair hair was parted in the centre and drawn back into a bun behind her head.
‘My wife does not enjoy the best of health at present,’ the tobacconist said hesitantly.
‘I am much better today, Lucas,’ declared Clara Benjamin in a breathless voice. ‘What would Ettie think of me if I did not welcome her on her arrival?’ She lay a small hand on her chest. Encased in it was a lace handkerchief that she gripped very tightly. ‘Let us take Ettie into the
