This suggestion had even the coolest customer rocking on his heels in order to claim a demonstration.
Chapter 21
The letter arrived a week before Christmas. Ettie recognized Lucas’s handwriting at once.
With trembling hands, she lifted the lightly tinted paper sealed by wax. Trying to calm her emotions, she carried it to the counter and sat on the stool beneath the portrait.
‘From your son,’ Ettie told Rose. ‘I shall read it to you.’
Her habit each day now was to address Lucas’s mother, for the shop’s increase in trade had come – whether by fate or heavenly intervention – since that evening when she had hung the portrait. Ettie wasn’t usually given to superstition. However, it felt comforting to imagine Rose’s guiding presence. Just as she imagined her mother’s. And now there was a letter from abroad!
She drew her fingers across the envelope; Miss Henrietta O’Reilly, Benjamin & Son. Salon of Quality Tobaccos. Silver Street. Soho. London. England.
Henrietta! She hadn’t been called by that name for many years. Taking a slim knife from the drawer, she slipped its sharp tip beneath the seal. A single sheet of notepaper slid out.
Lucas’s flowing, looped handwriting caused her heart to swerve. Was it good news or bad?
‘Clinic les Montagnes, St Moritz, Switzerland,’ she read. ‘My dear Ettie, I hope this letter finds you well and does, with all haste, arrive before December 25th. I shall not enquire about the salon. I trust you will tell me all in your returning letter.
From Paris we rented a coach and hired a maid, after which we set out for Switzerland. Good fortune was with us. Clara’s spirits held up. Had I been aware of the challenges of this arduous adventure, I may never have left London. But finally, in Davos, we settled in a hotel, where we heard of great healing successes, comparable to the climatic resorts of the Mediterranean. Our sojourn here was brief. We ventured on to this famed sanatoria of St Moritz. The physicians have prescribed mineral waters from the spa and a milk diet for Clara (often used upon consumptives). I was sceptical at first. Feared I had made a foul decision by not continuing on our journey through Europe. But by all that is merciful in this world, Clara begins to improve. I shall say no more, for I am as yet unconvinced, though we are totally swept away by the beauty and effervescence of the mountains. I will write again after a test is completed. I pray you remain well and not overburdened with work.
From your ever-grateful friend, Lucas Benjamin. (Who at this very moment is watching his wife as she rests contentedly on her chaise longue on the balcony in the winter sunshine.)’
Ettie read the letter again. And again. Clara was improving! Yet Lucas dare not say more until after this ‘test’. Ettie knew that she must pray even harder for Clara.
She gazed up at the portrait. ‘I hope you are proud of your son and daughter-in-law, Rose.’
There was no answer of course, but Ettie was content. She would write a reply this evening, telling Lucas of her own successes. The salon was in profit. The customers had not been poached by the well-to-do stores of the West End. Every account was paid.
The rest of the day passed busily. Ettie had prepared tobacco jars decorated with red ribbons. Cigars and cheroots bore sprigs of holly. A selection of snuff miniatures, each with discreet labelling for the discerning male, were placed invitingly on the small table in the smoking room.
That evening was spent with her nose almost touching the salon notepaper. She had so much to tell Lucas. As she dipped her nib pen into the inkwell, she recalled the smeared, wooden desks of the orphanage. How the children who could not read or write would fashion their own markings. She remembered the many hours she had spent with Michael teaching him to read and write. Had he put any of his learning to use?
Ettie returned her thoughts to composing her letter. She poured out her news; the favourable results of the salon, no debts to record, modest profits. How delighted she was to hear of Clara’s improvement. Lastly, she wished her dear employer and his wife a happy and holy holiday.
It was finally Christmas Eve and very cold. Ettie listened to the conversation in the smoking room. The holiday had not come too soon, it seemed, even for the wealthy gentlemen. 1895, so she learned, had been a year of mixed fortunes.
The politicians among the smokers breathed a loud sigh of relief. ‘Good grief, what would the country have come to with Rosebery at the helm?’ one elderly smoker muttered.
‘Rosebery talked himself out of the job,’ agreed another. ‘After the vote of no confidence, there was nowhere to hide.’
Ettie listened carefully to the opinions on the General Election held back in the summer. The Liberals had been pronounced a failure. The Conservatives, led by Lord Salisbury, had won the day.
‘Damn fine majority,’ agreed a pipe smoker. ‘But down to the Unionists.’
‘What’s your take on the Panhard four-wheeler?’ a young motorist enquired who had boasted he’d successfully truanted from his office.
‘Top notch, old boy but a bit rich for the wallet.’
‘A Daimler for me!’ A cigar smoker added.
‘Carl Benz has completed the “Victoria”,’ mooted an older man as he filled his tumbler.
‘I’d strike for the Lancaster,’ overruled another.
‘Pour
