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James Lionel, an ambitious young businessman on the rise.
Rosalind, known as Rossi, a seamstress.
Edward Albert, assistant to his father on the stalls.
Their daughter-in-law
Maude Falconer, Matthew’s wife and mother of his children; a seamstress.
THE VENABLES
Clarence Venables, Esther Falconer’s brother-in-law, great-uncle of James Falconer. Owner of a shipping company in Hull.
Marina Venables, Clarence’s wife and younger sister of Esther Falconer. Great-aunt of James Falconer. A noted artist.
Their children
William, eldest son and heir, working at the Hull shipping company.
Albert, second son, working at the Hull shipping company.
Their daughter-in-law
Anne Venables, Albert’s wife.
THE MALVERNS
Henry Ashton Malvern, owner of the Malvern Company, a big business enterprise and property company.
Alexis Malvern, his only child and heir; a partner in the business.
Joshua Malvern, Henry’s brother and business partner in London.
Percy Malvern, his cousin who runs the wine business in Le Havre.
THE TREVALIANS
Sebastian Trevalian, head of the Trevalian private bank.
His daughters
Claudia, his eldest daughter and heir.
Lavinia, a debutante.
Marietta, a debutante.
His sister
Dorothea Trevalian Rayburn, an art collector and member of the bank’s board.
His son-in-law
Cornelius Glendenning, Claudia’s husband, a banker.
THE CARPENTERS
Lord Reginald Carpenter, publishing tycoon and proprietor of The Chronicle.
Lady Jane Cadwalander Carpenter, his wife.
Their daughters
Jasmine, a debutante.
Lilah, a debutante.
PART ONE (#u4a2557b4-49ee-597d-953b-380be9a6d9ad)
ONE (#u4a2557b4-49ee-597d-953b-380be9a6d9ad)
James Lionel Falconer, commonly called Jimmy by everyone except his grandmother, was out of breath. He came to a sudden stop in the middle of the road going towards Camden Lock. The wheelbarrow he was pushing was heavy and grew heavier by the minute, at least so it seemed to him. He rested for a few seconds, leaning against the barrow, trying to catch his breath.
It was Thursday 12 June 1884, and last month, in late May, he had celebrated his fourteenth birthday. He felt very grown up now. After all, he had been working with his father at their stalls in Henry Malvern’s covered market in London’s Camden Town since he was eight. That was part-time until he was ten, when he began to go there every day. He loved the haggling, the negotiating, the wheeling and dealing about prices, just as much as his father did.
His father called him ‘my clever lad’, which pleased Jimmy. He admired his father, endeavoured to emulate him. Matthew Falconer, who was thirty-seven, dressed neatly to go to work, and so did Jimmy. His father never forgot to ask his regulars how members of their families were, and neither did Jimmy. It had been inculcated in him.
Even his grandmother, Esther Falconer, had noticed, since his early childhood, how he copied his father in most things. It frequently brought a smile to her face, and sometimes she even gave him a threepenny bit for being a good boy. She told him to save it for a rainy day. He did. He paid great attention to her.
Straightening, blowing out air, Jimmy picked up the two handles and started pushing the barrow once more. He walked at an even pace, knowing that this main road got a bit higher after it branched off on both sides.
He stayed on the main road, puffing a bit harder, perspiring; it was a warm day. He was almost at the market when he experienced a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest, and came to an abrupt stop, startled by the intensity of the pain.
Holding onto the handles of the barrow tightly, he kept himself upright even though he thought he might fall over anyway. Slowly, the pain subsided. He was still short of breath; sweat covered his face. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong with him. What had just happened?
‘Jimmy! Jimmy! Are you all right, lad?’
He recognized Mrs Greenwood’s voice and turned around. She was a neighbour, a cook who worked in a big house in a terrace near Regent’s Park.
‘I’m fine,’ he answered, and he did feel better. Whatever the pain had been about, it had gone away. He just felt a bit warm on this sunny day, and breathless.
When she arrived at his side, Mavis Greenwood peered at him intently, her warm, motherly face ringed with concern. ‘You stopped suddenly, and looked a bit odd. I can’t help thinking something is wrong.’
‘No, it isn’t. Not really. I just got out of breath and felt hot.’
She nodded. ‘Let’s not complain about the weather. It’s been raining cats and dogs for days.’
Jimmy laughed. He liked Mrs Greenwood. She often brought them some of her baked goods, as she called her marvellous concoctions, and he was especially partial to her gooseberry tart.
‘Where’s your dad, Jimmy? He shouldn’t let you push this barrow. It’s almost bigger than you.’
He grinned at her; then his face quickly changed. His expression sobered as he explained, ‘Dad’s taken Mum to see Dr Robertson. She says it’s just a cold, but me dad thinks it might be bronchitis, or – worse – pneumonia.’
‘Oh, I do hope it’s not, lad. They’re serious illnesses.’ Placing her handbag on top of the sack covering the contents in the wheelbarrow, she got hold of one of the handles. ‘Come on then, Jimmy, take the other handle, and I’ll help you push this to the market.’
Jimmy was about to refuse her help, but changed his mind at once. It would offend her. He did as she said, grabbed the other handle, and together they pushed the barrow, keeping in step with each other.
When he had first rented a stall at the Malvern Market, Matthew Falconer had made up his mind to be successful – and he was. The owner, Henry Malvern, soon took an interest in him, realizing what a good merchant he was, and when a new stall became available, it had been Matt who’d been given the chance to rent it. He did.
The Malvern was one of the few covered markets in the area, and because of its glass roof and stone walls, it was protected when the weather was bad. This meant the stalls were open to the public all year round; every stallholder appreciated this.
Jimmy and Mavis Greenwood pushed the barrow through the big iron gates, to be greeted by Tommy, the caretaker, who lived in the gatehouse. Then Jimmy and Mavis headed towards the area where the two adjoining sheds were located.
Once the shed doors were unlocked and folded back, Jimmy opened the doors of the storage rooms, which were like two small shops. Mavis Greenwood helped him to pull out the wooden sawhorses and the planks of wood which made the stalls when put together.
As she assisted Jimmy, she wondered how Matt Falconer had expected his son to do this alone. It baffled her but she remained silent. She knew it was best to mind her own business.
Once they were finished with the stalls, she picked up her handbag from the barrow, smiled at Jimmy. ‘And what treasures are hidden under that old sack, then?’
Jimmy pulled it off and showed her. ‘Copper kitchen utensils me dad got at an estate sale last week. From a big house up West.’ He pointed to a few items.
‘Look at ’em, Mrs Greenwood. Copper moulds for jellies, blancmange, salmon mousse; all the things you no doubt make at that big house where you’re Cook.’
She nodded and picked up a few items, looking them over carefully. ‘Lovely pieces, Jimmy, I’ve got to admit. How much is this mould then?’ she asked, taking a fancy to one.
‘Dad forgot to give me the price list, but you can have it for sixpence. I think that’d be about right.’
‘Sixpence! That’s highway robbery, Jimmy Falconer!’
‘Oh! Well, perhaps I made a mistake. A threepenny bit? How does that sound, Mrs Greenwood?’ He gazed at her, smiling. After all, she had helped him to get there. She deserved a bargain.
Mavis opened her handbag and took out her purse. She handed him the coin, gave him a big smile, and put the mould in her bag. ‘Thank you, Jimmy. You’ve been very fair. Now I’d better be getting off or I’ll be late for work.’
‘Thanks for helping me, Mrs Greenwood. Can I ask you something?’
‘Anything you want, but best make it quick, lad.’
‘Can you have a heart attack at fourteen?’ he asked, staring intently.
She stared back at him and exclaimed, ‘Don’t be daft, Jimmy! Anyway, you’re as fit as a fiddle. You must be or your dad wouldn’t expect you to push that heavy barrow up here.’
Once he was alone, Jimmy began to arrange the copper moulds on the stalls, following his father’s instructions to always put tall pieces at the back, graduating them down in size because the buyer’s eye would look at the first grouping and then move their eyes up to the taller items.
He worried about his mother as he did this task almost by rote, also wondering where his father was. How long would it take at the doctor’s? Now and then he turned around, looked down towards the gates into the market. It was still quite early, and stallholders were already there, doing the same job as him. Thoughts of Mrs Greenwood intruded, and he felt a sudden rush of guilt. She had blamed his father for his predicament on the road, but it was his fault. He had filled the wheelbarrow too full, piled in far too many moulds and a variety of additional items. He must explain that the next time he saw her. He didn’t want his father to look bad in her eyes.
Jimmy had just finished arranging the wares on the stalls when he spotted his father coming through the iron gates, hurrying towards him. His first instinct was to rush forward, but he restrained himself, as he had been taught from an early age – control yourself, be dignified. And so he waited.
Matthew Falconer approached his son, smiling, and drew the boy close to his body for a moment. ‘She’s got a very heavy cold,’ Matt explained, at once noting the worried expression in Jimmy’s blue eyes. ‘She’s back home in bed. The doctor gave her some good cough mixture. She’s to stay in bed, be kept warm and given lots of liquids.’
Beaming at his father, filled with relief, Jimmy said, ‘I’m thankful it’s not bronchitis or pneumonia.’
‘You can say that again. I’m as grateful as you, Jim. Now, I want you to go to your grandmother’s. I need her to give you a bottle of her raspberry vinegar concoction and some camphor bags, as well as any special advice she has. Lady Agatha won’t mind you going, if she’s still there. Your grandmother told me the family is going to France for the next two months, leaving today.’
The boy nodded. ‘I’ll go now. Shall I take the things home to Mother?’
‘Yes do, my lad. Grandmother will no doubt give you a sandwich and perhaps some food to take home for your mother.’
‘But what about you, Dad? We forgot to make our snacks before we left this morning.’
‘Don’t worry about me. The pie man usually comes around hawking his goods at one o’clock. I’ll manage.’
‘I’ll come back, after I’ve given Mother her lunch.’
‘No, no, don’t do that! It’s not worth it for an hour or two in the late afternoon. Stay at home, look after Rossi and Eddie, and make sure they have something to eat. Now, off you go.’
TWO (#u4a2557b4-49ee-597d-953b-380be9a6d9ad)
James walked out of the Malvern, without a backward glance, feeling happy for various reasons. He was glad his mother did not have some deadly illness and that she was safe at home in bed. He was relieved his father had lost that worried look. Matthew had been whistling when he left the stalls. And he was thrilled to be going to see his grandmother.
He hurried along the road, wanting to get there as fast as possible. His grandmother, Esther Marie Falconer, was the most important and influential person in his life. As he was in hers. That he knew to be an absolute certainty, because she had told him so. Although she was careful, discreet, not wanting to hurt his siblings.
James loved his parents, emulated some of his father’s mannerisms and way of dressing; he loved his sister Rossi, now twelve, and his little brother, Eddie, who had just had his ninth birthday. And then there was his wonderful grandfather, who kept an eye on them all. Philip Henry Rosewood Falconer had taught him a lot, especially about geography and the rest of the world. He had even given him a globe on a stand, which James treasured.
Nonetheless, his grandmother was at the top of his list. She was his guiding light; she had taught him to read and write by the time he was four. When he had gone to school in Rochester at that age, his first teacher had been truly impressed by his ability and his intelligence.
James realized, as he headed down the road leaving Camden behind, that it was as busy a morning as usual. There were crowds of men hurrying up to the Malvern, who were obviously stallholders, and women, too, customers out for a bargain.
Mornings and evenings were generally hectic during the week, the streets filled with men and women going to their workplace, and then returning home at the end of the day.
Some of the men waved to him, and he waved back, smiling hugely. These were the stallholders who had their setups near theirs. James had a genial nature and a ready smile. He liked people and made friends easily. In turn, they were attracted to him because of his charismatic personality and handsome appearance.
His grandparents were in service near Regent’s Park, and it was not too far away. James knew he would soon be there, once he had crossed Chalk Farm Road. He was headed in the direction of Marylebone.
He liked Marylebone and knew a lot about the area. His grandmother had told him that the region had been planned and developed by the great Regency architect, John Nash, around 1818, and that his overall architectural scheme had included Regent Street, Regent’s Park, and the beautiful terraces and streets of elegant townhouses close to the park.
It was there that Philip and Esther Falconer lived, in one of those formally designed John Nash townhouses facing Regent’s Park, belonging to their employers, the Honourable Arthur Blane Montague and his wife, Lady Agatha Denby Montague, daughter of Lord Percival Denby, the Sixth Earl of Melton.
Esther Falconer had been born in the Yorkshire village of Melton, which was not very far from the great northern seaport of Hull. At twelve, Esther had been pretty, clever and ambitious, and through her mother’s connection to Lady Agatha’s aunt, she was given a job at Melton Priory.
Esther had been trained to be a lady’s maid, specifically to look after Lady Agatha, the Earl’s youngest daughter, who had then been sixteen. At seventeen Lady Agatha had come out as a debutante, had been presented at Court, and had her first Season in London.
Esther had been with her mistress ever since. Forty-four years, to be precise. Over the years she had risen in the ranks; now she was the head housekeeper at Lady Agatha’s current residences in London and Kent, and proud of her position.
Philip Falconer, a Kentish man, had also gone into service. He had started out as a junior footman, aged sixteen, in the employment of the Honourable Arthur Blane Montague at the latter’s country manor, Fountains Court in Kent. He had also worked at the Regent’s Park house which Mr Montague had purchased several years before his marriage to Lady Agatha.
Esther and Philip had met at this beautiful Nash house in London, where they had soon fallen in love. They had been married from the house and had lived there ever since. Their employers valued them far too much to let them go. Lady Agatha had transformed a set of rooms at the back of the house into a flat for Philip and Esther. It was still their main home, although they had the same kind of quarters at Fountains Court in Kent where their three sons had been born and brought up.
Esther was crossing the back hall when she stopped abruptly. Somebody outside was repeatedly banging the brass door knocker so hard it sounded like thunder.
