Read the book: «Mrs Boots»

I’d like to dedicate this book to Florence Boot and to all strong women who help others to recognise the best in themselves

Chapter 1
August 1885 – 27 Queen Street, St Helier, Jersey

Florence Rowe waved at Emile, the boarder from the chemist at number 29 who had raised his hat in a friendly salute. As usual at this time of day, Queen Street was bustling with shoppers and shop assistants out on their errands. She didn’t mind waiting for her good friend, Albert, to finish wrapping the packet of tea she had been sent to buy for her father’s stationer’s shop, which was situated between the chemist and the tea merchants. She loved her job in her father’s shop, on the bustling street, but it was always nice to step away for a few minutes to catch up with Albert’s news and share her own with him.

‘I had a customer in here yesterday,’ he said, tidying away the small weights he had used to calculate the correct amount of tea leaves. ‘He’s an artist from Birmingham. He came to the island last week to stay with relatives for the rest of the summer. He was telling me that it was reported in his local newspapers about a poor young woman on a roof.’

‘Sorry,’ Florence asked, confused. She was used to Albert’s catastrophising, but this story was a little odd. ‘What did you say?’

‘Someone heard screams in the middle of the night.’

‘Where, here?’

‘No, in Kidderminster.’

Florence realised she had no idea what Albert was talking about. ‘Maybe you should start again. From the beginning.’

‘The artist told me that just before he came to the island he read about a local woman, a young lady somnambulist, dressed only in her night clothes. She was still asleep when she climbed out of an upstairs window and onto the roof of her family home.’

‘How do your customers come to share such stories with you.’ She was struggling not to giggle. ‘They only come in to buy tea.’

‘Maybe they can see that I need a little drama in my life.’ A customer entered the shop just then and Albert lowered his voice and added, ‘We’ve been friends since we were children, Florence; can you remember a time when we had something worth being excited about?’

‘Apart from going to the theatre, or such like?’ she asked, not wishing him to become maudlin, which he could, if she ever let him.

‘Yes, those outings are fun, but not like the story the artist told me.’

Florence was always fascinated by Albert’s latest intrigue. Her father wouldn’t entertain the newspapers being read in their home. His only connection to them was caused by necessity when he advertised his stationer’s, W. H. Rowe. Albert was her connection to the sensational stories printed in them. He loved discovering the latest dramas occurring on the island and she loved that he took time to share them with her. She wasn’t sure though if it was the stories themselves, or his dramatised account of them.

‘Was she all right?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thankfully,’ Albert continued. ‘The girl’s father and a police constable threw a rope up to her. They managed to rescue her before she fell headlong to her death.’

Florence focused her attention on her purse so that he couldn’t see her amusement at his dramatics. ‘That’s a relief. Poor thing, waking up in such a predicament.’ She wondered how much longer he was going to spend wrapping up her tea.

‘That’s what I thought.’ He patted the neat package. ‘There you go.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, paying him and taking her tea.

‘It’s such a relief that the weather has improved, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. Father has been fretting about the stock not being delivered on time, as the ferries were cancelled due to the summer storms last week.’

Albert nodded, happy to have another drama to focus on. ‘We’ve had the same problem here,’ he said, putting her money in the till and giving her change. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Thankfully we had a delivery brought in this morning. Now everyone is panicking that the weather will change again, so they’re all rushing to stock up on their favourite tea mixture before it does.’

‘That’s one of the downsides of living on an island, my father always says.’ Florence knew the problem well. Her own mother was always concerning herself with the boats’ arrivals at the harbour. ‘Hopefully it’ll stay nice and hot for a while now. It is supposed to be summer, after all.’

She went to say something else, but, as she glanced out the window, all thoughts of what it was disappeared as she noticed one particular lady marching up the pavement on the opposite side of the street, her lady’s maid at her side laden with various bags and boxes. Florence could not help feeling sorry for the young woman scuttling along slightly behind her mistress, who was, by the determined expression on her lined face, on her way to give some poor soul a scolding.

Florence groaned.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Albert asked. ‘Are you unwell?’

She shook her head. ‘No, look.’ She pointed out of the window. ‘She’s paused. I think she’s about to cross over to this side.’

He stepped forward, peered out at the focus of her concern and shivered theatrically. ‘I hope she doesn’t come in here. She’s a monstrous woman. She always has something, or someone, to complain about.’

Florence doubted that Mrs Wolstenholm would be buying her own tea. She probably left that job to one of her servants. Her heart dipped as she realised that the route the woman was taking was to W.H. Rowe next door.

‘Oh, no. She’s going into Father’s shop. I’d better hurry back. Thanks, Albert,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

She ran out of the shop, following the lady’s maid in through the open shop door, the jangling of the brass alerting her father and sister Amy to their arrival. She closed the door quietly behind them, Mrs Wolstenholm oblivious to Florence coming in behind her. The lady tapped her silver-topped walking stick noisily on the wooden floorboards.

Dropping the packet of tea quickly behind the counter, Florence skirted around the woman and her servant, a smile she did not feel fixed firmly on her face.

‘Mrs Wolstenholm, how delightful to see you today.’

The woman waited for Florence to come directly in front of her before looking her slowly up and down as if she had never seen a specimen quite like her before. ‘I don’t take to modern women,’ she sniffed, glancing at Florence’s bustle. ‘All those ruffles and draping material, it’s too fanciful if you ask me. I believe unmarried women should wear plainer clothing.’

Florence had not asked her. She hid her irritation, determined not to give the woman satisfaction of knowing she had annoyed her. Florence liked wearing a larger bustle, despite the discomfort it brought to her. She loved fashion and was not going to be dictated to about her clothing by anyone else, especially not this rude woman.

‘Is there anything I can help you with today, Mrs Wolstenholm?’ Florence asked, ignoring the insults being thrown at her; she knew better than to annoy her father’s best, but rudest, customer or give her any cause to be angered further.

Mrs Wolstenholm waved her gloved hand as if swatting an annoying fly. ‘Where is your father? I wish to speak with him.’

‘Are you certain I will be unable to assist you?’ Florence asked, aware that she knew all there was to know about the workings of this shop.

Mrs Wolstenholm rested both hands on the top of her walking stick and glowered at Florence. ‘I will not be served by a girl. I have asked for your father; he always serves me.’

Frustrated by the woman’s rudeness, Florence forced a smile. ‘Would you like to take a seat while I fetch him for you?’ she asked, indicating the smart cushioned chair her father had brought into the shop for his less than sturdy customers.

‘I shall not be waiting long enough to take a seat,’ she barked. ‘Hurry now, girl. I do not have time to dawdle.’

Florence heard footsteps and turned her attention to the storeroom door, relieved to see her father’s arrival. He was wearing a similar forced smile to the one she felt sure she had on her face.

‘I’m most dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,’ her father said, hurrying in to join them. He glanced at Florence and tilted his head briefly indicating that she take his place unpacking the latest delivery. ‘We’ve only a moment ago been delivered of an order that was delayed.’

‘Yes, yes, man,’ she snapped. ‘I am not here to discuss your business. You sent word that you had several books you believed might suit my taste.’

Florence reached the doorway at the back of the shop leading to the small room they referred to as the storeroom, although it really was not much bigger than a large cupboard. She couldn’t help feeling angry on her father’s behalf to hear the dragon of a woman address him so rudely. She turned to watch him.

‘I do.’ He hurried over to behind the counter from where Florence saw him take a bundle of five books.

He raised his right hand to catch Florence’s attention. ‘Fetch one of the new books by Mr Thomas Hardy that I asked you to put aside for Mrs Wolstenholm.’

Wanting the grumpy customer out of their shop as soon as possible, Florence hurried to do as he asked. She leant into the trunk and took out one of the immaculate copies of The Mayor of Casterbridge that she and many of their customers had been waiting weeks to read. She could not help thinking how unfair it was that someone as horrible as this woman was always first in line for everything she wanted, simply because of her wealth.

She pictured some of the young women who entered the shop, like poor Nelly Cooper, so desperate to be able to enjoy books, but having neither the time nor the money to do so. She would appreciate the book so much more and she deserved to read it more than this woman too, thought Florence, hearing Mrs Wolstenholm’s grumbling coming from the shop. She picked up one of the pristine copies and hastily took the book to the shop and placed it onto the counter.

Leaving her father to serve the woman, Florence returned to the storeroom just as her sister Amy arrived from the family’s flat above the shop. Florence was older by just one year and enjoyed working with her sister who was also a shop assistant. Many times, she had dreamt aloud to Amy about owning her own shop one day, but they both knew that it would take many years for either of them to be able to afford to do such a thing, if indeed they could ever find a way to save up enough money to do so.

‘Did I hear Mrs Wolstenholm’s dulcet moaning?’ Amy whispered.

Florence covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. ‘You did. I can’t fathom how that poor maid of hers can stand hearing her constant insults to everyone she meets.’

‘We’re very lucky to be shop assistants for someone as dear as Father.’ Amy peered around Florence at the offensive woman. ‘I overheard our parents speaking the other evening when I passed the living room. They were saying how that woman in there is only a shopkeeper’s daughter. She’s no better than we are.’

Florence widened her eyes, stunned. ‘You’d never know it to watch the way she treats people of a lower station than her own, would you?’

‘No. She’s from the same background as we are. Her father was a shopkeeper too, so you would think she wouldn’t speak down to Father like she does.’

Florence mulled over her sister’s words. Somehow it seemed even more appalling that this woman who spoke to their father so abruptly had come from a similar background. What right did that woman think she had to talk down to decent people like her father? Somehow, this woman’s rudeness seemed worse coming from someone who, Florence assumed, must have also been on the receiving end of another’s patronising behaviour. She surely must remember how it felt to have less than others and have to silently accept their ill manners simply because she was not in a position to put them in their place.

‘Do you know, Amy,’ Florence said, having to remember to keep her voice down despite her anger, ‘when I get my own shop, I’m going to remember this particular customer and how she makes me feel when she addresses our father in the way that she does. It’s shameful the way she is putting him down. How dare she?’ Florence knew full well that the woman dared because she could afford to go elsewhere to spend her money, whereas their father could not afford to lose his best client. ‘I’ll never forget where I’m from. I’ll also never speak down to people like her. Ever!’

Chapter 2

‘Florence, where are you? Mr Boot will be here at any moment.’

She could hear her mother calling but didn’t answer immediately. She only had half an hour before the end of her lunch break when she was expected back at her father’s shop below their flat. Why couldn’t her mother leave her in peace to read? Just this once.

Florence flicked through the pages of her book in frustration, forgetting momentarily that she had only borrowed the book from her father’s shop. There were only a couple of pages left until the end of the chapter. Desperate to discover what happened next, Florence read on, entranced by the new book from Mr Thomas Hardy. She couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer to absorb this book.

Biting the side of her fingernail, she read on, shocked by the unforgiveable behaviour of Michael Henchard drunkenly selling his wife and baby daughter for five guineas at a country fair.

‘Horrible man,’ she mumbled, gasping in shock and almost dropping the book when her bedroom door burst open and her sister Amy walked in.

‘I might have guessed you were hiding in here with a book,’ she said with a knowing smile on her face. ‘Didn’t you hear Mother calling for you? Father’s guest is arriving soon, and he wants us to meet him.’

Florence closed her book slowly and sighed. ‘I don’t know why he wants us to meet the man. Isn’t he a chemist? What could we possibly have to say to him?’

Amy snatched the book from Florence’s hands and read the description. ‘Actually, he’s a druggist.’

Florence was surprised her sister knew this about Mr Boot, but, determined to distract her sister from telling her off about borrowing the book, she asked, ‘That’s as maybe, but I still don’t see why we need to spend time with him. Anyway, how do you know this about him?’

Amy stared at her and Florence could see she was amused to have surprised her in this way. ‘I heard Father speaking about him to Mother earlier.’

‘What’s the difference between the two jobs then?’ she asked, intrigued.

‘Apparently a druggist manufactures and sells drugs and medicines, whereas a chemist specialises in the science behind the chemistry.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think that’s what Father meant.’

‘I heard he owns shops,’ Florence said, trying to work out why this man was so important to their father. ‘Maybe that’s why he wants us to meet him when he arrives.’

Amy stared down at the cover of the book in her hand before glaring at Florence. ‘Father will be furious if he discovers you’ve taken this from the new stock. You know we are forbidden to read the new stock. And there’s a long waiting list for this title.’

Typical Amy not to allow her to get away with doing something she shouldn’t.

Florence couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. She hated being caught out borrowing the books. Her father didn’t mind too much if they were from old stock but insisted that she and Amy never bought the new books to read, at least until the rush from their customers had ended.

‘I’m aware of that,’ she said trying to defend herself, ‘but I’ve heard so much about The Mayor of Casterbridge and I simply couldn’t wait any longer to read it.’

Amy closed the bedroom door and leant against it, lowering her voice. ‘That’s as maybe, but we can’t spare any copies of this one. You know only half the shipment arrived and we need every spare copy for those who’ve been waiting to read it.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I’d spotted you taking a peek at the beginning of the story earlier when you were supposed to be unpacking the delivery.’

Florence felt her face reddening. ‘I had intended returning it by tomorrow.’

‘You shouldn’t have borrowed it in the first place. It won’t be new if it’s already been read.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Florence replied, irritated. ‘Stop being so pious. We both know you’ve done the same thing, many times. Anyway, I can’t see that I’ll have the opportunity to read it by tomorrow now. I’m meeting friends to see a play at the Theatre Royal later this evening.’

Amy narrowed her eyes. ‘And will Albert be one of those friends?’

Florence hated it when her sister teased her Albert. Amy knew well enough that they were merely friends and had been since childhood. He was fun to be with and made her laugh. She knew her mother suspected they were secretly courting, or maybe she simply hoped it was the case. Florence hated deception, but on this occasion if it kept her mother happy and also from trying to persuade her to find someone to marry, then it was worth it.

And Albert was fun to be with. He treated her as an equal and she knew they both enjoyed their mini debates on current events and novels. How many of her friends’ husbands could she honestly say that about, she mused. None, she was certain of that.

She thought of the downtrodden women of her age and younger that she’d seen coming into Rowes. Initially unmarried, then excited to be courted by a man they had hopes for. Florence thought of the many of them with fake smiles, hiding their disappointment of the future they had hoped to enjoy. Or she was being cynical, as Amy had hinted she might be.

She loved her father very much, but he was definitely the head of the household, as he should be, but the older she became the harder it was to be told what she could and could not do each day. Why would she swap one man controlling her life for another? It didn’t make any sense. As far as she was concerned, marriage was not a state to which she aspired.

She realised her sister had been speaking. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘Will Albert be attending the play with you at the Theatre Royal tonight?’

She suspected she had missed something else her sister had said, but didn’t say so. ‘Yes, he will be.’

Amy handed the book back to her. ‘I think you and Albert are well suited. I know Mother is secretly pleased that you’ve finally seen sense about your intention to stay a spinster.’

Florence narrowed her eyes at her sister. ‘Stop it. You know there’s nothing of the kind going on between us.’

‘I do. However, you two shouldn’t forget that his mother is one of our mother’s oldest friends,’ she said, her tone one of warning. ‘When either of them do finally discover that there’s less to your friendship than they imagine … well, you’ll probably be facing a bit of trouble.’

She didn’t like to think of her mother being upset due to something she had done, but, as her mother kept reminding her, at twenty-three she was at risk of ‘being left on the shelf’. It was somewhere that did not concern Florence; the prospect of being married and dictated to by a man horrified her far more than an unmarried status.

‘You know full well that I have no intention of ever marrying.’ She scowled. ‘The thought of being any man’s chattel is too dreadful.’ She stared at her unmarried sister only one year younger than herself. ‘Why doesn’t Mother make such a fuss about you? It’s always me she seems to worry herself about. I don’t understand it.’

‘Because I wouldn’t mind finding a beau and she knows that. She simply worries about your need for independence.’

Florence couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for the concern she gave her mother, but she had made up her mind long ago that marriage wasn’t for her. The thought of asking permission from a man in order to make decisions was too ghastly. It was bad enough having to be told what to do by her parents.

‘Come along,’ Amy said, handing the book back to her and opening the bedroom door; ‘I can hear Mother’s voice getting more irate.’

Florence knew when she was beaten. She raised the book to her nose and breathed in the familiar scent. Surely there was no smell more heavenly than that of a book? Hearing her sister mumble something under her breath, she picked up the new bookmark that she had treated herself to from her previous week’s wages and slipped it between the pages. The Mayor of Casterbridge would have to wait.

‘Florence, answer me,’ her mother shouted, sounding, Florence thought, more het up than usual. She stood up and went to check her hair in the mirror.

‘Sorry, Mother.’ Florence stood up and went to lean over the banister. She gave her mother an apologetic look. ‘Amy and I are on our way down now.’

‘This is Mr Boot,’ her father said, one hand holding the lapel of his waistcoat and the other indicating a man with a friendly smile that reached his eyes. ‘He’ll be staying in Jersey for a few weeks.’

Florence watched her parents greet the new guest. He was handsome in his own way, she mused, with his greying hair and piercing hazel eyes. She presumed him to be about ten or fifteen years older than her. There was something about him that she couldn’t help liking, which seemed odd as he hadn’t even opened his mouth to say anything yet.

He took her sister’s hand and gave a slight bow before coming to Florence.

‘This is my daughter, Florence. She and Amy assist me at Rowe’s, our stationer’s downstairs.’ He regarded his family. ‘Please, take a seat everyone. Mr Boot is also in retail,’ he explained. ‘He has several shops of his own. Mainly in Nottingham, I believe?’

Mr Boot smiled. ‘That’s correct. I ran them with my mother up until last year when she sadly passed.’

It dawned on Florence who this man was and why the name seemed familiar. ‘You’re Jane’s brother?’

He nodded, his smile widening.

Her father gave her a questioning look. ‘You know Mr Boot’s sister?’

‘Yes, Father. We met last year when she was on the island. We attended functions together. I introduced you and Mother to her.’

‘I met her, too,’ Amy said. ‘Several times. She came to the shop and bought—’ she thought for a moment ‘—an artist’s pad, some watercolours and brushes, if I remember correctly.’

Mr Boot laughed. ‘Yes, that’ll be Jane. She was most upset to have left her paints behind when she travelled. She wrote to me during her stay here recounting visits to Rowes. She insisted that if I visit Jersey, I must look up your family and introduce myself to her good friend, Miss Florence Rowe.’ He stared at Florence thoughtfully for a brief time, as if recalling his sister’s words. ‘She told me that you showed her much of the island and ensured her time here was thoroughly enjoyable.’

Florence recalled the friendly, charming woman who she’d befriended and how well they had got along. ‘She told me about your mother’s passing,’ she said, unsure whether she should be mentioning it, but aware that Mr Boot and his mother had worked closely together in their shops since his father’s death when he was only ten. ‘I was sorry to hear of your loss.’

His expression darkened and for a moment she thought she’d been too personal. Then, he cleared his throat. ‘It was. I think it was doubly difficult as we’d also worked together. Jane insisted I take time away from the business to visit Jersey for a holiday. She thought the sea air would do me good.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve only been here a couple of hours and already I feel somewhat refreshed.’

‘You haven’t been to Jersey before, Mr Boot?’ Amy asked.

‘This is my first time. I haven’t thought to take time away from my business before now.’ He smiled. ‘I’m told the weather is always sunny in Jersey, and the milk and new potatoes are the best in the world.’

Everyone laughed. She thought back to the stormy weather they had experienced for the previous few days, which had cut the island off from the mainland and France when the ferries to Southampton and St Malo had to be cancelled.

‘And you wouldn’t be wrong thinking that, most of the time,’ her father said. ‘Although, maybe not so much about the weather. I believe it’s slightly warmer than on the mainland but it can rain here just as much when it chooses to.’

‘Usually when you least wish it,’ Florence added.

Mr Boot smiled at her. It was a friendly smile; she noticed something more behind his eyes than she had expected. Then her father began discussing aspects of Mr Boot’s visit and Florence listened as their guest chatted to her parents. She liked the sound of his voice. She recalled Jane explaining that her accent was an East Midland’s one. It was gentle and different to the voices she usually heard each day. Although, she mused, a lot of those were French, or the locals speaking Jèrriais. It wasn’t surprising, therefore, that they did sound different.

If what her father was saying were true, which she assumed it was, she had never met anyone as successful as Mr Boot. She liked that he wasn’t boastful or arrogant. He seemed very matter-of-fact, and, by what Jane had said, he didn’t take much time to do anything other than work very hard. Her thoughts were interrupted hearing her father mentioning her name.

‘… day off tomorrow and I’m certain she would be delighted to show you some of the sights here on the island. Wouldn’t you, Florence?’

All thoughts of finishing The Mayor of Casterbridge vanished; however, she found that she didn’t mind nearly as much as she would have expected.

‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ she said, smiling at Mr Boot. ‘We could, um—’ she thought quickly, recalling how Jane had mentioned that her brother was sometimes troubled by an ailment, which she believed might be rheumatoid arthritis. If that was the case, then she assumed that walking far would not be something he would wish to do ‘—take the Jersey Railway to St Aubin, if you wish? Or, maybe the Jersey Eastern Railway to Gorey. Whichever you prefer.’

He rested his hands on his legs and nodded. ‘I will leave the choice to you. Maybe we could do one trip tomorrow and the other on another day?’

Florence had hoped for some time alone after such a busy early summer at the shop, but expected that time with Mr Boot could also be enjoyable. She did like showing friends who were new to the island the places that she particularly liked.

‘I would enjoy that,’ she said. It was only a slight fib, because she would rather have been alone, and she instantly felt mean for her thoughts.

The mantel clock chimed the hour and Florence and Amy stood. ‘We should return to the shop,’ Amy suggested.

Mr Boot winced slightly as he stood up. ‘I apologise. I have taken up more of your time that I intended. When would be convenient for me to call on you tomorrow, Miss Rowe?’

Hoping to make his day as relaxed as possible, Florence said. ‘If you call on me at ten o’clock, then we could make our way the short distance up the road to Snow Hill and catch the train from there to Gorey.’

The eastern terminus was so much closer than the one for the westbound train. Let the poor man rest as much as possible on his first days here, she thought; after all, it was what he had come to the island to do.

He gave a slight bow with his head. ‘I shall look forward to our adventure, Miss Rowe. Thank you.’

Florence stared at him thoughtfully. There was something different about this man, but she couldn’t work out what it might be. She was surprised to realise that she was looking forward to their outing, too. ‘As am I, Mr Boot.’

She followed Amy from the living room and down to the shop. Father rarely permitted the shop to be closed during the daytime and already Florence could see five disconcerted customers waiting anxiously by the front door.

Amy rushed over and unlocked it, turning over the closed sign to mark the place open, once again. ‘My apologies for making you wait,’ she said sweetly.

‘Anything wrong?’ one of their regular customers – a short, sour-faced elderly woman with an overly large hat – had grumbled.

‘Father has an unexpected guest,’ Amy explained, widening her eyes over the woman’s head as the lady marched past her to the display of postcards Florence had put together that morning.

‘I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence; I’ve been waiting ten minutes to buy a map from you. This really won’t do.’

Florence was tempted to give the woman a snappy retort. Their father never let his clients down and would be mortified to think he had upset anyone by his actions. Without having known about Mr Boot’s arrival prior to his appearance, even Florence could tell, simply by her father’s temporary closure of the shop, that he had thought him important.

She opened her mouth to speak, and just then Amy said, ‘I doubt it will happen again any time soon.’ Her sister looked at the brown wrapping in the lady’s basket. ‘I suspect you were able to choose some nice material from the haberdashers while you waited?’

The lady beamed at Amy, her complaint forgotten. ‘I did, as a matter of interest. I spotted a fine fabric in their window display and simply had to have it.’

‘All is well then,’ Florence said, wanting to be sure the woman didn’t take her complaint to their father when he returned to the shop. She would hate for his day to be ruined by someone else’s criticism.

‘It is.’ The woman held up a copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge in her gloved hand. ‘My daughter tells me this book might be something I’d enjoy. What do you think?’

Florence’s thoughts had been consumed by the unusual man she had met earlier. Hurriedly thinking of a reply, she wondered if the daughter had yet read the book, not minding so much that she had been held back from being able to read more of it by now. ‘I’ve read a little,’ she admitted, ‘and I enjoyed it very much. I’m afraid I’ll need to check we have your name on the list of customers who have ordered the book.’

She hoped the woman was on the list; the thought that she would have something else to grumble about worried Florence. She took the lady’s name and went to check.

Movement by the store-front window caught her eye. The front door to their flat was open and she could see her father and Mr Boot speaking outside. She stepped forward into the shadows behind the counter, hoping to watch Mr Boot unobserved. There was a kindness about him that emanated from him as he chatted to her father. For someone who had come to the island to recover from the loss of his mother and overwork, he still displayed a positivity about him that made her smile.

Mr Boot turned to walk away and, spotting her, waved.

Mortified, Florence waved back, before lifting her father’s order book diverted her attention back to checking for the customer’s name.

Florence couldn’t understand why she was acting so strangely. She was usually so contained and sure of herself. There was something about him that intrigued her though. Was it because he was so successful? No, she was never impressed by that sort of thing. Or simply, she wondered, could it be that he came from a different background to any of the men she had previously come across in her social life? Most of the men she knew worked for a living, and most of them were around her age. Mr Boot had already done very well for himself and was over a decade older than her. Could it be that he was more interesting than the men she knew? Possibly. She wasn’t certain. Either way, she realised she was looking forward to her outing with him the next day, very much so.

Chapter 3

They sat opposite one another on the train. Florence was relieved the weather had remained warm and sunny and she had been able to wear her new straw hat for the outing. Not that she expected Mr Boot to have any interest in the latest fashions like she did. Or, maybe the fashions were different in Nottingham; it was a city, after all and not a small island whose connections were mostly closer to France than England.

Mr Boot seemed more relaxed today, she decided happily. The train slowed to a halt at the Georgetown stop. She realised he was staring at her, and as he smiled at her she couldn’t help thinking what kind eyes he had.

He cleared his throat. ‘How long does the journey take to Gorey?’ he asked, turning his attention out of the window to the passengers waiting for others to alight before stepping onto the carriage.

‘About twenty minutes,’ Florence replied. ‘To be honest it’s a few months since I came this way.’ As she admitted this fact, she couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t made the effort before now. ‘If I want to walk to the sea front, it’s only a couple of minutes from our flat to Havres des Pas. My father doesn’t like me walking alone by the shipyards along that way though, so I temper my outings there, too.’

‘I had never thought what it must be like to have daughters before, but I can imagine it must be worrisome for a father when they are independently minded.’

For a second she wasn’t sure if he was criticising her, then saw the gentle twinkle in his eyes and knew that he was merely thinking of something that had just occurred to him.

‘Yes, Father does worry about me and Amy sometimes. Our older sister Adelaide is married now. She’s a teacher. However, I don’t think Amy and I are probably as compliant as the daughters of some of his friends.’

He looked confused. ‘In what way, may I ask?’

‘I suppose in that—’ she considered her words, delighted with his interest ‘—we aren’t as timid as maybe most of them are. We have opinions and share them more openly than Father would like.’

He frowned. ‘Opinions about what?’

She didn’t want to offend him; he was older than her, after all, and she suspected slightly more old-fashioned than her friends. He had asked though, and she wanted to be honest with him. ‘Mrs Beeton says in her Book of Household Management that the mistress of the house should consider herself as “the commander of an army”. She believes that women running their homes should feel as important as men do going out to work.’

‘Is there anything wrong with that sentiment?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It’s just that it is not my ambition to simply run a household.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Surely, though, a well-run house is extremely important.’

She was enjoying herself immensely. It was fun being able to debate with this man in such a way. ‘Yes, it is very important, and I would love to keep my own home at some point; however, I hope to have more for myself.’

‘Such as what, may I ask?’

She spotted a twinkling in his hazel eyes but knew it wasn’t due to amusement, but she suspected that he was enjoying their conversation as much as she. ‘I would like to run my own business. I don’t believe that being in charge of a home will be enough for me.’

His eyes widened. ‘Do you know something, Miss Rowe? I believe you will find a way to achieve your ambition.’ He tilted his head. ‘What’s more, I feel certain you will be successful at it.’

She was taken aback by his confidence in her. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘I do. You have intelligence, you work hard, and you seem very determined. There is no reason why you should fail.’

She smiled at him, delighted with his reassurances. ‘People do fail though, and maybe I could be one of them.’

‘That is always a possibility. I’ve failed at some of the things I’ve attempted to do, quite a few times,’ he said, surprising her with his honesty, ‘but to me, a successful person is not someone who falls at the first hurdle, but who dusts themselves off, rethinks their strategy and tries again. And sometimes has to keep on trying until they find a way of achieving what they set out to do.’

She gazed at him in awe of his open-mindedness and frankness. ‘You make a lot of sense. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.’

‘It is my pleasure. For now, though, you assist your father at Rowe’s. He must enjoy having you and your sister working for him?’

Florence agreed. ‘He does. I think he would have preferred my brother to work for him, so that he could train him to take over from him when he retires, but Willie hasn’t never been interested in the shop.’

‘That’s a shame,’ he said, looking a little unsure. ‘Although I don’t see why you and your sister wouldn’t be any less successful at running the business. My mother took over from my father when he passed when I was ten years old. She was a good business-woman too, and I learnt everything I know from her.’

Florence liked his attitude to women and business. It gave her hope that in this world where man was king of all he possessed, that maybe Mr Boot wasn’t the only man to believe women were capable of much more than was usually expected of them.

The train moved off once again. ‘I don’t know why but I hadn’t realised there would be so many stops on such a small island,’ he said.

‘We’ll reach Pontac soon and you can see the coast from there. It’s one of my favourite stops,’ Florence explained. ‘When I do come this way, I love to look out at the rocks in the bay. I’m told it can be very dangerous for the fishermen’s boats, but the bay is very pretty for those of us looking out from a carriage window.’

‘My sister tells me that this island is blessed with many bays worthy of inspection.’ He laughed. ‘She also said that she believes you and she visited most of them during her time here.’

He had a wonderful laugh. Deep and rumbling, infectious.

‘We did visit a few.’ Florence recalled only too well those pleasant, sunny days with Jane. It wasn’t hard to imagine her and her brother getting along well; both seemed such friendly people. ‘But there are many more we didn’t explore.’

‘You’re very lucky to live on such a beautiful island,’ he said, as they passed several pretty gardens with the glistening sea in the background.

‘What’s Nottingham like? I’ve never been.’ She wanted to know more about this man and where he came from.

‘It also has its beauty, but a different one to this place. I particularly admire the red-brick buildings in the town. I enjoy the hustle and bustle of the streets. I find it inspirational.’ He gazed at her for a moment. ‘There’s a lot of green open space around the city, and if I’m not working, I’ll go for a ride in my carriage to take in the air.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said, trying to picture the place. The largest town she had ever experienced was St Helier and she doubted that was anything like the size of Nottingham. ‘And of course, Nottingham is where such beautiful lace mostly comes from. We have a customer who will only wear lace sourced from there.’ She recalled the last time Mrs Wolstenholm had boasted about the fine lace on the sleeves of one of her dresses.

‘It is a thriving industry,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘However, with that comes its own issues and pitfalls. On the one hand the industry provides work for many of the populous, but the hours are long, and a lot of the factories provide little in the way of benefit for their staff. We have a lot of poverty in many areas and the poorer people of Nottingham suffer as all do who have very little.’

She had witnessed the slums in St Helier a few times when her father took her and her siblings to deliver food from their church a couple of times around Christmas time. He believed it was a valuable part of their education and had wanted them to see how sheltered their lives were. She had never forgotten it and was grateful to live with her family in their little flat above their shop. She had so much compared to those with very little.

‘I feel rather ungrateful to have moaned about being a shop assistant after hearing about these poor workers in the factories.’

‘You shouldn’t. You’re ambitious, and, as I’ve said, there is nothing at all wrong with that. I don’t want you to form the wrong idea about Nottingham; it does have its slums and overcrowding and occasionally there have been riots.’ Florence gasped at the thought. ‘However, it is a vibrant place, and I do enjoy living there.’ He hurriedly added, ‘That’s not to say I think any less of your island. I only wish I had thought to visit here before now.’

‘At least you’ve discovered it now.’

A silence descended on them and, surprised to be caught without any idea what to say next, Florence stared out of the window. It was disconcerting to not feel in control for once. Wasn’t she the one who always knew what to say? The person her friends relied upon to take the lead when conversation dried up? What was wrong with her that she felt so empty-headed now?

‘It really was very kind of you to come out with me today on your day off,’ he said, breaking the silence and putting her at her ease once more. ‘I hope I didn’t disrupt any other plans you might have had.’

She shook her head. ‘No.’ She usually spent her days off going for a walk to the sea and finding somewhere peaceful to read the latest novel she had chosen from W. H. Rowe. The thought reminded her of the book she must now return to the shop display before her father discovered it was missing.

The train came to a halt and several passengers exited. Florence spotted one of congregation from their Wesleyan chapel stepping onto their carriage and suppressed a groan. She was a particularly nosy woman and Florence suspected that she would stay in their carriage just to find out more about her companion.

‘Good morning, Miss Rowe,’ she said, not looking at her, but at Mr Boot instead. ‘And you’re with a friend today, I see. Sir, I’m Mrs Bisson. We attend the same church in Grove Street.’

Mr Boot stood and doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, Mrs Bisson,’ he said, his tone friendly.

‘Do you mind if I take this seat?’

Florence quickly scanned the rows of empty seats nearby. She wasn’t surprised that the woman was so insensitive, merely disappointed to have their journey interrupted.

‘No, please,’ Mr Boot said politely, giving Florence an apologetic glance. He sat back down, his breath catching slightly as he did so, Florence noticed. ‘Let me introduce myself.’ He took Mrs Bisson’s hand. ‘My name is Mr Jesse Boot. I’m on holiday on the island and Mrs Rowe has kindly offered to show me some of the sights you’re lucky to enjoy here in Jersey.’

She seemed charmed by his friendly way. ‘We are particularly lucky, I’m told. Although I’ve never left the island. Never felt the need.’ She studied him for a few seconds. ‘Will we see you at chapel on Sunday then, Mr Boot? As a guest of Mr and Mrs Rowe?’ she added pointedly. ‘Miss Rowe’s family and mine are practising Wesleyans, which is how we are acquainted.’

His look of surprise when he stared at Florence concerned her. Did he have negative views about their faith? She hoped not.

‘My faith is important to me,’ she said. ‘I know we’re seen as non-conformists in the Protestant church, but it’s all I’ve known, and I believe it’s the right way to worship. I see no reason to change my views.’

‘I hadn’t realised, Miss Rowe,’ he said. ‘I would love to accompany your family on Sunday, if I may, for I, too, am a practising Wesleyan.’

Stunned, Florence opened her mouth to speak, but failed to produce any words. She pressed her lips together, trying to gather herself. ‘Yes, we would be delighted if you would join us,’ she said eventually.

This man was becoming more intriguing and appealing by the minute, she decided. It was confusing to feel such affinity with a man she barely knew. It unnerved her slightly.

‘That is good news,’ Mrs Bisson said. ‘How long are you planning to stay here?’

Florence could see he could not have heard the woman’s question as his eyes were still locked on hers. ‘Mr Boot?’

He blinked several times. ‘Sorry? I, um, was thinking.’

‘I asked—’ Mrs Bisson’s irritation was barely veiled ‘—how long you were planning to stay on the island?’

‘I had initially planned on a fortnight. However, I can see that there is much more to see here than I had assumed on such a small island. I may therefore delay my departure a little.’

Florence could tell Mrs Bisson’s interest had been piqued, so decided to distract her. ‘How is your daughter now?’ Florence asked, aware that by asking this question, the woman would give them chapter and verse about her daughter’s new marriage to a wealthy farmer in St Mary. Hopefully Mrs Bisson’s chatter would last the entire length of her journey, so Mr Boot and she could be left to their own thoughts.

As the woman told her things she had already heard several times, Florence watched the rolling waves as the train moved on. Her instincts told her that meeting the man sitting opposite her had been an important occurrence in her life. She wasn’t sure exactly how it would manifest itself, but something in her changed. For the first time in her life she liked the idea of spending time with someone over the thought of being alone with her books. The thought stunned her … excited her.

Florence realised Mrs Bisson was standing up and that the train had come to a halt. ‘This is my stop,’ the lady said. ‘Well, it has been very pleasant speaking with you, Mr Boot. I do hope you enjoy your time on the island.’

They waved to Miss Bisson through the window as the train moved on.

‘I’m not certain she learnt much about me at all,’ Mr Boot said, smiling.

‘I know, but she’s happy to chatter and tell us all about her family.’

‘You’re a Wesleyan too?’ he asked after a moment’s silence. ‘Jane never mentioned that to me.’

Florence smoothed down a non-existent crease in her skirt. ‘I don’t think it was something we ever discussed,’ she said, thinking it strange that if Jane had been a Methodist, she had not thought to ask Florence which chapel she might attend on Sundays. ‘We were more interested in visiting the library, taking tea at some of the hotels and taking strolls in the countryside.’

‘That sounds like Jane,’ he said thoughtfully.

They sank again into a comfortable silence. It seemed strange to Florence not to feel the need to find something to discuss, but she felt that simply being in each other’s company was pleasant enough. This really was a new experience in many ways.

The train pulled into the station at Grouville. Florence followed Mr Boot, taking his proffered hand as she stepped from the carriage onto the platform.

‘I thought we could stop for a cup of tea before taking a stroll around the area. I would like to take you on to Gorey, with its busy harbour, but the train line doesn’t extend that far. I believe there’s talk about doing so at some point. We could take a carriage if you would like to go there.’

He looked around. ‘This is very pretty. I’m happy to spend time here for now and come back for some refreshment a little later.’

Florence was happy to agree with him. They walked slowly, taking in the warm sea air, neither feeling the need to speak for several moments.

When they were a few feet onto the common, Mr Boot finally asked, ‘Do you enjoy working at Rowe’s? Or is there something else you would rather do?’

She wondered if he was referring to motherhood. Surely not. That would be far too forward a question for anyone to ask her, especially a man of Mr Boot’s standing. To be safe she said, ‘I’m happy at Father’s shop. I love books and now we’ve branched out into art supplies, there’s even more to enjoy and share with our regular customers.’

‘You are very happy there then?’

Florence smiled. ‘Yes, although I wish my father would allow me to arrange the shop a little differently. I’m sure I could make it work better than it does now.’ Embarrassed to be thought of as complaining – or even worse: being disloyal to her father – she quickly added. ‘Not that the shop doesn’t do perfectly well.’ She wondered if what she was saying could be construed as vulgar. ‘Or that Father doesn’t listen to me on occasion. Recently he agreed to let me order a couple of gold pen holders and holiday cards.’

‘Holiday cards?’

‘Yes, post cards.’ She stumbled slightly and he caught her elbow, helping her right herself. ‘Thank you. What I meant to say was that I merely wish for a little more freedom to try out a few new things.’

‘I understand. My mother tended to see me as her child despite my advance in years and experience doing the work.’

She was relieved that he understood what she was trying to convey.

‘Amy mentioned that you were a druggist,’ she said, ‘but you also have quite a few stores. Which work do you prefer?’

He thought for a moment and pausing picked a daisy from the high bank next to them, twirling it round between his right thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. ‘I enjoy the creating of new medicines.’

Her face reddened, aware she had admitted some interest in him. ‘Have you always wanted to do this work?’

He nodded. ‘I have. I inherited this need from my father. He was concerned with helping improve living conditions in the lace market area. He realised that herbal remedies were cheap and over thirty years ago he opened an establishment at Goose Gate in a poor area of the town to provide herbal remedies to those who couldn’t afford to pay for physicians. He learnt from his mother and he passed his knowledge down to me.’

She was fascinated by his story. ‘So, it’s very much a passion of yours then?’

‘It is.’

What an incredible man this was.

He handed the daisy to Florence with a friendly smile. ‘I am ambitious, but I find I am rewarded with much satisfaction by being able to help others.’

As her gloved hands took the daisy from his, the thin stem slipped through her fingers.

‘Oh, I’ve dropped it,’ she said, embarrassed by her clumsiness.

‘No matter, there are many more.’ He reached out to pick another one from the sloped bank, placing the flower in the palm of his other hand and waiting for her to take it.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I love daisies, don’t you? So pretty, yet not at all … what’s the word I’m trying to find.’

‘Ostentatious?’ Mr Boot suggested.

Florence mulled over his suggestion as she gazed at the plain white petals fanning around the egg-yellow middle. ‘Yes, that’s perfect.’

It was hotter than Florence had anticipated, and her corset was uncomfortable. One part of her longed to get back to her bedroom and remove the restrictive garment, but she was also enjoying herself much more than she had imagined.

‘This common has the best view of any I’ve seen,’ Mr Boot said, gazing at the view ahead of them. ‘I presume events are held here at times?’

‘Yes,’ Florence said. ‘There’s horse racing occasionally, and the military come here to carry out training and exercises sometimes.’

‘There’s certainly the space for it.’ They walked on a few more yards. ‘Your father has invited me to dine with your brother and his wife,’ Mr Boot said. ‘It really is very kind of your family to make me feel so welcome. I appreciate it.’

‘We enjoy meeting new people. It gives us something different to discuss in the evenings.’ She was joking, but only a little. ‘Your life seems so different to ours and it fascinates us.’

His step faltered and he widened his eyes. ‘Really? Why so?’

Florence hoped he would not think her forward or talking out of turn by saying such things. Her parents often scolded her for her forthright way of speaking to people they insisted she had no right addressing or giving her opinions to.

‘You come from the mainland and the Midlands at that,’ she said, hoping to show that she had paid attention to what he had been saying. ‘You’re a druggist; that is something unusual in itself. You also run factories and chemists. Not like the small chemist next to Rowe’s at number twenty-nine. It’s diverting for us to think about these things.’

He seemed pleased at her interest. ‘I wanted to build up my business, because I believe that, the larger my business, the more I could buy in bulk and thereby afford to lower costs. I liked the idea of providing health for a shilling, because I believe the health of the poor man or woman is just as important as the health of someone with money.’

His sentiments matched hers completely. How incredible must it feel to be able to develop then produce and sell medicines, and know that products you had made could save your customers’ lives. She struggled not to sound too in awe of him. ‘Your work is very commendable.’ She was painfully aware that she wasn’t vocalising her thoughts as well as she had intended.

‘You’re very kind to say so. Thank you.’

‘Do you produce all the medicines?’

‘No. I was lucky enough last year to be able to open shops in Lincoln and Sheffield and take on my first qualified pharmacist. He is young man, not much older than you, and a marvel who creates and dispenses new medicines to my customers.’

‘I envy him. To think he has the opportunity to work for a progressive man such as yourself.’ Thinking she might have been too forward and spoken out of turn, Florence reddened. ‘I didn’t mean to offend by what I said.’

He patted her arm. ‘No, my dear. I’m fully aware you did not. Nor have you. I am intrigued, and secretly delighted that I am considered interesting to others. It’s not something I have ever presumed to be.’

Mr Boot might be older than her, Florence decided, but, for all his success, he didn’t seem at all judgemental or priggish. She decided that if he asked her, she would agree to meet up with him again.

‘I read that the train line from St Helier to La Corbière was opened earlier this month. Do you think you might consider accompanying me to see the lighthouse there?’

Florence wondered if he had been able to read her thoughts, then shrugged off the notion as nonsense. ‘I would like that very much,’ she admitted. ‘In fact, it’s been a few years since I went there myself.’

‘Good,’ he said, looking, she thought, rather pleased with himself for making the suggestion. ‘Then we shall have to rectify that. What day do you next have time away from work?’

‘Not until Thursday afternoon when we close half-day, I’m afraid.’ She wished she didn’t have to wait so long to spend more time with this interesting man who treated her as an equal despite her younger age and being a woman. ‘However, maybe my father might make an exception as you are on holiday, and let me have time off before then.’

‘I can ask him, if you think he will be more likely to agree?’

She thought that was a splendid idea and said so, trying not to show how excited she was at the prospect, as they continued their stroll to the seafront.

Florence was used to speaking her mind up to an acceptable limit, but for some reason she felt as if she was with a kindred spirit with this man. On the face of it they had very little in common – their ages were not similar, nor were their backgrounds – but there was something about him … something she liked very much.