The Making of Rose Glace: Victorian Orphans series, #1

By Susan Leona Fisher

In 1897 orphan Rose Turner revisits Exeter, the city of her birth. A chance meeting inspires her to find a way to better her life and escape the drudgery for which she's been trained. She also learns the truth of her family's death in a tragic fire ten years before. Back in London she enrols at a cookery school and becomes a key member of the team hired out to grand houses to cater for important guests, for she has a particular talent with ice-cream. At several of these she encounters George Kemble, self-made businessman, in line to succeed to the Duke of Fairleigh's title, should he meet the Duke's exacting conditions. Rose inadvertently finds herself trapped aboard a cargo ship heading for the Cape. Not only is it one of the Kemble Shipping Line fleet, but the owner himself is on board. Discovered by him, she bargains for her liberty and agrees to his terms but later, unknown to him, avoids carrying them out. After some adventures of his own, George at last realises her deception and this time his demand for recompense takes an entirely unexpected form.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Jan 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201090760

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

Book preview

Prologue

September 1887, Exeter

Rose wasn’t sure what had woken her. She lay in the dark hearing the gentle breathing of the three other girls in the room. Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed. She listened hard, but there were no other sounds. Surely she’d hear if there were. She strained her ears and thought she could make out some quiet talking from downstairs. Then a door slammed, maybe the front door. It couldn’t be Mum and Dad come to fetch her, because they’d told her they’d be very late home. Aunt Lily, who wasn’t really a relative at all, had said she didn’t mind if Rose stayed the night. Rose had been seriously displeased.

But it’s my birthday tomorrow, and I want to wake up in my own bed! she’d protested.

There, poppet, her dad had said, patting her on the head and bending down so his warm brown eyes met hers. It was just like looking in a mirror, for hers were the same. Mrs. Potter’s bound to make a fuss of you at school. I’m sure the whole class’ll sing you happy birthday. I’ll get home early, then we can all share that special cake your mum’s baked. Now how many candles was it we’re supposed to light?

You know it’s eight, Rose told him. It’s not fair. Why can’t I go to see the play? Lots of other children are.

Mostly older than you, big sister Lisa said in her bossy voice. She was nineteen, and out at work. We’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Come on, pet, her mum said then. Time to walk round to Aunt Lily’s. Got your school books and your bag with your uniform? Good girl.

I must get ready, Lisa announced, already two strides up the narrow staircase. Bye, Rosie love, see you tomorrow.

Her dad had been standing in front of her, still in his work overalls, spattered with various colours of paint. Come and give your dad a hug. Don’t be cross with me for only getting the four tickets.

Rose had stood her ground, and mum had given her one of those looks as she pulled open the door onto the street.

You’ll give Dad a birthday hug tomorrow, won’t you Rose?

I’ll think about it, Rose had informed them as she picked up her bag and marched out, not looking at anyone. They’d only gone a few steps when a shout came from an upper window of the house. Rose and her mum both turned. It was Bobby.

Bye, Rosie girl, see you tomorrow, he called out. Rose ignored him and set off walking again, her mum quickly falling into step beside her.

Oh, Rose, she said.

The rest of the short walk from their house on Coombe Street over to the long brick terrace that made up Frog Street was accomplished in silence, at least on Rose’s part. Her mum, seeing how the land lay, soon gave up trying to engage her in conversation. They reached Aunt Lily’s, a similar small house to their own. The main difference was they were only five—Mum, Dad, Lisa, Bobby, and her—while Aunt Lily had ten children, so it was a bit of a squash for them.

Thanks so much for having her to stay, Lily, her mum had said, as she handed over a basket of groceries. She often did that for Aunt Lily. Rose had already eaten her tea, but she guessed it wouldn’t be long before the contents got consumed. Everyone in Lily’s family was thin and shabbily clothed. No matter how difficult you think life is, there’s always someone else worse off, was one of Mum’s sayings.

Rose’s family did better than most, for Bobby was learning the painting trade with Dad, and Mum did a little cleaning, so with Lisa’s shop work they had four wages coming into the household. Aunt Lily’s husband was in and out of work quite a lot, and they were always behind with the rent. One of their sons was friendly with Bobby, who’d joked one day that his friend’s dad drank most of what he earned, but Rose didn’t really understand what he meant. After all, you couldn’t drink pennies. That didn’t sound funny at all. One thing was sure, they couldn’t ever afford things like visits to the theatre.

Now she’d woken, Rose simply couldn’t get back to sleep. Her head wouldn’t stop its thinking. She lay with her eyes wide open, staring into the blackness and found she could distinguish the stripy outline of the metal bed frame and the dark oblong shape of the cupboard against the wall. Was morning coming already? She yawned and stretched a bit. It didn’t feel like time to get up. Maybe she’d just woken early because she was so excited about her birthday. There was a special present waiting for her at home. She’d heard Mum whispering about it with Lisa.

The room grew lighter still now. Through the thin curtain came a faint orange glow. She pushed back the covers, climbed down and crept to the window. Peeling back a corner of the curtain, she stood on tip-toe to see. The whole of the sky glowed with the same orange, and there were people in the street, some coming from the direction of the sunrise-like light, others hurrying towards it. She sniffed the cool air coming through the badly fitting window. It smelt of bonfires like they’d had when they celebrated the Queen’s golden jubilee three months ago, with all the fireworks and those Chinese lanterns in all the pretty colours. The other girls still hadn’t woken. Shivering, she crept back to bed, but didn’t get any more sleep. Something was wrong, she just knew it.

1 : Another Jubilee

June 1897, London

Oh, there you are Rose! I’ve found you at last. When you said meet at the bottom of Whitehall, I never thought so many other people would be doing the same!

Hello, Gladys. Rose gave her friend a hug. I like your outfit.

Gladys had on a dress she’d never be allowed to wear to work, but it did show up her shapely figure. Rose wouldn’t dare to wear anything so low-cut herself, but she didn’t have quite as much to show off as her friend.

I get provided with a uniform and everything where I work, Gladys said. That’s why I like me days off so much. I can dress up in what I want. And what do you think of me new shoes? She lifted her skirt to reveal a smart pair of patent leather court shoes, and turned one foot to show Rose the heel. Makes me two inches taller—and don’t I need it!

Gladys always managed to get nice things, though not always new, mind you. Rose felt quite drab beside her. At least the old cotton frock she had on was cool, and Cook had found her a pretty flower to fix on her straw hat.

Looks like the whole country’s been given the day off work, wouldn’t you think? she commented, as she gazed round at the crowd.

Reckon you’re right, ’cept the poor tram drivers, of course. Gladys linked her arm through Rose’s. We’d best hang onto each other in this crowd. She gave a little nod. Know what I think? It’s going to be ages before the procession starts, so we’ve plenty of time. Someone said the best views will be along the edge of Green Park. Shall we walk there now and nab a good spot?

Good idea. Anything to get away from this squash! Rose agreed, and so they set off.

Reckon we’re gonna be on our feet all day, Gladys commented.

No different to any other day then. I don’t know about you, but working at the Stephensons, I’m always fetching and carrying up and down stairs. More often than not, I’m the one sent to the market for something or other that’s been forgotten. She paused and lifted one foot behind her, craning her neck to inspect the sole. I’ll need this pair re-soled and heeled soon. Look, it’s almost worn through already. Good thing it’s a dry day. For a moment Rose heard her mum’s voice in her head. Don’t moan about what you’ve not got, smile about what you have.

We’re lucky to have work, really, she reflected, deliberately changing the subject.

Given the awful place where we grew up, you mean? Gladys gave a disdainful sniff.

They rarely discussed their shared past, since they had rather different viewpoints on it. Rose had quite liked the security and predictability of their strictly organised days at the Stockton Hill Orphan Working School, and had fitted in well for the eight years she’d been there. Gladys, on the other hand was quite a rebel. The staff were surprised they’d become such firm friends—so was Rose when she thought about it. As usual, she sprang into defending mode.

I know it wasn’t quite the same as going to some exclusive girls’ college, but at least we were taught to read and write and add up.

And talk proper. You sound like quite a lady sometimes, Rose.

It was playing in those dramas at the orphanage, I suppose. I really enjoyed pretending to be someone important and special and beautiful.

Mm, yes... Gladys murmured, not really listening, craning her neck to see which way to turn next.

Neither of them spoke while they concentrated on steering a course through the crowds going in every direction. Even though they were both in domestic service, Gladys was in a much grander establishment. Her employer, Sir Charles Phillips, was a wealthy architect who lived in Highgate, in an imposing mansion that he’d designed himself.

Mr. Stephenson was just a lawyer. His tall yet modest house in Islington accommodated a cook-housekeeper and Rose, who did just about everything else, including a lot of stairs. When that nice Miss White had told Rose about the post she’d found for her, she’d said, You’ll be much better off in a smaller, quieter establishment, Rose. Those grand houses can be quite overwhelming. That might be true, but Rose was curious as to what it would be like to work in one. She’d only seen the outside of the Phillips’ residence when she met Gladys there once. It had two sets of gates on either side of a crescent-shaped drive. There were wide stone steps up to the grand double front doors, framed by stone columns, and lots of tall arched windows along the front. She imagined the inside must be quite luxurious. Gladys wasn’t permitted any callers. None of the staff was.

Rose? Gladys said.

At the wistful sound of her name, Rose glanced at her friend and wondered what could have caused her furrowed brow. Yes, Glad?

Do you ever think much about your family?

I used to, but it made me so sad, I decided there was no point. That sounds harsh, I suppose, but I’ve learned to do without them.

At least you can remember them if you want to. I can’t remember my dad at all, and my mum is just a vague picture in my head, a blank face really. I know she had curly yellow hair. Gladys had been at the orphanage a few years longer than Rose. Rose not only had more years of memories, she also had her special photograph taken of them all together a few months before they died. Gladys’s eyes were brimming with tears and Rose caught hold of her hand. It was hard, seeing all those mums and dads walking along with their excited children.

But just think, Glad, we’d never have met or become friends if things hadn’t been like they were.

They’d reached the railing that edged the park, and the crowd was already several people deep. There was not a pitch to be had next to the railings themselves. Gladys let go of Rose and stood arms akimbo surveying the solid wall of chattering people all eager for a view of the parade. She seemed to have recovered from her maudlin reminiscing, and now took on the challenge of just how they were to get to see anything of this special occasion.

Oh bother! It’s all right for you, Rose, but I’m too short to see over anyone’s shoulder. Gladys gave Rose a wink. I know. Come on, just along here. She linked their arms, and led her determinedly in the direction of two young men who’d secured a vantage point right next to the railings. Gladys was not only quite petite, she was very shapely and had a head of blonde curls, presumably inherited from her mum. Today she had a little pill box hat perched on top and looked very pretty. She was also considerably bolder than Rose.

She coughed loudly, and both young men turned.

The taller doffed his cap and smiled. Good morning, ladies. Come to watch the big procession?

Gladys gave him a sunny smile. Hello, lads. Well, chance would be a fine thing, I say. You’ve staked a nice position. Up early were yer?

We were that, the young man continued. On purpose to save a place for you. They parted to allow Rose and Gladys to stand in front of them, to envious looks from some other young women trying to get a view.

That’s very civil of you I’m sure, Gladys said.

My pleasure, miss, and I’m not too sure I’ll be bothering to look at the procession all of the time. They couldn’t be much older than sixteen or seventeen, Rose thought, and already adept at flirting with the girls.

Saucy, Gladys retorted. I’m Glad.

So am I, came the quick reply.

No, I’m Gladys, Glad for short. This is my friend Rose.

I’m Pete and this is Bobby, the talkative lad told them. Gladys was in her element, while Rose felt quite uncomfortable. She couldn’t help it. Bobby actually looked a little like her brother, who should be twenty-six now but would forever be sixteen in her memory. Her own Bobby, to whom she’d not even said goodbye that last time he called out to her.

Do you live in London? Bobby asked, or have you travelled in specially?

Oh, no, we’re both Londoners, Gladys told them, and proceeded to describe the grand mansion where she worked.

* * * *

It was taking longer than usual for George Kemble to reach his office, the problem being that most of the population of the East End was going in the opposite direction. It was rather like trying to climb a staircase while hundreds of people were rushing down it, or swimming against the tide. He smiled to himself as he turned sideways to avoid another set of broad shoulders. That was right enough. He’d gone against convention most of his life. He was certainly no royalist, but for the second time in ten years, most of the population had decided they were. Their reward was a day off work spent waving flags and participating in sports activities. The population of the capital could also witness a grand procession of carriages and heads of state. For children, there was a lesson-free day and a special tea at school. He’d contributed to one of them, at the elementary school round the corner from his headquarters near the docks. One of the crowd, a man in workman’s boots and overalls, caught his expression and smiled back, doffing his cap.

Not going to the procession, sir? the man asked George, who shook his head.

No time, he responded as the man was swept past him. No time for anything but work these days. That was the cost of running your own business, along with the accompanying challenges, the latest of which was the impending engineers’ strike. It would prove a major headache, not only on the manufacturing side, but in the maintenance of the refrigeration equipment that made up his business, both at sea and on land. This morning’s meeting with his managers would be a vital step in planning how they would cope if the stoppage went on for any length of time. All but a handful of his workers were union members. He encouraged it, and himself belonged to the employers’ federation. Collective bargaining and uniformity of employment policies made for a stable workforce.

It was gone half-past eight when he reached the main door. At least it had been opened up, and the guard, Jack Cooper, was already on duty, a reliable man George had met in the merchant navy years ago. Too old to sail now, Jack relished a job that gave him fresh air and kept him on his feet most of the day. He also liked the nautical cap with the Kemble Enterprises logo on the band that formed part of his uniform. He lifted it now to greet the boss.

Morning, Jack, George responded. Mr. Roberts arrived yet?

Five minutes ahead of you, Mr. Kemble. Don’t think many others intend going to work today.

You’re right. Will you be going to see the parade yourself? We’ll be closing down by lunch time and letting everyone go early.

Oh, aye, me and the missus’ll be taking the grandchildren along. Excited they are, when I told them ’bout the last one. They weren’t even born then, of course.

Well, enjoy it. George bounded up the three wide steps into the cool of the lobby.

The building had been a small warehouse, but he’d converted it five years ago to serve the entire administration of Kemble Enterprises. The shipping office was on the ground floor, the cold storage section above it, with engineering above that. The top floor housed his personal executive offices at one end, while the other was still quite derelict. He’d had some idea of developing a residential apartment there for himself, but for now he continued to rent a small flat. It was half an hour’s walk away, near Southwark Bridge. That gave him the daily exercise of walking here, about all the physical activity he had these days, apart from taking the stairs to his office instead of using the lift.

Automatically he took his stopwatch from the pocket of his waistcoat, a brightly flamboyant item of clothing which matched neither the trousers below nor the jacket held limply in one hand, already jettisoned for the coming warmth of the day. He took a deep breath, pressed the button and set off, taking two steps at a time. The ceilings were high, and it took two flights of twelve steps to go up each floor. He stopped at the top, chest heaving for breath, his heart pumping fast, and pressed the button again. Forty-two seconds. Not his best, but quite good for a warm morning, with his jacket flapping from one hand.

Harold Roberts was already at his desk. Calm, organised, unflappable, the man was in many ways George’s alter ego, which was largely why George had appointed him his personal assistant and secretary over six years ago. He was worthy of being a business partner, in truth, but the man was modest in his ambitions and had resisted any change in his title or role. George had persuaded him to accept annual bonuses in the form of company shares, and his future retirement, whenever that might be, would be set fair. George hoped it would be some time before that milestone was reached, for he wondered just how he could do without the man. Harold, at fifty-two, was twenty years’ George’s senior, so it wouldn’t be forever.

Morning, Harold, anything we need to cover before the meeting? I take it they’re all coming in?

Yes, sir. I assured them they’d be free by the afternoon so they can see some of the festivities.

George nodded. What about you? Going along?

I’d rather stay in peace and quiet and type up the notes of the meeting. I’m not one for crowds. Elsie’ll be watching it all. She was out even earlier than me to get a good position. Went with the neighbour. She’ll tell me all about it.

It was Harold’s role to minute all official meetings and file the records, a task at which he was extremely efficient. He worked long hours, certainly a good deal longer than the forty-eight-hour week the engineers were apparently going to push for, and his long-suffering wife had learned to be quite independent. Perhaps it would have been different had they been blessed with children, but in many ways, George’s blossoming business had become Harold’s baby as much as George’s own creation. Harold had been with him from the first registration of the shipping line and alongside him as the other ventures developed.

The other thing George appreciated was the way Harold used his time. He had a way of scheduling various tasks so they flowed seamlessly along in his day’s work. George liked to organise his time in that way too, so once he entered his office his day was mapped out for him and he rarely had an idle or a wasted moment. He therefore found the walk to and from the office helpful, for it gave him useful thinking time.

Lately he’d been reconsidering his relationship with a certain lady, an actress. Last week he’d found another man in Collette’s dressing room, in a situation that told him he was assuredly not her only lover. Given her reputation, he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d considered his position for a few days, and then yesterday wrote a note to the lady ending the relationship for good. It had been going no-where, and his immediate feeling had been one of relief, rapidly followed by one of frustration. What would he do for his comfort now?

The meeting was due to start at nine. George doubted Harold did much in the household catering line in his own home, but he did have a talent for making their morning coffee. He was preparing it now in the small kitchen adjoining his office, a blend of high quality beans they  themselves shipped from South America. It was strong and George only took one cup, which set him up for the day.

Harold brought it through now and placed it on the desk. Here we are, sir. And there’s one letter I didn’t take the liberty of opening, as it’s marked Personal and Confidential.

Thanks, Harold. George took his first welcome sip of the black brew. Curious, he picked up the long manila envelope and studied it. Postmarked from central London. He slit it open with his silver letter-opener—a gift from a former lover, his one exception to the rule of not associating with married society ladies.

Ironically, as she’d placed it in his hands to celebrate the opening of his shipping line, she’d told him, You’ll never use this to open a missive from me, for I shall never write to you, but at least I’ll know you might think of me in the course of your busy day at work and even long after we have said goodbye. Her husband had other reasons than the written word to suspect her faithlessness, and George had broken things off before his identity could be discovered. That was years ago now, and he made daily use of the implement without giving her a thought. It was perhaps his current situation that called her to mind. It had been very good while it lasted. Several successors had followed his own liaison with the lady, and one of them was currently being cited by the husband in the divorce courts.

From the envelope, George withdrew a single folded sheet. Ironically, given where his thoughts had just been, it was from a lawyer.

Dear Mr. Kemble

I write on behalf of my client Edward, Eighth Duke of Fairleigh, to ask your indulgence. His Grace the Duke, would be grateful if you could wait upon him on Monday, June 28th, at the hour of ten o’clock at his residence, Fairleigh Hall, Surrey.

I will also be present at the meeting and would be grateful if you could confirm with my office your attendance.

I remain your obedient servant,

Arnold Hickstead (Attorney-at-Law)

How very strange. George was aware that various old landed gentry, in hard times, were seeking investments by which to profit and maintain their large houses and extravagant life-styles. He knew nothing of this particular duke, other than it was an old title going back several hundred years. He’d better go, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

Taking the letter into the next room, he gave it to Harold. Could you draft a brief response to confirm I will attend? Thank you.

* * * *

If I never see another horse or carriage or guardsman, or hear another brass band, Gladys announced, I think I can safely say it will be no loss.

It did go on quite a lot, didn’t it? Rose agreed. What shall we do now?

The crowd was rapidly dispersing to the various other events on offer. Their two gallant young men had also made their goodbyes and departed.

Let’s find somewhere for tea, if there’s anywhere to be had. Regent’s Park, maybe? I’ve got to be back at the Phillips for the evening meal, so it’ll be on the way for me. What about you?

Oh, no hurry, I’ve got the evening off. Shame you haven’t, or we could have gone to a concert or something. Rose didn’t add that she’d actually been given the whole of tomorrow off as well. But in the back of her mind something must have been going on. Perhaps all this memorial activity had caused it, hearing people comparing today’s events with ten years ago. Ten years ago was another anniversary for her, the year when the rest of her family died. Back then, she’d spent the week following their deaths staying with Aunt Lily before being brought to London for the free orphanage place Stockton Hill had offered. She’d been thought a suitable candidate, having no remaining family in the Exeter area or anywhere else. So she’d become a Londoner.

She knew nothing about her family’s demise, only that they’d never returned from their theatre visit that night. Some kind of accident she’d been told. Well, she would visit Exeter to mark the tenth anniversary of their passing. Maybe there were graves where she could place some flowers. So many trains were being laid on because of the Jubilee. She’d take a late night one tonight and spend tomorrow in the city of her birth before returning to London tomorrow night. Gladys was too busy looking at all the other people to notice Rose’s pre-occupation.

Oh, look, Rose. They’re selling ice-creams over there. It’s that hot, I’ll treat you to one, come on. Gladys led them to the queue at one of the vending carts. They never did get to have tea at the tea house, for the queue there was even longer and Gladys ran out of time.

After saying goodbye, Rose walked to Paddington Station and bought an evening paper to while away the hours till her train, which was after midnight. There were several columns describing the Jubilee celebrations, and she was fascinated by the detailed menu given for a royal banquet which had taken place that evening. It was largely in French and she didn’t understand most of it, except one or two things she could work out.

Potages must be soup, being the first course. Poissons must be fish, as whitebait was mentioned. Other phrases were so close to the English she could work them out, like Norwegian fillet of salmon, or they were in English, like cold beef salad. What a far cry from the plain cooking she’d been taught at the orphanage, and all that was really required of Cook at the Stephenson house. What must it be like to work in a kitchen with such exotic names for the dishes, and