The Bonbon Girl

‘Quiet, girl,’ Peder ordered.

‘Quite, Carne. Now,’ he said turning to Colenso. ‘I’m in charge here and do not recollect giving you permission to remove anything from the premises.’ The eyes that surveyed her were as grey and forbidding as the granite cliffs. Clearly grey was his colour, she thought and would have laughed if her stomach wasn’t tying itself into knots. ‘The first thing I did when I arrived was to have all the materials checked, and it would appear there are quantities unaccounted for. Now, empty out your basket,’ he ordered, gesturing to the space in front of him. Colenso looked at her father, who shrugged. Slowly she placed the small sack of cuttings she’d collected on Saturday, plus brooches and buttons she’d recently fashioned, on the desk before him.

‘As you can see, there are only a few offcuts and trinkets …’ her father began.

‘You can go about your work now, Carne,’ Fenton cut in. ‘An important order needs shipping out tonight so you’d better look sharp. You don’t want your wages docked more than necessary, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, sir. No, sir,’ Peder stuttered. Three bags full, sir, Colenso thought as he hurried from the room like a schoolboy anxious to please his teacher.

Once the door had closed behind him, Henry Fenton sat back in his seat and studied Colenso thoughtfully.

‘Tell me a bit about yourself, my dear,’ he said, his voice softer now. Colenso frowned, suspicious at the change in his demeanour.

‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’ he asked.

‘Um, five, sir.’

‘Five?’ he repeated incredulously.

‘Well, two brothers living and three sisters in the churchyard.’

‘Your sisters live in the churchyard?’ he asked, his brows rising.

‘Yes, sir, two were born dead and one lived for six months.’

‘Oh, I see. And you live at home with your parents and brothers?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, wondering where this was leading.

‘How old are you, Miss Carne?’

‘Seventeen but I don’t think …’ she began, but he continued speaking.

‘I expect a handsome young lady like yourself has many followers?’ he asked, nose twitching as he looked her over like she was a prize filly. Buxom she might be but handsome? Was he having a laugh at her expense? But that gleam sparked in his eyes again, making her shiver.

‘Only the one,’ she mumbled.

‘Goodness, the young men around here must be blind,’ he exclaimed, leaning forward and picking up one of the trinkets she’d fashioned. As he did so, she noticed a shiny spot on the top of his head. Why, he was going bald, she thought, stifling a giggle.

‘You find all this amusing, Miss Carne?’ he asked brusquely, his eyes turning hard again.

‘No, sir, I’m just feeling a bit faint, having been stood outside in the cold for so long.’

Impatiently he gestured for her to take a seat. Her eyes widened in surprise but she did as he bade.

‘I see some of these have been turned – and expertly too,’ he said, studying a rounded stone fashioned into a brooch. ‘Tell me, are you a marble turner perchance?’ His lips curled into one of his sneers and she knew he was mocking her.

‘No, sir, but you …’

‘So presumably you have help from one,’ he cut in. ‘And presumably that person is employed here at the works?’ He turned his penetrating gaze upon Colenso but determined not to give anything away, she didn’t reply.

‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Well, Miss Carne, you should be aware that as manager, I will make it my business to find out everything about the people employed here. In the meantime, perhaps you’d tell me what you do with these, er, trinkets,’ Fenton asked.

‘Sell them to the tourists,’ she murmured.

‘Indeed. And do these tourists pay well?’ he asked, sitting back in his chair and eyeing her speculatively.

‘Quite well, sir,’ Colenso replied, not sure where this new line of questioning was leading.

‘And tell me, Miss Carne, how much of the sale price you receive do you give back to the works?’

‘Give back?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, it stands to reason that if you sell property belonging to Poltesco then any profit should be given back, should it not?’

‘But they are only odd cuttings you would otherwise dispose of,’ she sputtered, her nails biting into her hand as she strove to keep calm.

‘Cut offs, cuttings, edges, edgings, what’s in a word?’ he shrugged. Then he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. ‘The fact remains that you have been taking materials that belong to the works here. Works that I am now managing, Miss Carne.’

‘But I was given permission to take them,’ she protested, rising to her feet.

‘Not by me, you weren’t. As far as I’m concerned, you have taken property that doesn’t belong to you. Worse, you have been profiteering from it. The question is, what am I to do about it?’ he asked. There was something about the way he was studying her, almost as if he was assessing her, that made her feel increasingly uneasy.

‘I don’t like the word profiteering, sir,’ she protested, endeavouring to keep her voice steady.

‘Nor do I, Miss Carne, and I shall have to give serious thought to the matter. Be on your way. You’ll hear from me further when I have decided what action to take.’

‘Action?’ she cried.

‘Indeed,’ he agreed, that gleam sparking in his eyes as he once again addressed her chest. Angrily she began to collect up the cuttings and trinkets, only for him to shake his head.

‘Leave those here where they belong,’ he added, before waving her away. Remembering the long hours she’d toiled polishing the rock until it gleamed with colour, she opened her mouth to protest, but he’d already turned back to the papers on his desk.

Feeling sick to the stomach, Colenso left the office, instinctively heading for the workshop. Then fearful that Ferret Fenton might be watching, she veered sharply towards the track. It wouldn’t do to get Kitto into trouble. Besides, it was Monday, the day she helped Emily Tucker with her sewing and she couldn’t let the old lady down. At least the work would be indoors, she thought. Like most women in the village, she was adept at juggling different jobs to earn a few extra pence, only knowing what day of the week it was by where she was meant to be.

As experienced dressmakers, Emily and Clara had built up a thriving business visiting ladies in their houses and measuring them for their new clothes. Sadly, Clara had recently succumbed to influenza, leaving Emily snowed under with unfinished orders. Knowing Colenso to be a dab hand with the needle, her mamm had offered her services in return for a few shillings and offcuts of material. Offcuts, the word kept sounding in her head as she sped down the lanes of Ruan. How dare that horrid man Fenton accuse her of stealing.

By the time she let herself into Emily’s stone cottage with its thatched roof badly in need of repair, Colenso was red with rage. The front room that best got the light had been turned into a sewing room, and Emily, silver tendrils escaping her bun, and customary tape around her neck, was already about her work, a roll of crêpe cloth on the stool beside her. She looked up from a swathe of black serge spread out on the table in front of her.

‘Ah, there yer are, Colenso. I thought yer weren’t coming,’ she muttered through a mouthful of pins.

‘I’m sorry but I had to …’ Colenso began.

‘Tell me later, lover. Got a new order, as if I haven’t enough already,’ she moaned good-naturedly. ‘Lady Carwell’s mother died at the weekend and I’ve been commissioned to make her mourning outfits. Her driver is calling for them later today so if yer can sew a veil to the back of that whilst I finish here that would be grand,’ she said, waving her hand towards a fur hat on the dresser that was somehow squeezed into the corner of the room.

‘Everyone wants things yesterday,’ Colenso grumbled, still out of sorts after her visit with Fenton.

‘Well, the poor woman didn’t ask to die,’ Emily replied with a reproving look.