who ran it. At its apex was the redoubtable dowager Lady Harecroft. Her husband, plain George Hare-croft then, had made his fortune in India where he worked for the British East India Company. Returning with his pockets jingling, he had not only married Lady Caroline Carson, the seventeen-year-old daughter of the Earl of St Albans, but, when Britain’s textile manufacturers forced the end of the East India Company’s monopoly of trade with the subcontinent, had set up Harecroft Importing and Warehousing from premises on the docks, which still belonged to the company and still figured largely in its affairs. Two years later his uncle died without issue and he became the second Baron Harecroft and inherited Borstead Hall near Ascot in Berkshire.
‘Everyone expected him to give up the business and live the life of an aristocrat, but he chose to continue building it up,’ Stephen had told her soon after her arrival. He had overcome his initial shock at her being employed and had assiduously obeyed his great-grandmother’s injunction to help her all he could. ‘I am told it caused no end of gossip, but he was never one to listen to tattle and he was encouraged by my great-grandmother who was, and is, a very unusual woman. Now we have a thriving import-and-export business and several shops besides this one. Great-Grandfather died some years ago and my grandfather took the title. He left the business then to concentrate on the estate where he breeds and trains race horses. My father took over here. One day, the warehouse and shops will be in my hands. Richard, of course, will eventually inherit the title and the estate in Berkshire.’
‘Richard is your brother?’
‘Yes. He is older than me by three years, but he disdains working in the business. He and Papa fell out over it years ago. He was in the army for a time, but now he says he is writing a book, though what it is about I do not know.’
‘Is he married?’
‘No. I do not think he is the marrying kind.’ And then he had abruptly changed the subject, talking about the estate and his grandfather’s love of horses and his great-grandmother, who would be ninety the following month.
That same almost ninety-year-old was even now being helped into the building by a young man Diana supposed was Mr Richard Harecroft. She hurried along the corridor and knocked on her employer’s door. ‘Mr Harecroft,’ she said, when he bade her enter. ‘The Dowager Lady Harecroft has just entered the building. I saw her from my window.’
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed, looking up from the paperwork on his desk. ‘How did she get here?’
‘By carriage, sir. There is a young man with her.’
‘Richard, I’ll be bound. Go down and make sure she is comfortable in the staff dining room. We cannot have her wandering all over the shop. Do not let her attempt to climb the stairs; the last time she did that, it nearly finished her. I will be down directly.’
Diana turned to go downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs was a full-length mirror and she paused long enough to check her appearance. Her grey dress was plain except for a few tucks down the bodice. It had tight sleeves and a high neck as her ladyship had dictated. Her hair had been drawn back under a white cap. She smiled at herself; she had obeyed Lady Harecroft’s instruction to cover her head, but it made her look almost matronly. What she did not realise was that her flawless complexion and neat figure gave the lie to that and her wide intelligent grey eyes made everyone, young and old, want to smile at her in a kind of conspiratorial way as if they knew she was playing a part.
‘Peaches and cream,’ her father had said, when he was in one of his more affable moods. ‘Just like your mother.’ Her mother had been slightly taller and her hair had been dark, but Diana was like her in other ways, intelligent, doggedly determined not to be beaten and sympathetic to other people’s problems without being soft. She had fitted into Harecroft’s well and though her male colleagues had been wary at first, most had come to accept her and sometimes brought their troubles to her sympathetic ear. Even Mr Stephen Harecroft.
She could not make up her mind about him. It had not taken her long to realise that Stephen idolised his father and would do anything to please him. At first he had talked to her about her work, but then they had gone on to speak of other things: what was happening in the world outside the business; the coming coronation of Queen Victoria, which had the whole country in a ferment of excitement; the recent publication of a People’s Charter, which had the nation split down the middle; the great technological advances being made; music, literature, the things they liked and disliked. Their little talks led to strolls in the park on a Saturday afternoon after work had finished for the day, and the occasional visit to a concert or a lecture. Only the day before he had asked her to accompany him to a Grand Ball to be held at Almack’s the evening following the coronation.
Was he just being kind or was he seriously courting her? Flattered as she was, she could not think of marriage while her father needed her. He had been much better of late and she was hopeful he was over the worst, but she was still careful not to give him any cause to relapse. One day she hoped they might move out of the shabby rooms they now occupied into something better; in the meantime, her address and her father’s affliction were secrets she guarded carefully. If Mr Harecroft were to learn about either, she was quite sure his attitude towards her would change; he might even find the excuse he needed to dismiss her. She must find a way to discourage young Mr Harecroft, meanwhile, there was his great-grandmother to deal with.
She found the old lady sitting in a gilded chair in the front of the shop, surrounded by fabrics, talking to Stephen. There was no sign of Richard. It appeared he had done as he had the year before: brought the old lady and left her.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Harecroft,’ Diana said.
The old lady turned to survey her, a wry smile lighting her features. ‘Good afternoon, young lady. Have you come to keep me in order?’
‘Oh, no, my lady. Mr Harecroft senior bade me greet you and make you comfortable in the staff dining room. He will join you directly.’
Her ladyship chuckled. ‘And I am to be prevented from wandering all over the shop, is that not so?’
‘My lady?’
‘Oh, you do not need to answer me. I know my grandson. But tell me, what do you think of this silk?’ She plucked at a length of the material to show Diana.
‘It is very fine.’
‘That may be so, but is it worth the exorbitant price I believe was paid for it?’
Diana was in a quandary. The desire to give an honest opinion did battle with her need to be diplomatic and she strove to find an answer that would satisfy both. ‘I think it might be a little overpriced, my lady, but in today’s market, with everyone vying to be seen to advantage for the coronation, it is selling well.’
‘Exactly what I said,’ Stephen put in.
The old lady smiled and pulled herself to her feet. ‘Escort me, Miss Bywater. We can have a little chat before my grandson joins us.’ She took Diana’s arm and together they made their way to a small room at the back of the ground floor that had been set aside for the staff to eat the mid-day meal they brought with them. It also had a fireplace and facilities for making tea. Once her ladyship had been seated, Diana set the kettle on the fire and stirred the embers to make it blaze.
‘How do you like working for Harecroft’s, Miss Bywater?’
‘Very much. I am grateful to you for affording me the opportunity to do something interesting.’
‘My grandson tells me you are quick to learn.’
‘I try to be.’
‘And Stephen sings your praises constantly.’
‘Does he?’ The kettle boiled and Diana used the distraction of making tea to cover her confusion. What had Stephen been saying? ‘My lady, I hope you do not think I have set out to…’ She stumbled over what she wanted to say.
‘No, of course not. Ah, here is John.’ She turned to her grandson. ‘John, you are paying far too much for your silk these days.’
‘It