Diary of a Shopkeeper, 19th November

Cloak choices for the Victorian lady. Bottom right fits Margaret’s description best.

There follows the sixth installment of the Victorian journal of Margaret Kirkness, cofounder of our family business. If you have not yet read the story of this document’s discovery, I suggest you do so before proceeding. At the end of the previous transcription, the family’s young servant girl, Mary Harcus, had told of witnessing a mysterious ‘grand lady’ arguing with James Kirkness’s granny, shortly before her sudden death.

The cathedral bell has just struck midnight. It’s long past time I should have retired. Especially as we have the funeral of dear Granny Groatie to get through tomorrow – or rather today. Yet my agitation is such that sleep is impossible. Perhaps if I set down an account of this evening’s remarkable happenings I will feel some repose.

The thundering on the apartment door was still echoing, when we heard the handle turn. James and Andrew both leapt to their feet, and I instinctively gathered the younger children into my arms. But it was young Mary who bravely left the parlour to perform her duty in welcoming a visitor. An instant later she was back with eyes as big as ashets and a look of fear on her face. This was no friend come calling.

‘It’s her,’ hissed Mary.

A tall figure, wearing a black velvet cloak and a fur-trimmed polonaise dress, loomed in the doorway. Steely eyes examined us imperiously over a hawkish nose. Something in her manner compelled me to curtsey slightly, and I blurted out, ‘Mary, draw out a chair for our guest.’

The lady stilled the girl with a gesture of her black-gloved hand. ‘I am not your guest,’ she said, ‘and I do not intend to remain in your little home for long. Not while you are in it, at least.’

James gathered himself, and addressed her. ‘If you are not our guest, pray tell who you are, and what you want with us at this late hour.’

‘I am,’ she said, ‘Henrietta, Countess of Culsh. And I am here on an issue of law.’ I gasped. She turned her stern gaze on me. ‘This is a matter for the head of the household,’ she said. ‘You may leave.’

‘My wife remains,’ said James. (I was going to stay anyway.)

The countess inclined her head, albeit with a sneer on her lips. ‘First, Mr Kirkness, condolences on the passing of your aged relation.’ Her icy tone did not exude natural sympathy. ‘I must tell you I have lately been in correspondence with Mrs Groatie. Shortly before her demise she agreed to sell both this premises and the shop immediately below to me.’

James is a man who rarely angers, but now I saw his brow tighten and his moustache twitch.

‘That,’ he growled, ‘is not something my grandmother would ever countenance. She and my grandfather worked all their lives to improve their lot, and own their own property. And they succeeded – though my grandfather did not live long to enjoy it, after his return from Hudson’s Bay. My poor granny’s wish became that her family should reap the benefits of her and her husband’s hard work.’ He looked the lady in the eye. ‘That is how we do things here,’ he said.

She regarded him coldly. ‘It’s a pretty idea,’ she replied. ‘But it hardly stands up…to this.’ From inside her cloak she pulled a document of stiff yellow paper. She brandished it in front of us.

Andrew spoke for the first time: ‘Why would a fine lady like you want to work in a shop?’ he said.

‘Really?’ She gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Young man, it’s not for the likes of me to stand behind a counter wearing an apron.’

‘It’s an honest trade,’ said James.

‘Indeed, honesty is a virtue,’ she said. ‘And if you truly believe in it, you will follow the laws of the land and get your family and all your goods and chattels out of this building by noon tomorrow.’

A stunned silence gripped us all. From behind the countess’s skirts a servant boy in a faded uniform peered. ‘That’s ye tellt, ye feels,’ he piped up.

‘Silence!’ she ordered, in a stentorian bellow.

‘But what about the shop?’ I said. ‘We have customers. We have orders to fulfill.’

‘We have Granny’s funeral tomorrow,’ said James, grimly.

‘I am not without a heart,’ she said. ‘Given the interment, I am willing to put back your eviction until 5pm. As for the shop, it will cease to trade the moment I take possession. Both it and this apartment are to be converted into accommodation for summer visitors.’ She paused, and wrapped the cloak thickly about her. ‘The demand from superior people for fishing, shooting and viewing curious antiquities is considerable,’ she continued. ‘I already possess a number of converted croft houses in the countryside around Balmoral. Soon all of Broad Street will be similarly occupied – under my ownership.’

With that she turned on her heel, and left us, desolated.

To be continued.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 22nd November 2023. A new one appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.