Some Veil Did Fall Page 2

  Becky shook her head. ‘’S’okay,’ she said. ‘Victoria sponge is fine too.’

  ‘Er – make that two slices of cake, Lucy?’ said Jon.

  Becky saw him blush and smiled to herself. She considered adding greedy to her Jon list, but her thoughts were interrupted as he shoved two paper cups into her hands.

  ‘Can you manage these?’ he asked. ‘I’ll take the food.’

  Becky turned to the girl behind the counter. ‘Do you have a cup holder?’ she asked. The girl smiled and passed one over the counter. Becky pushed the cups into the cardboard holes and looked at Jon. ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘Come on, this way.’

  They pushed through the door of the café and walked towards Jon’s studio, Becky balancing the cup holder and inhaling the warm steam as it drifted out of the lid. Jon turned up a side street and waited for Becky to follow him. Then he walked halfway up and unlocked the door of a small building, tucked between a jeweller’s and a sweet shop.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he said, as Becky walked in past him.

  ‘Wow!’ was all she could say. The studio was done up like a Victorian photographers, with a variety of props pushed to the side. A few backdrops were hanging up and there was a cubicle in the corner, with a red velvet curtain hanging across the doorway. Becky looked around and saw a wardrobe against the other wall. Clothes hung on a rail beside it, all of them resembling old-fashioned costumes. She spotted ball gowns and riding habits and frock coats similar to the ones the men were sporting in the town. There were top hats and bowler hats, wigs, bonnets and picture hats hanging on hooks attached to the wall, and a variety of gloves, accessories and even a riding crop lying on a circular table that housed an aspidistra in the centre.

  ‘This place is amazing!’ Becky said, setting the coffees down on a counter. ‘In all the years I knew you, you never struck me as a person who would pay such attention to detail.’ She walked over to the table and fingered the riding crop. She picked it up and weighed it in her hands. An image flashed into her head of it curling against a long, flowing, dark green skirt, then resting against the flank of a black pony.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, more to herself than to Jon. She looked up at him. He was leaning against the counter smiling. ‘So you own this sort of portrait studio,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to get my picture done in one of these places. Just to see what I’d look like as a Victorian.’

  ‘This is the best place to do it,’ replied Jon. He took one of the cups and held it out to Becky, who took it from him gratefully. ‘I’m usually pretty busy, especially at times like this. People come to Goth Weekend and get totally caught up in the atmosphere of the place. Then some start to regret that they didn’t get dressed up. They find me and come in and we get them dressed up to match. Believe me, if I unlocked that door now, there is no way we could drink our coffees in peace. There would be people baying for blood – or at least demanding that they want to look like a corpse. However, for you I’m prepared to cut myself a little slack and have a break. What do you think of this?’

  He pulled another curtain away from the wall and Becky laughed. The rack held nothing but black clothing and the selection seemed to include a vast amount of lace and ruffles.

  ‘Hey, I might just try it myself!’ she said. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit left out, if I’m honest. Jeans don’t seem to cut it here this weekend.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Jon. ‘Have a look at all the clothes first though. The best outfits are in the wardrobe.’ He walked across and took hold of the door handle.

  ‘Am I going to end up in Narnia?’ asked Becky.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jon. ‘Nobody else has. Mind you, they never came back out to tell me if that’s where they’d ended up. I’m joking!’ he added hurriedly as Becky’s mouth started moving to answer him.

  Jon pulled open the door and Becky gasped. If the gowns on the racks had been beautiful, these ones were sublime. She reached in and grasped hold of a rose-pink dress, carefully unhooking it from the hanging rail.

  ‘This is pretty,’ she said, spreading the skirt out and holding it against herself. She looked down and poked her foot out from the bottom, giving it a little wiggle. ‘But maybe not with my boots.’

  ‘No,’ said Jon, shaking his head. ‘It’s not your colour. Here. Try this one.’ He rummaged around and unhooked something. He pulled it from the wardrobe and held out a bundle of pale cream satin, which he had draped over both forearms. Becky took it from him and let the fabric unfurl. The skirt dropped to the floor and revealed not only panels of the cream satin, but ice cream layers of white lace on top of it. There were tulle frills, swansdown trimmings and the twinkle of tiny crystals all over the dress. Becky’s eyes widened and she was, for once, lost for words.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she managed eventually. ‘Just beautiful.’ She looked up at Jon. ‘It’s hardly Goth though?’

  ‘Not really Goth, no,’ conceded Jon. ‘I think it’s nicer though, don’t you?’

  Becky nodded, her eyes drawn back to the soft material. ‘Is it genuine?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s not genuine,’ said Jon. ‘It would be far too fragile to handle if it was, let alone wear. The original is probably in a museum somewhere. This is a copy. I do a lot of research into historical costume for the studio. This dress is from the 1860s. I saw a Landseer portrait of a lady wearing it, and had someone make it up for me. It wasn’t cheap and it’s not something I do very often. Sometimes an outfit catches my eye and I’ll push the boat out. That’s why I don’t let people into the wardrobe very often. It’s only for the special customers, such as the bridal parties and so on that come down here on honeymoon.

  ‘For instance, look at these, the normal stuff.’ He tugged on a couple of things from the rail outside the wardrobe and showed Becky the backs of them. The items were all cunningly held together with Velcro – easy to slip on and off. The dress she was holding, however, was sewn up properly; a complete dress.

  ‘How clever!’ said Becky. ‘The Velcro, I mean.’

  ‘One size fits all,’ quipped Jon. He dropped his voice. ‘You wouldn’t believe the size of some of the people who come here and want photos taken. I’ve got to cater for everyone.’

  ‘I bet you do,’ replied Becky. ‘You know what I’m going to ask, don’t you?’ Her eyes slid over to the cubicle. ‘Please?’

  Jon laughed. ‘Well, just because you’re Lissy’s friend and as another way to make up for the photo I ruined, I’ll let you try it on and I’ll even take your photograph. Deal?’

  ‘How much do you charge?’ asked Becky.

  ‘I’m in a good mood,’ said Jon. ‘It’s free today for you alone. On one condition, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Have your lunch first and wash your hands before I let you wear it, okay?’

  ‘Seems reasonable to me,’ said Becky with a wide smile. ‘Okay. It’s a deal.’

  ‘Oh, and you might need this,’ said Jon. He rummaged again and pulled out a bundle of frothy petticoats. ‘Otherwise you won’t get the full effect.’

  ‘I have to have the full effect,’ replied Becky. ‘Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  After they had eaten their sandwiches and cake, Becky shut herself inside the cubicle, pulling the curtain closed. The curtain material was heavy and effectively sound-proofed the tiny room. There was a hook on the wall for her clothes, and another that she carefully hung the dress up on while she changed. She pulled her jersey over her head, kicked her boots into the corner and tugged her jeans off, draping them over a small table. As an afterthought, she took her socks off; she couldn’t imagine taking herself seriously as a Victorian lady wearing thick, green socks. She smiled at the thought and tied the petticoats around her waist. There were no half measures here – no c
hild’s hula hoop used as a fake crinoline; just layer upon layer of lacy, white petticoat. Becky adopted a new admiration for the Victorian ladies when she felt the weight of the underskirts. It can’t have been easy wearing those all day, she thought.

  She turned to take the dress off the hanger. Ridiculously excited, she pulled the gossamer-white material over her head and shimmied into the bodice. The skirts fell with a swish to the ground and, awkwardly, she managed to fasten up the back, cursing the fact that she didn’t have a ladies’ maid on hand. Finally she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror.

  ‘Oh my,’ was all she managed. She didn’t recognise herself. Gone was the feisty, twenty-first century career girl. In her place was a girl of indeterminate age, huge eyes searching for some sort of self-recognition in the reflection. Becky lifted her dark chestnut hair up and held it on the top of her head, imagining herself as the owner of the dress in the 1860s. She jumped as a roll of thunder interrupted her thoughts and she remembered how grey and overcast it had been in the town earlier. They had just come in here at the right time. It must have been a loud rumble, she thought, cocooned as she was in the quiet, comforting stillness of the changing room. Devouring the impromptu lunch and bumping into Jon again had put her in a good mood, and she smiled at her reflection.

  ‘Lady Rebecca,’ she murmured, curtseying to herself. ‘So pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Ella,’ came a female voice from somewhere behind her right shoulder.

  Becky spun around; no mean feat in a dress that weighed as much as this one did. ‘Who was that?’ she asked. Nobody answered. Becky was still alone in the changing room and she turned back to the mirror, her heart pounding. Imagination overload, she scolded herself but, nevertheless, yanked the curtain back and stood in the entrance to the changing room, face to face with Jon, half-expecting to see someone in the room with him. He was alone.

  Jon’s jaw dropped, then he stared at her in awe and finally shook his head. ‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘It looks perfect. You don’t look a bit like the girl who was wearing it in the portrait, but you can definitely carry off that style. Lissy couldn’t carry it off, even if she tried. She’s way too short. But your hair is wrong – their hairstyles tended to reflect their dresses, did you know that? But it doesn’t matter, let me take your photograph right now.’

  ‘It would have been a bit freaky, I think, if I’d walked in here and you’d thought I was the reincarnation of the lady in the portrait,’ said Becky. ‘What did she look like, though?’

  ‘Very freaky,’ agreed Jon, with a shiver. ‘She was blonde, as I recall. And I’m not entirely sure who she was. I just saw her in a museum catalogue, if I’m honest. Some art gallery had her portrait on loan and it was the dress that caught my eye. Lissy collects all the catalogues for me. She knows what I like and she’s got more time than me to go to these places.’ He laughed. ‘If only, eh?’

  ‘Lissy got the catalogue for you?’ asked Becky. ‘How did she manage that?’

  Jon laughed again. ‘Little Elisabetta has her methods. Don’t you worry about the “hows”. I don’t.’

  ‘Ella?’ asked Becky suddenly, remembering the name that she had heard spoken in the cubicle. ‘Does she ever get called Ella now? Or is she still Lissy?’

  ‘No. It’s always Lissy or Elisabetta. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason,’ said Becky. She took an apprehensive step forward and then picked up the skirts of her dress. ‘I really don’t want to trip over this thing,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘I don’t know how Victorian ladies managed.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they had a choice,’ he said. ‘Can you walk over here? Then we can arrange you properly and sit you down.’

  Becky walked slowly over to Jon, enjoying the swaying feel of the skirts hanging off her hips. ‘I’d love to see the portrait of the girl,’ she said. ‘I think it helps to put names to faces, doesn’t it? In fact, it’s just given me an idea.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Jon. ‘I hope it’s legal.’

  ‘Of course it is!’ said Becky. ‘I was always a good girl, remember? I just think it would be an interesting project to research her. To see if we can find out more information; maybe about where she lived and if she has any descendants. Then you can get the descendants down here, put a female one in that dress and do a “then and now” thing.’

  Becky’s mind, always on the hunt for a new article idea, began to swarm with possibilities. ‘I really think it would work,’ she said, half to herself. She made a mental note to pitch it to the editor of Victorian World magazine as soon as possible.

  ‘That sounds great,’ said Jon. ‘You say “we” and I assume it is the royal we. Then you said I could get her down here, so are you involving me then?’ he asked with a hint of a smile on his face.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose I am, yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I have a habit of getting carried away, you know what I’m like. Just tell me where to get off, that’s fine. You wouldn’t be the first one.’

  Becky sat carefully in a chair that Jon had pulled over into the portrait area and he helped her arrange her skirts, flipping them out and smoothing them down as she settled in position. Jon disappeared behind a big, square, old-fashioned camera on a tripod and began adjusting the lens. Becky stared around the room and her eyes settled on a walnut box that was sat upon a table. It was clearly a prop of some description and she looked at it covetously.

  ‘I want one of those,’ she said. The plain old box was, she knew, one of those clever contraptions that unfolded into a writing slope. ‘I have one on my wish-list. Is that genuine at all?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Jon ducked back out from behind the camera. ‘Oh, the writing slope. Yes, it’s original, or so I’m led to believe. Lissy got it for me. I think they used them as portable writing desks or something, didn’t they? I don’t really know. Lissy told me it was Victorian.’

  ‘She was right. And it’s very in character for my costume,’ said Becky, still staring at it. ‘I think it would be good in this photo, don’t you?’

  ‘If you want it, we can bring it over,’ said Jon.

  Becky watched as he carefully moved the box and table over to her and she knew her eyes must be gleaming with avarice. It was decorated with a coat of arms and embossed with three golden initials: L.J.C. Becky ran her hand over the decoration and she couldn’t help herself as her fingers slid down and took hold of the little key in the lock. She turned it, and with a tiny click it opened up and she lifted the lid. She breathed in a musty scent of old leather, ink and wood and, carefully, she unfolded the slope. The slope revealed a green, baize surface and two inkwells at the back. A small holder between them was clearly for pens and Becky knew there would be several little compartments for stamps and paper underneath the slope mechanism.

  ‘These things always had secret compartments as well,’ Becky murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. She leaned forward, feeling around to see if she could find a lever.

  ‘You won’t find it,’ said Jon, who had returned to his camera. ‘But I just took the most beautiful photograph of you trying.’

  Becky looked up, surprised. Jon smiled. ‘I’ll do another photo. I just wanted to capture that moment – you were so intense. Your hair was kind of falling forward and you looked, well, amazing.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry. I’m into art. I see moments and I act on them. That split second was a perfect shot and I couldn’t let it go.’

  Becky was still staring at him as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Won’t find it?’ she repeated. ‘Why ever not? It’s here. Look.’ She turned back to the inkwells and pulled up one of the dividers. A drawer sprung open beneath the inkwells, revealing a small gap, which reached right to the back of the box. ‘And it’s still got her things in it,’ she whispered.

  Becky leaned over and peered into the drawer. Maybe she would find something really exciting. She s
aw a grey, dried out twist lying inside the compartment. Unlike the fabric in the lid of the slope, the compartment was lined with soft, red velvet. Hidden away for a hundred and fifty years or so, the velvet hadn’t worn at all. Becky pulled a face; she had been hoping for something a little more exciting than something grey and decaying. Hesitantly, she poked her fingers inside and drew out the object. Her eyes widened as she saw the tiny bobbled heads and the delicate stalks of the twist.

  ‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘Lavender. Dried lavender.’ She smiled. Okay, so it was pretty old and dusty now – in fact, it was breaking up as she held it and turned it slowly around in her fingers – but it must have meant something to someone, mustn’t it?

  An image suddenly appeared to Becky. She smelled the sea and a vision of a fair-haired woman flitted across her mind’s eye. The woman was linking arms with a tall, dark-haired man but their faces weren’t very clear at all. Becky looked down at the bunch of lavender in surprise. She’d always had a vivid imagination, it was what had driven her towards her career path; this couple was probably the product of it, just how she visualised a loving couple of that era. She smiled at the writing slope and tucked the lavender back inside. How lovely; a keepsake from him to her.

  ‘Is that all there is?’ said Jon. His voice broke into her thoughts. ‘That’s disappointing.’

  ‘No, I think there’s other stuff in there as well,’ she said. She pushed her fingers inside the compartment and felt around. She could feel thick card and managed to grab a corner of the object, drawing it towards her. It revealed itself to be a small, rectangular invitation of some sort, with gilded letters printed on embossed cream card, which showed the same coat of arms as the one that was on the lid. Becky carefully picked the card up and turned it in her hands.