Princess of the 19th Century Department Store - Chapter 32

In her previous life, Daisy had spent enough time in the world of wealth and status to hear one maxim repeated as gospel:

More than a dependable father or partner, what a person truly needed in life was a dependable lawyer.

Only a lawyer could still be of practical help when the sky came crashing down.

For that reason, finding one had consumed more of Daisy’s research than almost anything else.

There were several hundred law offices in the City of London. Once she excluded the barristers’ chambers, dozens of firms specializing in non-contentious work remained. She removed the great firms at the top of the pyramid, then the few with the worst reputations.

That left surprisingly few choices. After comparing them one by one, Daisy selected a relatively inexpensive option.

Elpney & Co.

It was a small firm that shared office space with another business in some forgotten corner of the City. Only one solicitor there offered non-contentious legal services to department stores and small factories.

Kyle Langton.

His advertisement gave a short account of his background. He had graduated from Balliol College, Oxford, and spent five years at the leading firm of Fuldor.

The moment Daisy saw such a distinguished history, she crossed him off her list.

What sort of man began with advantages like those and still ended up washed ashore at a tiny law office?

Curiosity, however, did her a favor.

She searched the previous year’s newspapers and found a scandal involving Fuldor—one that centered on Kyle Langton.

At the time, he had been representing a factory facing multiple charges for adding harmful substances to its milk. One victim of the poisoned-milk case found Kyle and flung the ashes of her dead child in his face.

Apparently unable to bear the moral condemnation, he terminated his engagement and withdrew from the case.

Within the legal profession, however, such unprofessional conduct amounted to destroying one’s own reputation.

Fuldor soon dismissed him. He drifted into a small firm and now handled non-contentious work exclusively.

Once Daisy understood why he was so cheap, she happily wrote him a letter requesting a consultation.

She ticked the item off in her notebook and moved on to the rest of her paperwork. She could write a business-license application with her eyes closed.

After finishing the mountain of documents, and with half an hour left before the post went out, she wrote to the Post Office Savings Bank in Fred’s name to inquire about opening an account.

Daisy knew that in this era, a little girl like her had even less credibility than a widow. No one would take her seriously.

Every letter sent outside the family therefore went out under Fred’s name. When the time came to meet people in person, she would dress him up and push him forward as the respectable face of the business.

Under England’s strict inheritance laws, the property a merchant like Fred acquired would consist mainly of shares, cash, real estate, and land. Unless he became a country gentleman or a nobleman whose estate was entailed with a title, every legitimate child had the right to inherit regardless of sex, generally with a solicitor overseeing the administration of the estate.

Her choice of bank had also followed a careful study of numerous terms and conditions.

Nineteen years earlier, Parliament had passed the Post Office Savings Bank Act. The bank was backed by the British government. Its service might be poorer and its interest rates lower, but its deposits were safer than those held by small parish or private banks. By present standards, it was quite a modern choice.

As for the great joint-stock banks—the likes of Lloyds and Barclays—they were still far beyond her reach.

Daisy spent the afternoon over her papers. One letter after another went into the post, and before long evening had fallen.

Quiet darkness gathered over Clark Street. Rows of windows glowed amber. Wheels rolled across the wet paving stones, leaving tracks that ended in front of the grocery shop.

Fred had returned from his deliveries. He climbed out of the tricycle and handed the money he had collected, along with several new orders, to the busy grandfather and granddaughter behind the counter.

“Today’s collections came to six hundred and fifty-six pence.”

Following Daisy’s usual system, Mr. Nash sorted the coins by denomination and wrapped them into rolls of a hundred.

Fred accepted a cup of water, took two gulps, then pulled two slips of paper from his pocket.

“Your aunt found us another customer today.

“It’s the office of a printing factory near her place. They’ve ordered a week’s worth of biscuits for afternoon tea.”

Daisy’s interest sharpened at once. She took the note and read it.

There were only three items: twenty-five pounds of Diamond Cookies, twenty-five pounds of coffee biscuits, and six pounds of scented tea, worth six pounds altogether.

It was clearly meant to supply afternoon tea for a small team of eleven or twelve people for a week.

Fred continued, “They’re also willing to pay a few pence a day in delivery fees, as long as we bring them fresh biscuits every day.”

Daisy nodded and took the order into the kitchen to confirm with Mary how many extra biscuits they would need to bake each day.

If the kitchen could not keep up, Daisy had no intention of sacrificing their main shop business to serve deliveries alone.

Mary looked over the order and said it would be no problem.

“As long as we have enough ingredients and coal for the ovens, baking a few dozen pounds of biscuits a day is nothing. You just worry about selling them.”

She took the note and pinned it to the back of the door.

Mary had her own orderly way of working. By now, she could prepare ingredients flexibly according to sales, and production had never once fallen behind.

Daisy had great respect for her practical ability. Before leaving the kitchen, she reminded Fred to ask the printing factory about its services the next time he delivered.

Could it make packaging and handbills? What was the minimum print run? What did it charge? Did it employ a typesetter or designer?

If so, she could avoid spending more time finding those services elsewhere.

Fred and Mr. Nash listened intently. Both could sense the highly professional air Daisy had acquired when handling business.

She sent letters to banks and law firms, wrote formal applications herself, and never showed a hint of timidity. She certainly did not look like a girl content to remain a humble shopkeeper.

“All right. I’ll ask tomorrow,” Fred promised seriously.

Then he noticed Daisy sink back into thought, rubbing her chin as she considered something.

“After dinner,” she said at last, “go to the tailor across the street and have both your coats altered.”

Fred and Mr. Nash looked utterly baffled.

“What’s wrong with them?”

They turned in unison and inspected each other. Neither coat was torn, nor had any seam come loose. Beyond that, they could not imagine what the problem might be.

“One of you stands behind the counter all day. The other goes out and meets our larger customers. You represent the business,” Daisy said in a tone that allowed no argument.

“Even if your clothes aren’t damaged, an ill-fitting coat looks shabby. People see it and may assume we’re just as careless with the goods we make.

“Some snobbish customers will take one look at an owner who doesn’t look the part and decide his shop has no substance, either.”

The women of the family wore made-to-measure clothes. The fabric was nothing special, but at least the garments fit.

Father and son lived far more roughly and cared little about appearances. To save money, they bought cheap ready-made clothes that always seemed either too large or too small. They would not send anything out to be washed, starched, and pressed until it had grown visibly filthy.

Daisy had tolerated it before. Now that the shop was expanding and their business dealings were multiplying, she could tolerate it no longer.

“What you’re wearing isn’t merely a coat against the cold anymore. It’s your public face. If you look neat and respectable, people will extend that respect to everything associated with you.

“If you look poor and slovenly, no one in this family can expect to be treated with respect.”

Daisy did not soften the message.

Fred and Mr. Nash suddenly found her argument extremely reasonable. Their appearance was, in fact, a serious problem.

Mr. Nash nodded. “She’s right. Fred, polish your boots before you go out tomorrow.”

Fred shrugged and gave his father a critical look in return. “Dad, you could stand to trim your beard. And your hair.”

They picked faults with each other for a while, then decided that the entire family would visit the Turkish baths that weekend for haircuts and pedicures.

Penny had just come home with her satchel. Hearing such a conversation between her rough-and-ready father and grandfather was frankly terrifying.

Daisy then proposed that everyone’s coats be sent regularly to the nearest laundry, while underclothes could still be washed at home.

It would cost no more than a few shillings a week, yet the benefits of such a small habit would be enormous.

Fred and Mr. Nash, frugal though they were, agreed. They could feel a mature, long-term vision methodically pruning and reshaping the details of their lives.

Penny wandered past hugging a bag of snacks and had to admit that Daisy was amazing.

She did not remain outside the reach of those pruning shears for long.

When the family gathered in the kitchen for dinner, the wildfire spread straight to little Penny.

“School may be free now, but they don’t teach anything properly. Penny can barely spell. This won’t do at all.”

Daisy was preparing to tackle Penny’s education.

In her view, the child’s days were far too loose and idle. No one needed to turn her into a study machine, but she was already ten and could neither spell nor read fluently. That simply would not do.

While searching the papers, Daisy had also noted private schools suitable for a ten-year-old girl. Now she turned to Mary.

“Besides, our family can easily afford private elementary schooling now. It’s much cheaper than Stepney Girls’ School.”

Mary opened her mouth to answer, but Daisy continued before she could.

“That said, we still have to respect Penny’s wishes. She’s a grown-up now, and we ought to respect her.

“Whether she wants a better school, and whether she boards or continues as a day pupil, is entirely her choice.”

Mary closed her mouth again. Daisy was right—they had to respect Penny. It was part of raising her properly. Mary would endure it.

Penny, of course, had no desire to leave her present carefree life.

She opened her mouth, then glanced at her mother.

Mary stared back with a stern expression. She might have held her tongue, but her meaning could not have been clearer: if Penny refused, disaster awaited.

Penny could only grumble her surrender. She volunteered for boarding school so she would not have to get up early and travel every day.

Daisy patted her head reassuringly.

“Don’t worry. If our family becomes rich enough to hire a governess one day, you won’t have to go away to school.”

…