Princess of the 19th Century Department Store - Chapter 33

Night lay thick over Whitechapel. The moon was blurred behind gray cloud and mist, no more than a fuzzy ball of light however hard one stared.

That evening, Daisy and Mary helped Fred and Mr. Nash rummage through their clothes. Several coats and pairs of trousers went to the tailor across the street to be measured and altered.

Alterations were cheap in a little neighborhood shop, especially among neighbors. A few shillings covered everything. Afterward, however, the clothes still had to be washed, starched, and pressed at the nearby laundry. Making the two men presentable would take three days—just in time for their meeting with the property agent to sign the lease.

At seven the next morning, Whitechapel’s factories came alive under the labor of their workers, and the streets filled with noise.

Cold, shadowed light slipped between the eaves and through the kitchen window, falling across Daisy. In an indigo wool coat with puffed sleeves, she sipped coffee while opening the only letter delivered since Mr. Nash unlocked the shop.

Yesterday she had written to the Whitechapel Tax Office, the bank, the property agency, the tea company, and the solicitor. Unsurprisingly, the solicitor’s assistant had replied first.

The appointment was confirmed. Any day during the coming month, between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon, Mr. Fred Nash could present his registration and see Mr. Langton directly.

Daisy needed to design a trademark and prepare a summary of their business activities for Fred to take with him. The solicitor would search the public trademark register for conflicts, obtain the appropriate application based on their business scope, complete it, and send it to the Patent Office. Then came the long examination and opposition period.

The whole process would take about a month. Even if they began now, the certificate would not arrive before early March.

Daisy did not need to appear in person. She merely had to transfer the five-pound agency fee to the firm’s bank account.

That was only half a day’s revenue now, or two days’ profit. Acceptable.

For the mark itself, she planned to combine the initials of the family surname into a lettermark. If they invented anything original later, they could add a patent application under the same brand, protecting both the name and the process.

Once the trademark was registered, she intended to have the solicitor pursue such protection for Diamond Cookies. If anyone copied the name or stole the invention, she could skip the shouting match and answer with the law.

And if she built good relations with the courts and the police, enough to ensure their cooperation, imitation would cease to be much of a concern.

After breakfast, Daisy sat in the kitchen with the newspapers and concentrated on choosing a school for Penny.

Mary now managed the kitchen smoothly by herself, while Mr. Nash could handle the front shop alone. Daisy was finally free to devote herself to planning behind the scenes.

Her real reason for preferring a boarding school was not Penny’s studies. It was the girl’s safety.

Their shops and business were expanding, which meant dealing with all sorts of people. If trouble came, they had to prepare for it. A child could no longer be allowed to roam the East End at will.

Without waiting for further debate, Daisy selected a large girls’ boarding school far away in Westminster.

It admitted girls from three to sixteen, unlike vocational Girls’ Schools, which accepted only those from thirteen to sixteen. The curriculum was simple: basic reading and writing, a little etiquette, and a little instruction in the established Church. Its chief function was supervision.

Tuition cost just over a pound a month, but board and meals were separate. The more a family paid, the better a pupil lived. In practice, the total was not small.

Busy middle-class families with too many children often sent their daughters to such places. Security would not be an issue. No collection of thugs would dare reach into a school of that size in Westminster. Only God knew how powerful its governors were.

Girls over sixteen were adults in both social custom and the practical application of the law. They were expected to marry or work.

Unless she was a nobleman’s daughter whose family had not yet declined, or the daughter of a powerful politician or merchant able to secure a place through donations, a girl could not even audit classes at a university college. There were scarcely any exceptions.

Across both Daisy’s lives, the world had always been kind to the rich. Even a girl with a large inheritance could find countless ways around risk. Without money, whoever you were, life remained an endless struggle.

She described the school to Mary, who agreed without hesitation. Mary cared less about the cost than its location, surroundings, and management—the same things Daisy had considered.

“Don’t worry. It’s in a safe neighborhood, there are no dubious places nearby, and the teachers don’t beat the children.”

Reassured, Mary went back to making bread.

Daisy would write today. Once the admission notice arrived, they could withdraw Penny from the charity school. That school had been established by the Whitechapel Parish Council in response to Home Office demands concerning literacy among eight-to-thirteen-year-olds and the child-labor laws. Withdrawal required strict review, and a transfer required a letter from the new school.

None of it was difficult.

Near noon, replies arrived from the Post Office Savings Bank, the tea dealer, and the property agency. Daisy waited until she nearly wilted before the Whitechapel Tax Office finally sent the business-permit application that afternoon.

That was perfectly normal. She was an ordinary citizen with no accommodating superior to smooth the way. The fact that the tax office had not burned her letter to heat its tea already counted as tireless service to the British people.

Several days passed as each matter moved forward.

On a rare clear day, a trace of warmth reached Whitechapel. Mr. Nash and Fred put on their newly altered, freshly pressed coats and trousers, complete with bow ties.

After dinner the previous night, the family had even taken old Lisa to a nearby public bath. The men’s hair and beards had been trimmed, and now, under Daisy’s supervision, they carefully applied hair wax.

At noon, Fred would sign the lease with the property agent. Daisy had arranged a bank account for settlement; future quarterly rent would be transferred between accounts, leaving a clear record and avoiding disputes.

The price had long since been agreed. Fred only needed to meet the manager at No. 6 Dorothy Street—the former Lobit Grocery—collect the keys, inspect the property, sign, and place his thumbprint on the contract.

Mr. Nash, dressed as a modestly respectable gentleman, had another task. He would visit the offices of tea, cigar, and liquor merchants in the City of London and inspect samples.

Daisy had selected every supplier carefully. Once her grandfather decided whom to order from and in what quantities, he could return with the lease and buy on credit, selling for a month before payment came due.

Many wholesalers used such arrangements to reduce the cost of opening stock. Credit carried interest and some risk if sales were poor, but to Daisy, that little danger might as well not exist.

Her own work was to mind the counter, reconcile the past three or four days’ revenue—between ten and twenty pounds—and then inspect the new premises after Fred returned with the keys. She would make a professional assessment and draw the layout.

Her father and grandfather’s schedules were packed. Tomorrow Fred would visit the solicitor, while Mr. Nash contacted repairmen on Whitechapel Road. With the lease in hand, Daisy would submit the permit application for the new address.

Then came the classic restoration of an abandoned building.

Their present house cost only five pounds a month, too useful to surrender. The family agreed to turn it into a central kitchen and storeroom while continuing to live there. At least they would one day be able to eat together in the spacious hall.

Unfortunately, Daisy had lost the thousand-strong core team from her previous life a month ago. Now she could only work herself like a beast of burden.

Every detail of the design, every material, laborer, and utensil, every future product and price, every large customer and weekly advertisement—she had to handle it all.

The moment Fred finished signing with Mr. Howard, Daisy snatched the keys and plunged into the construction site that would consume her days.

With a tape measure around her neck, she scurried through all three empty floors like a mouse.

Lobit had been imprisoned for tax evasion and still owed fines. The following day, the court had hauled away his stock and everything that did not belong to the landlord, right down to the display cases, for auction. No one had treated the building gently. Beneath Daisy’s feet lay a chaotic ruin.

One man had to watch the old shop while the other joined Daisy in clearing the new one.

They worked deep into the night. With darkness pressed against the windows, Daisy set two or three gas lamps on the floor, turned a wooden crate into a desk, and drew a perspective plan of the display area to guide the carpenter building the cases.

Landlords were ruthless in this age. There was no rent-free renovation period; every day from the start of the lease burned money.

After the old shop closed, Fred and Mr. Nash came over to pull up flooring and patch tiles. They worked overtime for one purpose alone: to open as soon as possible.

Daisy’s hands were black with dust and ink. When Mary arrived with dinner in a basket, she had to push sandwiches directly into Daisy’s mouth.

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