Chapter 6

MARCH 10TH IN WHITBY

A nnice put on her best face for this. She'd already put on one of the best dresses for the purpose, sensible and a little sober, without being ghastly. It was a muted grey that rather went with the spring clouds and threatened drizzle. She had errands to do, and they would not get any easier if she put them off.

First she went to the grocer, then there was a line at the fishmonger.

No one actually ignored her, not really. Whatever her other failings were - like wanting to carve jet for herself, in a rapidly dying industry that was superstitious about that - she was still of Whitby, through and through. Everyone in the shop had known her grandparents and her parents and her. Their parents had known her great-grandparents, and so on. That mattered here, no matter what happened in other places and other towns and especially cities.

Eventually, one matron coughed. "Didn't expect to see you out here, Miss Matthewman. You had your shop open yesterday, didn't you?"

"Oh, I had to do the shopping, of course. I'll be opening up this afternoon, if you know someone who'd like to come by. I've still got a number of Grandad's pieces for sale, of course."

"A nice girl like you ought to find a place for yourself. I suppose you're getting on a bit for a family of your own, but they always need another matron or pair of hands at the children's home, up the cliff."

Annice forced her expression to something pleasantly neutral. "You're so kind to think of it, but I'm hoping to figure out something else. Do tell me, how's your daughter doing? She's due any time now, isn't she?"

At least three-quarters of living in Whitby was knowing the safe topic to deflect to. Da had said that was the trick to any insular town, and he'd had to learn Whitby's ways himself. At least the deflection got Mrs Summerby off on her daughter, the second grandbaby-to-be, the nonsense they were considering for names. By the time she was halfway through that, she was at the front of the line and had to give in her order.

Annice waited her turn patiently enough, got her own order in, and then went along to the baker for the last of what she needed. She could make bread, and usually did, but the last two times had turned out soggy and shrunken, and she wanted a decent loaf for once. She wasn't even sure why the bread wasn't behaving; the yeast was still foaming like it ought.

Finally, she brought her food back to the kitchen, going in through the back door, up the stairs to the kitchen and the flat, and then putting everything away. She wanted to go up to the workroom and do something that felt right, and she knew she couldn't. There was a chance, a small but real one, that someone might come and want to buy. She'd work on the matching earring for the lovely women from yesterday tonight.

Part of her knew she should probably go make the rounds of the other jet carvers who might still talk to her, but that was exhausting. She knew what they'd say or not say. They might offer a smile, but they wouldn't share any information. There wasn't that much work to go around, so it wasn't like they'd pass along a referral for someone who wanted something they didn't want to do. And while Annice had her own style, it wasn't very much in fashion the past couple of years. It was another thing the War had broken.

She'd always been interested not just in a single piece, but in how it connected to all the others. Her necklaces had sometimes tended to the ornate, each bead carved to balance the one on the other side. The ones she'd loved most, it wasn't a matched line of perfect pairs. Instead, it was complementary ones, where each shape was a little different, fitting into some larger construction of the whole necklace.

Back a couple of years ago, before everything went worse, she'd wondered if she'd be able to get more training in how to work the metal as well. She could do simple settings, but not yet complex ones. That would have let her do something, play with something, more like the new Art Déco styles. It might make jet into something ancient and modern, all at once, that would catch the eye and the heart and the soul.

But that took money, and it definitely took knowing the right people. None of that was on offer. And she didn't have enough jet pieces to afford to take risks with them. She'd need to stick to shapes that she could hope would sell. Those were not dreams she could indulge, and she set them aside as gently as she put the food away. Each thing in its place: cupboard, counter, table, or pantry.

Once that was done, she washed her hands to get the dust off, then went back down to the shop. She set up the lights and then raised the blinds and flipped the sign on the door to say open. She didn't expect to be busy - there weren't that many people out on the street - but she could make the attempt.

Annice sat for an hour, nearly two, before there was anyone at the door. It was a man, maybe a little older than she was, accompanying an older woman. "Good afternoon, ma'am, sir." Annice stood behind the counter. "Welcome to the shop. I'd be glad to show you anything you're interested in."

The woman glanced around. "Oh, my. You have a more pleasant shop than that other place we were in, Bernard. Don't you agree?" Her voice was high-pitched, the sort of voice that made Annice think of loudly chattering birds outside the window when she was trying to sleep.

"I'm glad you think so, ma'am. I do like to show the pieces to best advantage. Are you here in Whitby to visit family, or perhaps to take in the sea air? So good for the health, everyone always says so." Annice could amiably chatter with the best of them. It was absolutely a survival skill. It got them through a round of the woman dithering about which pieces she'd like to see first. They began with the beaded necklaces, then the pendants, then the necklaces again, but the smaller ones.

"Is it just you here, dear?" The woman suddenly looked up, sharply.

"Oh, it's my grandfather's and my father's work." She used the more formal terms, as she always did when selling. People might say they liked the novelty of a Yorkshire accent. They didn't actually mean it most of the time, they'd stare blankly. "Unfortunately, they both have passed away, now. But I keep wanting their work to find a home, someone who will appreciate it."

That brought on a bit more commentary, looking at half a dozen pieces in rotation. The man - the woman's son, she was pretty sure now - stood behind, more or less patiently. Eventually, the woman was dithering between two. "Now, this is me being nosy. All my friends at home say I'm just the worst. But surely a young woman like yourself could find someone who can keep up the shop."

Annice might have heard it dozens - hundreds - of times now, but that didn't make it all that much easier to answer. "Oh, I suppose that would solve quite a few problems, yes." It might well also create quite a few more, since then there would be two mouths to feed and not a lot of savings. And it wasn't like she was that far away from sharing a wall or a back courtyard with others. She was always hearing the ways men got awful when they'd had too much to drink to go with too much despair about the future. Or - though a bit more understandably - when their War snuck up on them and terrified them out of all reason.

Marriage would, in short, be a way out of her current troubles. And it would quite possibly plunge her into a whole set she was even less able to deal with. That whole proverb about frying pans and fires definitely applied. So instead, she managed a smile. "Did you want to see the pendants again?"

Finally, the woman made her choices - a beaded necklace, not very funereal, and a pendant polished to a high shine, apparently for an older sister. Annice wrapped them up carefully, tucking them into a cardboard box to travel safely. She added a bit of cotton wool for padding and a bit of thin bright ribbon to keep the lid on. The woman seemed delighted, and the two of them went off, leaving Annice with a bit of extra cash she hadn't expected that day.

There were a couple of other shoppers that afternoon, browsing. No one bought anything. Annice was almost ready to close up when the door opened again, and the man - Bernard - came in. "Mother's such a bother, but you handled her really rather well."

It was decidedly abrupt as an opening statement. Annice ducked her chin. "She was a pleasure to talk to. And people want to get the right piece, that's not something to rush."

"Still." Bernard considered. "She was right. You could marry."

That was vastly more abrupt. Annice considered her options, and coming over offended had some risks. "I wasn't looking to. I'm well on the shelf."

Bernard - she didn't even know his last name - shrugged. "I've a cousin, injured in the War. Not good for much now, but he's got a bit of a pension and maybe he could take up something crafting. Like this. Here. You think about it. If you like the idea, we could introduce you by letter."

Oh, Annice could figure that one out. The man was likely tucked into some relative's house. They'd be delighted to get him out of it, put all the burden of whatever his care was on someone else. She wasn't utterly opposed to the idea of marriage. But if she wanted to tend to a stranger's needs, she could go get a job doing it. That way, she'd get paid for it and go home at the end of the day. Tending to someone she loved - like she had with her grandad and nan - that was different.

"You think about it." Bernard glanced around the shop. "You've some nice pieces here, but I'm guessing not a lot of business."

"You're very kind to think of me, sir. And I have the card. I promise I'll think about it. Now, though, I'm afraid I need to lock up. I promised a friend I'd help with something tonight. I need to get on."

His mouth quirked up to one side, as if he could tell the white lie. Then he shrugged. "We're staying at the White Horse & Griffin a few more days. Come round and ask if you want to know more."

She just nodded. He did leave, promptly and without a fuss. Annice went through the routine of locking up, pulling the curtains across first. Next, she checked the locks and the warding before taking the cases of the finished pieces and putting them all back in the safe in the back room. She didn't always, but while that conversation hadn't made her think he was intending a spot of light burglary exactly, she wanted to know where everything was. And, of course, she had a bit of magic to help her.

He didn't. She was pretty sure of that, though how she knew was hard to say. Not one of her people, neither of Whitby nor of Albion, and she could feel those currents well enough. Finally, when everything was in place, she turned and went upstairs to make something for supper that would let her get to the workbench and those earrings quickly.