Chapter Eight

When she woke up, Mary decided she deserved a fine Christmas. Granted, things were in tatters around her, but when had that not been the case? She had two things in her favor, determination and a skill.

The strongbox held four shillings, which was four shillings more than she had when she took that placard out of Miss Wainwright’s dusty window. They went into her pocket right away, in case some nosy person saw her through the display window and alerted the constable. The morning light was better in the shop, but that was too risky. She preferred drawing at the kitchen table, anyway.

She wiped away breakfast toast crumbs and assembled her puny arsenal of crayons and thick paper. Drawing always calmed her. Soon she was humming and sketching more of the landscapes and then miniature houses with Christmas wreaths. She liked them so well that she decided to call them homes, imagining a home of her own someday with a wreath. The notion was farfetched, but she felt the pull of the season and it warmed her.

As the shadows of afternoon changed the lighting, she lit the lamp in the kitchen and finished the last landscape. Except for a scrap or two of paper, she was done. A dozen miniature masterpieces lined the kitchen counter. She scrutinized them with a critical eye, pleased with the idea of outlining in permanent ink, then filling in with crayons. “I’m no Rembrandt,” she announced, “but Mary Cooper, these are as clever and resourceful as he was.”

All she had for dinner was tea, but there was plenty of sugar, so her stomach didn’t protest too much. She thought about going across the street to the public house for something to eat, but that would alert everyone that Mary Cooper was back and living in a padlocked house. Tomorrow was soon enough to spring herself on Liddiard. Besides, she never knew money to last that was spent.

She set the final two pieces of paper on the table, pieces she hadn’t cut. One would be a modest-sized wreath, the better to save her crayons, and the other Mr. Wainwright’s house in Plymouth.

Even considering that she slept in a padlocked, off-limits shop, Mary woke up optimistic. After breakfast of more sugar and tea, she began. She did the wreath first, giving it her full attention because this was the gift going across the street to the public house, and it was truly a gift. If Edwin and Winnie Gower liked it well enough, maybe they would let her set up a small table to sell the dozen miniatures. The Gowers were reasonable folk.

If, if, if. If they were truly feeling jolly enough, perhaps the Gowers would give her work in the public house. It was hardly grandiose, but life was made of small things.

The wreath made her smile. Each little holly berry seemed to have a sheen. Bending over the drawing made her back ache, but wreaths were for once a year and she had eleven months to recover before she tried another. Or so she reasoned.

She took particular care with her other drawing – Mr. Wainwright’s Plymouth house, from the handsome greenery, to the brass doorknocker, to a wreath of holly berries only, because she had mostly used up her green crayon on the Gowers’ wreath.

Gargantua found his way into the drawing, too, although it took some careful thought to draw him on the front step. She didn’t draw in Sally, because she knew that would make her cry. Hopefully, the new housekeeper in Plymouth was kind.

She looked at that empty space in the area behind the lace curtains of what she assumed was the sitting room, with its two windows. Impulsively – never a good thing for an artist – she tried to draw a man and woman in the space. It didn’t work. She took a cloth from the sink and ended up smudging the whole thing into a mess that made ghostly images instead. “Bother it,” she muttered, and drew lacy curtains to partially hide her misdemeanor.

Mary rummaged through her dwindling stack of pasteboard until she found the right pieces to pack the Wainwright house in. She inserted a note in her best handwriting, consisting only of “Happy Christmas, from your friend Mary Cooper.” She addressed the package and went to gather up her few possessions, which still fit compactly in Papa’s seed bag.

She made sure both bedchambers were tidy, and that was it, except not quite.

She had never drawn a self-portrait, but she drew one now, looking into her scrap of a mirror and using the last of her miniature paper. She knew she needed to work more on smiles, so she drew herself serious. Since ink was unforgiving, and she was well-acquainted with her skill level, she drew it in pencil. She signed her name on the back and slipped it in the package to the Wainwright house before sealing it. The wreath intended across the street went into a sleeve of brown paper.

Seed bag on her shoulder, package in hand, Mary stood a moment more, reliving the brief pleasure of life here with Aunt Luella and Sally. Soon someone else might own the shop. She lingered a moment more, hopeful that all would be well with Sally and her father. Luke Wainwright, perhaps I could have known you better, had things been different , she thought.

She went out the way she came in, careful to lock the door behind her. “I had hoped to spend more time here,” she said out loud. “It was a good place, Aunt Luella.”

She went first to the posting house where the agent weighed her small gift to the Wainwrights, and asked for six pence, half a shilling. Goodness. No wonder it was hard for an ordinary person to get ahead in England. She was down to a bare shilling, so she cast caution to the wind and bought a few more crayons from what she called the all-purpose shop next to the tearoom. Her change was two pence. She would have hung onto it, except there was a beggar a block beyond.

Next stop was the public house, owned by Edward Gower, which could be success or failure, or more bluntly, a job or the poorhouse. She squared her shoulders, straightened the seed bag, wished for a bonnet, and opened the door. Mrs. Gower stood behind the counter, drying glasses. Mary looked around, glad to see the room otherwise empty. She handed her paper wreath to Winnie Gower. “I wanted you to have this, Mrs. Gower.”

“Thank you, child,” Winnie replied. She leaned across the counter. “I wondered where you had gone, and then that nasty constable put a lock on the door. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I took Sally and Gargantua to Plymouth and her father’s house. I was surprised when I saw the lock, too, but I have no claims on anything or anyone, I suppose.” That seemed enough, but Mrs. Gower was watching her out of thoughtful eyes. “I don’t have much, but I needed my other dress and apron, and all these landscapes.” Mary took them from the seed bag, spread them on the counter, and whispered, “I went in through the cat door, or near as. This is yours.”

The innkeeper’s wife laughed, the hearty sound giving Mary’s heart a lift. “You do have a knack.” Mrs. Gower admired her larger wreath. “I hope you will let me pay you for this.”

“Oh, no. You were kind to us,” Mary said simply. She took a deep breath and committed herself. “I was wondering – Would you let me put these on a table here and sell them?”

Nothing changed in Mrs. Gower’s eyes, to Mary’s relief. If she could sell enough, she might be able to buy more paper. “I only need a small space.”

“You can have that and more,” Mrs. Gower said. “Where will you stay?”

“I don’t know.” All she could do was tell the truth. “Could you possibly use some help here? I don’t take up much space and I’m diligent.”

Winnie Gower lowered her eyes. “What with war, times are tough. I can give you a place to sleep and your meals, but can’t promise anything else.”

“That’s still the offer I’d like,” Mary said. “I know times are tough. Believe me, I know.”

Done and done.