Free Dorothy Eden by Speak to Me of Love

had known for some time that she was a better judge of character than Papa who was apt to think that hard work must go hand in hand with honesty. He had been fortunate in his staff in the past.
    “Yes, madam?” Mr Featherstone said, mistaking her for a customer. Then he recognised Beatrice and hastily slid off his stool. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Overton. I wasn’t expecting the honour of a visit from you.”
    “I don’t suppose you were,” Beatrice said briskly, enjoying the effect of her surprise tactics.
    However, in a moment Mr Featherstone had overcome his shock and was saying suavely, “And how is your poor father, Mrs Overton?”
    “My father is getting on splendidly. He’ll be back in the shop in no time at all.”
    “Ah, not too soon, I hope. These things can’t be hurried. I remember my poor mother, well one day, alas, gone the next.”
    “My father has absolutely no intention of following your mother’s example, Mr Featherstone.”
    “One hopes not. One hopes not. But the Almighty—”
    Beatrice had had enough of this sort of creeping Jesus talk. How could Papa have engaged a man like this, except that he was so clever? But not clever enough not to look down his nose at this little person and dismiss her as of no account. She was not only female, but had allowed herself to be married for her money.
    “I’m afraid I don’t agree with your pessimistic outlook, Mr Featherstone. It’s bad for the shop. But we’ll talk more about that in my father’s office. I want a meeting of buyers in half an hour. Will you arrange it for me?”
    Mr Featherstone allowed various expressions, surprise, a certain apprehension, and finally a calculated meekness to pass over his face.
    “Certainly, Mrs Overton. I’ll arrange it at once. I’m sure everyone is most anxious to hear how your father is.”
    “I haven’t come to present a bulletin of my father’s health.”
    Beatrice found that she was enjoying herself. Giving orders was a heady business, and especially agreeable when a man like this was forced to obey. She felt six inches taller already.
    She had one of the messenger boys, a cheerful curly-headed lad called Johnnie Lundy, arrange chairs round the heavy oak table in Papa’s office. From now on, she decided, she must observe every employee, from the humblest upwards.
    She sat in the elbow chair at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on each arm. She hoped she looked the picture of composure.
    Presently they all came in, led by Adam Cope, the head buyer, who had been with Papa for ten years, and was an utterly reliable serious sober person. Then there was Mr Crowther from Linens and Damasks, Mr Mortlake from Gentlemen’s Wear, Mr Lang from Footwear, Miss Simpson from Haberdashery, Mr Seeley, the head bookkeeper, and several others whose faces, although not their names, were familiar to Beatrice.
    Dear Miss Brown, who had worked for Papa since Bonnington’s had been a one-floor shop like a village store, selling everything from petticoats to cough drops, was so overjoyed to see Beatrice that she kept saying, “Thank heaven, thank heaven,” in an audible voice, obviously meaning Mr Featherstone to make no mistake about her meaning.
    “Will everybody sit down, please,” Beatrice said quietly. Her nerves remained in admirable control. “I have asked you all to come here to discuss the future. I daresay you’re surprised that it’s me doing this, since I’m only a woman and rather young and newly married. But I’m Bonnington’s, my father says, so I must deputise until he is well. And that, I may say, knowing Papa, won’t be in the very distant future.”
    There was a polite murmur of relief.
    “I have a great deal to learn, of course. I will want to go through the department figures, the stock books and the outstanding accounts. I propose to do that tomorrow morning.”
    “Mrs Overton—’ began Mr Featherstone.
    “I think,” said Beatrice pleasantly, “that when I’m in the