Victorian Haberdashery: Mr. Bowls Collects

Have you met Genevieve? If not, read her introduction here before diving into this next chapter of her story.

When we last left Genevieve, the ledgers in her beloved Bath shop were running redder than black — a debt inherited along with the shop itself, owed to a man her mother had trusted and shouldn't have. Today, that debt comes calling in the form of a man in a bowler hat.

Mr. Bowls Collects

Genevieve flinches as the bell above the door chimes. It's almost dusk — no reason for customers to be out at this hour. She curses herself for not locking up after the last one left, a woman in no hurry back to her carriage while her footman stood holding her purchases far longer than was kind. Genevieve feels the intrusion in her space before she even sees him. A tall man in a bowler hat crosses the floor in strides that can only be called efficient, fast-paced — a man who doesn't wander. She braces herself behind the safety of the large wooden counter, ready for the hostility she already knows is coming.

"It's Friday, Miss Genevieve, and I've come to collect my master's coin. I won't be accepting any excuses. I've been told you've stalled long enough on your payment."

Genevieve puts on her most convincing smile, her brown eyes giving nothing away of the fear telling her knees to buckle. The man is dressed in a suit — not a gentleman's fine cut, but the kind worn by men who started in trade and clawed their way up through the ranks. The look of someone who's earned his authority in an enterprise that isn't particularly respectable, or legal.

"Please refrain from using my Christian name, Mr. Bowls," she says. "I understand you're here to collect, and I have your payment — though I am a few shillings short. I assure you I'll be able to make it up next week."

She feels the coldness sweep through his look. He won't accept a lesser sum without a penalty, and she knows it. Cautiously, she pulls out the drawstring pouch she sewed from a piece of her mother's old dress and begins counting out the coins inside. He reaches across the counter and takes the entire pouch from her hand, weighs it, and tucks it into his coat. He turns to leave — then, passing the window display, stops at the bolt of new icy blue silk just arrived from a Cheapside warehouse in London. His hand hovers over it a beat longer than it should — the briefest pause, gone almost before it registers — before he picks it up anyway.

"This will go toward your bill, Miss Genevieve. The next time I'm here, I won't be as generous."

He tips his hat and steps out the door.

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. That bolt of silk would have brought in more than enough to cover her entire next payment, if only she'd had the chance to sell it to the wealthy ladies of the ton first. Now she'll need to find another way to make up next week's sum. She shudders — the man is cold, menacing, and yet she can't deny the way he says her name makes something inside her flutter. She doesn't let herself dwell on that pause before he took the silk. She tells herself she imagined it.

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Who is Mr. Bowls, really — and what was that pause before he took the silk? Come back soon for the next chapter in Genevieve's story.

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