The Sewing Room Girl

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘And after all the trouble you go to, Cook,’ Rosie commented, making everyone look at Juliet again.

  ‘Did you have a nice tea?’ Mother asked later when they were in the sewing room. Juliet was beginning to realise what living in the sewing room meant. Even in the evenings, Mother worked.

  She hesitated, but she wanted to say it. ‘I heard someone say they didn’t think I should be allowed to have tea with the rest of them.’

  Mother sighed gustily, a sure sign she was feeling put upon. ‘Living-in servants aren’t meant to have children. It’s a great concession, your being allowed here. If it was just me, I’d eat downstairs, but I’ve got you and I’m not leaving you up here on your own.’

  ‘So you’re not an upper servant after all?’

  ‘No,’ Mother said sharply, ‘I’m just a widow who has to make her way in the world and provide for her child. It isn’t easy and you whining on about my not being an upper servant doesn’t help.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘Don’t answer back.’

  Living in the sewing room was surprisingly restrictive. Once she arrived home of an afternoon, Juliet couldn’t go out again. Mrs Whicker didn’t permit the maids to go flitting about outside and Juliet sensed this applied to her as well. She spent some evenings in the maids’ slipper room, so called because they removed their shoes, but, as much as she enjoyed Cecily’s company, she was reluctant to be in there if Rosie was around. Even when Rosie wasn’t there, it wasn’t entirely comfortable, because the door had been taken off its hinges and you never knew who might be listening in the passage. Mrs Whicker, Cook and Mr Durbin all looked in if they passed, not to mention the handsome footmen who called through the gaping doorway, though it was more than their lives were worth to set foot over the threshold.

  ‘Do you find it hard, being stuck indoors all day?’ she asked Mother.

  ‘It’s not what I’m used to.’ Mother shrugged. ‘Of course, if her ladyship should require my assistance …’ She made it sound as if she was summoned a dozen times a day to give her opinion on the latest fashions. ‘Anyway, I’m going out tomorrow morning on her ladyship’s business.’

  ‘How grand. What did her ladyship tell you about it?’

  Mother glanced away. ‘Mrs Whicker told me, actually. Her ladyship is a patron of the Home for Orphaned Daughters of the Deserving Poor and she was invited to visit tomorrow to see the girls’ progress in needlework. Unfortunately, she won’t be able to attend, so I’m to go in her stead.’

  Those poor charity girls. If Mother was as critical of their efforts as she had always been of Juliet’s, they wouldn’t know what had hit them.

  The next afternoon, Juliet hurried home, knowing Mother would be eager to tell all. Please let her have been kind to the charity girls. As she was toiling up the backstairs, footsteps came running up behind her. She slipped into an alcove to let whoever it was pass, only to find herself trapped in the small space, confronted by Rosie.

  ‘You bitch,’ said Rosie. ‘You and your precious mother, you’re a pair of bitches. I were sent on an errand to Birkfield today and I sneaked into the Home for Orphaned Daughters to see our Hannah, and she was beside herself. She told me all about how your mother made a show of her in front of the warden and the vicar’s wife.’

  Rosie shoved Juliet into the back of the alcove, jarring her shoulders as they struck the wall, but Juliet was determined to stand up for herself.

  ‘Mother was asked to look at the girls’ progress in their sewing.’

  ‘Aye, to look at it and say “It’s coming along nicely,” and congratulate the vicar’s wife, who’s in charge of needlework lessons. That’s what your mother were supposed to do. That’s what her ladyship does: arrive, make everyone feel better and leave. But, oh no, Mrs Blabbermouth Harper had to criticise every single thing, didn’t she? And do you know whose work she picked on to hold up as a bad example? Three guesses!’

  ‘I understand why you’re upset, but—’

  ‘The two of you planned it, didn’t you? Show up our Hannah, so that she has to wear the Disgraced Apron for the rest of the day, which means her name is written in the Disgraced Book, and that’s one step closer to not being allowed to stay in the home. It’s not just our dead parents that have to be deserving, you know. The girls have to be an’ all. Do you know what happens to anyone who gets chucked out? They get sent to yon workhouse over in Ladyfield. Some already have brothers there, since no one thought of setting up a home for sons of the deserving poor. That’s where my brother was sent when me and Hannah went to the Home for Orphaned Daughters. He left three years ago and he’d kill me if I let our Hannah end up there.’

  Juliet gasped as Rosie yanked her from the alcove. She missed her footing and stumbled down a few stairs before she grabbed the handrail, nearly jolting her arm out of its socket. Rosie bounded downstairs, leaving her to gather herself and stumble to the sewing room, where she found Mother, Mrs Whicker and her ladyship’s personal maid, Miss Marchant, drinking tea and looking tired but satisfied.

  Miss Marchant rose. ‘I must return to her ladyship’s chamber.’

  Mrs Whicker’s chair creaked as she raised her bulk. ‘I, too, must return to my duties. I’ll send a girl to fetch the tea tray.’

  They left. Mother bustled about, humming as she wound her tape measure into a neat coil. The door opened and Rosie entered, looking sullen.

  ‘It’s a proper sewing room now,’ Mother declared. ‘Her ladyship came to be measured for an alteration. She stood on that very footstool to have her hem turned up.’ She gazed at the stool as if it were a holy relic. ‘She’s coming tomorrow afternoon to try the new length. I want you back here promptly from old Mrs Dancy’s, Juliet. I’ll press your Sunday best, and you can hold the pins.’

  There was an angry rattle of china as Rosie marched out, hooking the door shut with her foot.

  The next afternoon, Juliet arrived dry-mouthed after running through merciless sunshine.

  ‘Your hair’s a mess,’ carped Mother. ‘Get changed, and wash your face and hands.’

  She freshened up, but when she took her Sunday dress from the cupboard, there was a stain on it. Mother took one look and boxed her ears. Juliet lifted a hand to her smarting ear, but her temper hurt more. She knew who was responsible for this.

  ‘Put on a fresh blouse,’ Mother ordered.

  There was just time before Miss Marchant opened the door and her ladyship sailed in, the last word in elegance in an afternoon dress of blue velveteen. Miss Marchant unhooked its skirt and assisted her ladyship into the altered skirt of a promenade gown of green silk, ablaze with white lace round the trained hem. It had nearly killed Mother to get it finished in time. Mother positioned mirrors all round. Her ladyship asked for this mirror or that one to be moved a fraction as she scrutinised her appearance. Honestly, couldn’t she just take a step to the left? Juliet stood by with the pin cushion. There was a breathless silence, then her ladyship pronounced the new length acceptable and Miss Marchant helped her back into the velveteen gown.

  As her ladyship was leaving, she glanced at Juliet. ‘Is this your daughter, Harper?’

  ‘Yes, Your Ladyship.’

  ‘Does she take after you?’

  ‘Juliet is a competent little needlewoman, Your Ladyship.’

  ‘Good. Come, Marchant.’

  Miss Marchant beamed approvingly at Juliet, making her feel like a prize exhibit, before she opened the door for her ladyship to sweep through.

  ‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ said Mother, but when Cecily came to hear all the details, Mother regaled her with the tale of how Juliet had been noticed, while Juliet groaned inwardly.

  Later, it was Rosie who brought their evening meal.

  ‘Thank you, Rosie,’ said Mother.

  Thank you, Rosie, Rosie mimicked silently behind her back. She unloaded the tray, then held Juliet’s gaze while her mouth worked. Staring straight at Juliet, she leant over and spat a great glistening gob
bet onto Juliet’s plate.

  ‘Don’t let it get cold,’ she said.

  Chapter Three

  It was simple for Juliet: she could sigh beside her father’s grave, feeling nothing but sorrow. Not so for Agnes. Her sighs were complicated, packed with as much guilt as sorrow. She had never let her dear husband forget his good fortune in having lured her away from her professional path to owning her own salon. She wished she could come here more often, but she didn’t have the freedom. Once a week on Sundays had to suffice.

  She had never had her movements curtailed before. No, that wasn’t true. Mother had kept a tight rein on her and Clara. Would Clara have informed Mother that she had been widowed? She wanted Mother to know, but was too proud to write the letter herself. After being cast aside upon her marriage, she couldn’t possibly contact Mother again. Crawling back: that’s what Mother would call it.

  She touched Juliet’s arm. It was time to join the rest of the congregation inside. Rain pattered softly on the stained-glass windows during the service and afterwards everyone emerged to the fresh scent of damp grass. Agnes never used to be a great one for hanging about after church, but now these moments with her old neighbours were precious. She had considered herself above them when they lived cheek by jowl. Now, separated from them, she realised how much she had become one of them.

  ‘How are you getting on, Agnes?’ asked Beatrice, and the group moved closer in a way that was most flattering.

  She described her ladyship’s visits to the sewing room and once she started, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Out it poured, not just the successful alteration, but all about how the best kind of seamstress would grow as close to her mistress as any lady’s maid. Florence Hope’s mouth fell open in admiration, and Agnes held back a gratified sigh.

  ‘Aye, but you’re still a long way off that, aren’t you?’ Trust Beatrice to bring things down to earth.

  ‘If you say so, Beatrice.’ Agnes gave a little laugh. ‘But perhaps you’d care to explain how else I came to represent her ladyship at the Home for Orphaned Daughters of the Deserving Poor.’

  ‘You represented her ladyship?’ breathed Florence. ‘Oh, Agnes, what an honour.’

  ‘What’s next on the cards?’ Beatrice’s tone might lack the admiring quality of everyone else’s but she was listening just as avidly.

  ‘There’ll be a house party in the autumn, and her ladyship and the young ladies are travelling to Manchester to choose fabrics for their ballgowns.’

  ‘Fancy, and are you going with them?’ asked Ella.

  ‘Supplying advice is part of the seamstress’s role,’ she said modestly.

  ‘Manchester?’ said Beatrice. ‘Happen you could drop in on that sister of yours in her fancy shop.’

  Oh, how wonderful to swan into Clara’s salon, or Mademoiselle Antoinette as she called herself these days, and show off her exalted position as personal seamstress to Lady Margaret Drysdale – a lady in her own right, no less. His lordship was a minor sort of lord, but her ladyship was the daughter of a marquis. That would be one in the eye for Clara. She glanced away to hide her smiles.

  It was one of those glorious September days when the air glowed and the sky was as blue as cornflowers. Cecily paused for a breather as she tramped across the tops to Little Clough. Not being allowed to leave until after church was a swine, because it meant she couldn’t go at a leisurely pace. She wanted to see her family, but … well, she didn’t enjoy her visits home anything like as much as she used to.

  How proud everyone had been when she got the position at Moorside. The whole village had turned out to see her off, and she had felt like the Queen of the May. Could she have known how cruelly restricted her chances would be of meeting a chap, she wouldn’t have been so keen. She was eighteen now, and still without a ring on her finger. Barbara and Sally, seventeen and sixteen, were both wed. If their Miranda got hitched before she did, she would throw herself down the well.

  She pushed open the door, and a pile of cutlery was thrust at her.

  Mam paused long enough to bestow a swift kiss. ‘Be a love and lay the table.’

  Times were when everyone stopped what they were doing when she arrived. Now, she was simply the one who pitched up one Sunday a month. Was it always going to be like this? The job at Moorside that everyone had told her was so wonderful felt more like a prison sentence. Oh, the work itself was all right, and she enjoyed being with the other maids, but how was she ever to find a chap? These days, when she saw Barbara and Sally, jealousy rolled deep in her gut.

  No sooner had she set the table than Mam dished up. Cecily couldn’t help feeling she didn’t matter as much as she used to. Mind you, the tables were turned later, after she had helped with the washing-up, when she said she must go soon.

  ‘But you’ve not been here five minutes,’ said Mam.

  ‘I only get the one afternoon and—’

  ‘She wants a bit of time to herself,’ Nan put in. ‘She’s got herself a fella, haven’t you, gal?’

  ‘No.’ A flush seeped across her cheeks.

  ‘Bet you anything she has,’ Nan crowed.

  ‘I just felt like doing something different.’ It sounded feeble, but it was true. One afternoon a month was all she got, and all she ever did with it was come here and not be made a fuss of.

  ‘So, what something different will you be doing?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Just going for a walk.’

  ‘Aye – with a man friend, I bet.’ Nan was like a dog with a bone when she got going.

  Cecily was glad to escape. She hurried down the hill to Birkfield. She had heard in the slipper room that Hal Price, grandson of Mr Harold Price, had been granted permission to spend a couple of hours on Sunday afternoons to work in the Charlesworths’ garden. It was Rosie who had supplied the information. The lucky creature had already met Hal.

  ‘It’s because of his plans for the future,’ Rosie had said, though she hadn’t elaborated, and Cecily, though dying for more, had kept her lips tight shut. She had great hopes of Hal Price. Oh, to be able to go home one Sunday and say, ‘You were right, Nan, I do have a fellow.’

  In Birkfield, she made a beeline for the row of cottages where Mr Rex Charlesworth – daft name, made him sound like a dog – and his sister lived. Mr Charlesworth was drawing master to the young ladies, so presumably that was why Hal was allowed to do a spot of work for him.

  As she approached, she saw him kneeling in front of a flower bed, his fingers diving expertly here and there. She had prepared a couple of kiss curls for the occasion, fixing them with sugar water to ensure they kept their shape, and she tugged them into view before she ambled oh so casually past the cottages. She paused beside the garden wall, but he didn’t look up.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she said. ‘Lovely day.’

  He sat back on his heels. She braced herself to feel all shivery inside. Was this the moment? He pushed his cloth cap to the back of his head, revealing light-brown eyes.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he agreed.

  He stood and she rejoiced at this willingness to pass the time of day. He touched his cap to her. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows. His arms were strong, his hands covered in soil. His waistcoat hung open, and Cecily readied herself to quell the urge to slip her hands inside it.

  She didn’t feel any such urge. Maybe a spot of flirting would help.

  ‘I know who you are.’

  She had read stories in which the heroine fluttered her eyelashes, but when she had tried this in the looking-glass, it had looked like she had something in her eye. She settled for tilting her head to one side.

  ‘Oh aye?’

  The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. He had a friendly smile. Boyish. Would this be what set her all quivery inside? No. But it didn’t matter, because he was so good-looking that something was bound to set her heart racing.

  ‘You’re Hal Price. Your dad’s going to take over as head gardener.’

  ‘That’s right, when Grandad hangs
up his trowel. Do you work at Moorside?’

  ‘I’m Cecily. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

  To her unutterable delight, he reached over the wall to shake hands, but withdrew his hand with a laugh, holding up his grubby palm. ‘We’ll have to save the handshake for another time.’

  Did that mean he wanted to see her again? Surely that should set her senses scattering. But it didn’t. Never mind. She was on the brink. She had to be. Barbara and Sally were both married, and Barbara was in the family way. She was in danger of being the spinster aunt.

  ‘How come you’re gardening here?’ she asked. She peered over the wall at the flower beds. She would have to learn some of the names if she was going to be a gardener’s girl. ‘Do you want to be a jobbing gardener in small gardens instead of working on an estate?’

  ‘Actually, I want to be a garden designer one day.’

  ‘I see.’

  But she didn’t, not really. And it didn’t matter, did it, because, no matter how handsome he was, no matter how strong and capable his slim figure looked, no matter how likeable his manner or how friendly his smile, her pulses weren’t jumping all over the place and her insides weren’t quivering. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

  Juliet crossed the stable yard and entered the house. As she paced down the long corridor, heading for the backstairs, a couple of kitchen maids coming towards her nudged one another and giggled, then dived into the pickling room, and the knife boy, racing past, yelled over his scrawny shoulder, ‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes for all the tea in China.’

  What was going on? She gained the far end of the passage, where the other long corridor crossed it left to right. Before she could reach the stairs, a voice called from behind her.

  ‘Hang on a mo.’ One of the kitchen maids came running. ‘I wanted to warn you. Rosie’s out for blood. She’s heard about—’