The Sewing Room Girl

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘Oh aye, I’ve heard all right.’

  A hand grabbed Juliet from behind and swung her about. There stood Rosie, eyes flashing. Heat bubbled up inside Juliet. She was sick to death of being picked on. She shoved back and darted free. Cecily appeared from the stairs, carrying an ash pan. Juliet snatched it and dumped its load squarely over Rosie’s head. Cold ashes smothered her cap and hair, plopping down to spatter her shoulders and smear her face. Juliet caught her breath in a mixture of jubilation and horror, savouring the look of astonishment on Rosie’s face.

  For one breathless moment, they all froze. Then Rosie released a shrill scream of shock and fury before launching herself at Juliet like an avenging demon. Juliet’s stomach was almost left behind as she went hurtling backwards. Rosie clawed and pummelled, terrifying Juliet with her strength, and she was never more relieved in her life than when others waded in and dragged them apart.

  ‘Mrs Whicker will have forty fits if she gets to know about this.’ Thomasina, the most senior of the parlourmaids, appeared from nowhere. ‘Cecily, help Rosie get cleaned up. Juliet, upstairs this instant.’

  Juliet obeyed with wings on her feet – and in her heart. She practically danced into the sewing room.

  ‘There you are,’ said Mother.

  ‘You sound like old Mrs Dancy. She says that every morning.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky. You look pleased with yourself.’

  ‘Do I?’ And no wonder. She had upended an ash pan on Rosie’s head. ‘Can’t think why.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be pleased with yourself in a minute.’ Mother’s face burst into a smile. ‘You know that the Drysdales are hosting a house party in the autumn?’

  ‘Yes, and you’re accompanying her ladyship and the young ladies to Manchester to choose materials for their ballgowns.’

  ‘There are other garments to be made too. It’s going to be a lot of work, so I said to Mrs Whicker, “That’s a mountain of work for me to get through, not forgetting my everyday sewing.” Then, the next time I saw her, I mentioned how I’ve taught you to sew and what a help you could be to me. Lo and behold, this morning, she had the idea of taking you on in here for September.’

  ‘In here?’

  ‘In the sewing room. She’d never have agreed if I’d asked outright. This way, it’s her idea, which is all she cares about. So, you’ll be working for me for a few weeks. What do you say to that?’

  What, work in the sewing room? Alongside Mother, with her carping and criticism?

  ‘But if I’m to come here, who’ll take care of old Mrs Dancy?’

  ‘Is that all you can say, when I’ve just offered you this marvellous opportunity? You’re to work here through September, and that maid with the sulky mouth – what’s her name? – Rosie – Rosie will look after old Mrs Dancy.’

  They had left her behind. The Drysdales had gone to Manchester and left her behind. The skin squeezed Agnes’s bones as humiliation rippled through her, making her feel naked and on show. And after she had boasted to her old neighbours too. How was she to face them on Sunday? Wait. Next week was Auntie Juley’s anniversary, so she could legitimately dash away the moment the service ended to visit Auntie Juley’s grave in Birkfield.

  She hated to use Auntie Juley, but it couldn’t be helped, and she would have visited the grave anyway, because she had loved Auntie Juley, who had been far more of a mum to her and Clara than Mother ever had. Auntie Juley was Mother’s aunt. She had kept house for them while Mother worked. Without her, there would have been no bedtime stories, no trips to the park, no one to kiss it better when they fell. It would have been nowt but work, work, work, sew, sew, sew, from the earliest age. Everybody in the vicinity of Moorside reckoned Mrs Whicker was a slave-driver with her maids, but they didn’t know the meaning of the word. Adeline Tewson – now there was a real slave-driver. Relentless. Unforgiving. She was strong and ruthless, and God help any mere male who came up against her. According to Clara’s Christmas letters, Mother’s textiles business was flourishing.

  In her later years, Auntie Juley had retired to Birkfield, the home of her childhood. When she fell ill and needed help, Agnes and Clara had expected Clara, the less talented, the more easily dispensable, to be sent, but Mother had sent Agnes.

  ‘You’ve got more about you than Clara. Auntie Juley needs someone with a bit of nous and Clara’s worse than useless.’

  So Agnes had come here – and had never left. If Mother had sent Clara, Agnes would now be running a high-class salon, with well-to-do ladies clamouring for her advice on what suited them. A sour taste filled Agnes’s mouth. Didn’t her ladyship realise what an asset she would have been to the Manchester trip?

  All at once it felt a trial to have Juliet working in the sewing room. Her help would be useful, of course, but manoeuvring Mrs Whicker into having the idea had been all wrapped up in Agnes’s happy anticipation of her triumphant spree in Manchester. Filled with generosity, she had gone to Naseby’s to buy Juliet her own sewing box, its padded lid embroidered with snowdrops, and she had taken pleasure in filling it with the tools of the trade: scissors for different purposes, sharps of various sizes, pins, threads in all the basic colours, a tin for buttons, a selection of ribbons and braids, and a darning mushroom and wool.

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ said Juliet. ‘It’ll be most useful.’

  That was the moment when – if she had been included in the Manchester trip, if she had felt as special and important as she was meant to feel – she would have hugged Juliet and promised, ‘I know it doesn’t seem like the best gift just now, because I felt the same when Mother presented me with my sewing box. Years of sewing samples and nothing ever being good enough made a sewing box the last thing I wanted. But later, all those years paid off and I came to love sewing, and then I was proud of my sewing box. One day, you will be too.’

  That was what she had planned to say. But now, all she said was, ‘You ought to have your own sewing box. I’m fed up of you raiding mine.’

  When the fabrics arrived, Agnes snipped the string and folded back the brown paper on the first plump parcel, her own soft intake of breath echoed in Juliet’s delighted gasp. Silks in cream, ivory and pale buttermilk yellow shimmered enticingly and slid like liquid between her fingers.

  ‘Her ladyship’s silk has its own sound.’ Juliet’s fingertips trailed wonderingly along the midnight blue shot through with silver thread.

  ‘The best silks do have that rustle, almost a crackle.’

  They started on Miss Louisa’s ballgown. There was a phenomenal quantity of silk because the skirt was to be knife-pleated, precision work that called for perfect measuring. Agnes assigned to Juliet the task of making the short puffed sleeves. As well as its dozens of knife pleats, the skirt was to have an embroidered panel down the front, and this was another task given to Juliet.

  ‘I want it to look as if the flowers are scattered all over,’ said Agnes.

  ‘With ivy winding in and out.’

  Agnes pursed her lips. ‘I never said anything about ivy.’

  ‘It was only an idea.’

  ‘It’s not your place to have ideas.’

  Juliet duly presented a drawing, carefully coloured, stitches listed down the side. She had spread roses and peonies down the length, and filled in the spaces with smaller blooms. At first glance, Agnes was pleased – more pleased than she had expected to be. Impressed, in fact, and her gaze flicked upwards in vexation. The junior member of staff wasn’t supposed to be this good. There was another sheet of paper underneath, with the same design, but this time incorporating ivy leaves.

  ‘This is your idea of how to carry on, is it? Defying my wishes, wasting time on a second design? You’d be sacked for that, my girl, if you worked in my salon. There!’ She clouted Juliet round the ear. The palm of her hand felt hot with vindication, though honesty forced her to concede stiffly, ‘The ivy brings out the colours in the flowers. You may work that design.’

  But she wished she hadn’t agreed to
it when the embroidery started taking shape, the ivy providing a subtle counterpoint to the flowers. Chill rippled through her shoulders. Juliet had known instinctively what would look perfect and she was right. Not that Agnes had any intention of praising her. You didn’t praise junior members of staff. You looked stern and said ‘Hmm’ when you scrutinised their efforts. It kept them on their toes. She should know. Mother had kept her and Clara on their toes for years and it hadn’t done them any harm.

  To her amazement, Juliet enjoyed working in the sewing room. Handling the glorious fabrics, watching the stylish gowns take shape, actually working on the gowns herself – she loved it. Having disliked sewing all her life, suddenly those years of endless practice had become worthwhile. As for designing the embroidered panel, that had been pure bliss. After her first tentative pencil strokes, the design had grown naturally, and she was proud to create it for real, using the precise shades of embroidery floss. As for her stitching, it was faultless. Even the French knots, which had been the bane of her life, were of uniform size in their dainty clusters.

  How was she ever to go back to emptying old Mrs Dancy’s night pail? In the three years since she left school, it had never occurred to her that work might be enjoyable. Yet here she was, lapping up every moment.

  So engrossed was she that it was almost a disappointment to be despatched to Birkfield to purchase supplies from Naseby’s, but once she was outside, the morning air worked its magic, and she took the back drive at a brisk pace, relishing the cool, damp feel that the thick shrubbery endowed on the surroundings and giving a cheery wave to the gatekeeper’s wife as she passed the lodge.

  She didn’t go through the village, because their old neighbours would detain her, and Mother would be timing her to the minute, but headed straight for the main path down the steep hillside. At the top, she stopped to breathe in the scents of grass and gorse, its bright yellow blooms still flowering within bushes of needle-like leaves. Down in the valley sprawled the market town of Birkfield and further along, with two or three miles between them, the smaller town of Ladyfield. It was intriguing to think of Mother having hailed from Manchester, which might even be big enough to fill the whole valley. Imagine that! The biggest place Juliet had ever been to was Birkfield, though she had walked along the tops to look down at Annerby in the next valley. Annerby occupied the valley floor as well as climbing partway up the opposite hill.

  ‘Look at that,’ Pop had said with scorn in his voice. ‘Who’d want to live their lives in that place, with its railway line and its tall chimneys, when they could live up here? Give me a fresh-air job any day. I’ve never been down there to Annerby and I never will.’

  Juliet never had either, though sometimes she had watched the steam engine pulling its line of carriages away from the town. What was it like to travel on a train?

  Plunging down the path to Birkfield, she kept her rhythm steady. A real calf-stretcher of a walk, Pop used to call it, and it was important to pace yourself, especially on the way back up. Pink stemless thistles and yellow cat’s ears grew on either side of the path, and halfway down was a small offshoot with a bench, so you could have a breather. His lordship had had the bench put there. He was good like that.

  At the bottom, creamy-coloured field pansies sprouted on a patch of wasteland before she entered the town. Naseby’s was in one of the cobbled streets off the market square. The drapery-cum-haberdashery had never particularly interested her before, but now she was glad that a couple of customers were inside, mulling over buttons with Mrs Naseby, giving Juliet a chance to mooch around and examine the bolts of materials. Mrs Naseby stocked plain, serviceable fabrics. Juliet pictured the silks, velvets and taffeta in the sewing room and felt privileged. No wonder Mother had been so disappointed not to accompany the Drysdales on their shopping expedition. She hadn’t said much, but her stony expression and bitter smiles made it clear she was crushed. Juliet felt an ache of compassion. She was going to feel crushed herself when she had to leave the sewing room.

  A piece of card was propped up on a little stand on one of the counters. Help Wanted. Before she could read what it said underneath, the shop bell jingled as the customers departed.

  ‘Now then, Juliet, what can I do for you?’ In her pin-tucked white blouse with discreetly puffed upper sleeves, Mrs Naseby was a good advertisement for the dressmaking service she offered. ‘Are you here for yourself or for the sewing room?’

  ‘The sewing room.’

  Mrs Naseby stood straighter. ‘It’s a pleasure to supply goods to her ladyship.’

  Juliet drew Mother’s list from her pocket, but instead of unfolding it, she nodded at the card. Help Wanted.

  ‘Are you looking for another dressmaker to replace my mother?’

  ‘No, I need a new assistant in the shop. Dora’s leaving to get wed.’

  ‘You could put the card in the window. More folk will see it.’

  ‘Nay, you can’t have just anyone working in an establishment like this. It has to be someone who knows about sewing.’

  Someone who knows about sewing.

  Someone who doesn’t want to spend her days swilling out chamber pots.

  ‘Mrs Naseby,’ she said. ‘Would you mind if I applied for the position?’

  Chapter Four

  Mother was in a ratty mood, so Juliet didn’t mention her forthcoming interview. Mother in a good temper would be proud, but Mother with a cob on might accuse her of going behind her back. Mother was in a flap because Mrs Whicker had invited her to share a pot of tea with her that evening.

  ‘Can’t you just tell her how busy we are?’ Juliet suggested. ‘It’s the young ladies’ final fittings tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t say no to the housekeeper, no matter how busy you are. I suppose this means I’ll have to work till midnight. You’ll have to work instead of going to the slipper room.’

  That was no hardship. She hadn’t been near the slipper room since she started in the sewing room, because the embroidered panel had taken so much time. Besides, she had no desire to cross swords with Rosie.

  When Cecily brought their evening tray, Juliet said, ‘Mother is having tea with Mrs Whicker later, so come and keep me company.’

  ‘As long as you don’t distract Juliet from her work,’ sniffed Mother.

  Cecily arrived so promptly that Mother was still there. They practically pushed her out of the door. Juliet picked up her sewing, noticing the eagerness in Cecily’s face that said she was ready for a good gossip.

  ‘Rosie tells everyone you’re skulking up here to avoid her.’

  ‘I’ve no desire to get my eyes scratched out.’

  They grinned at one another.

  ‘I reckon your old lady in the village will be lucky to survive the month,’ said Cecily. ‘Rosie is inches from committing murder. The only thing stopping her is that she finishes mid afternoon and takes her time trailing back through the grounds and accidentally on purpose running into Hal Price.’

  ‘Really? I thought you were looking forward to meeting him.’

  Cecily pulled a face. ‘I was, but he’s not the chap for me. Don’t get me wrong, he’s handsome, but he’s more interested in his future career than anything else.’

  ‘That’s good, surely? It shows he means to get on.’

  ‘Anyroad, he’ll be doing it without me. I don’t fancy him.’

  She sounded so downcast that Juliet chuckled.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ said Cecily. ‘You’re only fifteen. I’m eighteen and time’s running out.’

  ‘So Hal has been bagged by Rosie.’

  ‘If he hasn’t, it’s not for the want of her trying. Don’t tell your mother. If Mrs Whicker gets a sniff of it, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  Juliet had no intention of telling tales on Rosie, but if Rosie ever started on at her again, she would threaten to without a qualm. Anyroad, if she got the job at Naseby’s, that would prove she had no wish to be a Moorside maid.

  All she had to do now wa
s tell Mother she had an interview the day after tomorrow, but with Mother half-thrilled and half-angry in anticipation of the final fittings, she couldn’t find the right moment. Mother’s anger wasn’t really anger. It was fear.

  She had been angry when Pop lay unconscious following his accident.

  ‘Don’t let it upset you, Juliet,’ Mrs Grove had advised, her normally matter-of-fact manner softening for once. ‘Your mother’s scared. With some folk, when they’re frightened, it comes out as weeping or dithering. With your mother, it shows as vexation. It makes it difficult for the rest of us, but there you are.’

  At last the hour arrived for the fittings. Miss Marchant opened the door and her ladyship entered, looking regal in bottle green with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, followed by the Misses Louisa, Phoebe and Vicky. Behind them came Miss Louisa’s maid and the maid her sisters shared.

  The young ladies twirled about, looking as if they never wanted to take off their new gowns.

  ‘All these layers of frills around my skirt are wonderful,’ said Miss Vicky.

  ‘They will flare when you dance, Miss Vicky,’ said Mother.

  ‘The embroidery on mine is exquisite,’ said Miss Louisa.

  Juliet looked expectantly at Mother, but Mother merely said, ‘It’s all in the design, Miss Louisa,’ and steadfastly kept her eyes on the young ladies. Until now, Juliet had enjoyed their delight, but now she wanted them gone. She felt betrayed.

  At last they were assisted out of their ballgowns, and her ladyship’s entourage departed.

  ‘Why—?’ Juliet began.

  ‘Not now.’ Mother fussed in her work basket. ‘What have I told you about tidiness in the sewing room? You can see to the mirrors.’

  Filled with indignant strength, Juliet lugged them about. At last Mother stopped chasing her own tail and she pounced.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Miss Louisa I did her embroidered panel?’

  ‘She didn’t ask.’

  ‘You made it sound like it was your work.’