She set off again. She must have imagined it. But she knew she hadn’t.
She hadn’t gone above a dozen paces when Mr Nugent stepped out in front of her.
‘Good afternoon, Juliet. Did I startle you? You’ve been picking flowers, I see. His lordship’s flowers.’
‘They grow wild, sir.’
‘On his lordship’s property.’
She shuffled. ‘Sweet woodruff smells so fresh and its scent lasts ever such a long time. It’s nice to put inside drawers of clothes.’
‘You like your things to smell pleasant, do you, Juliet?’
‘It’s not for me. I thought I’d pop some between my mother’s sheets. She’s in and out of bed such a lot.’
‘A kind thought. But you haven’t answered my question. Do you like pretty scents?’
Go away and leave me alone. ‘Yes, sir. Rose is my favourite.’
‘We’ll have to see what we can do about that.’ He looked at her as if considering the matter. ‘Off you go. Your mother will be waiting.’
She didn’t need telling twice.
Walking down the hill, Juliet was so deep in worry about Mother that she saw the young man only just in time to avoid a collision. Suddenly he was in front of her, so near she might have touched him. She had the oddest feeling of being crowded, but that was daft because he was merely someone she had nearly bumped into. She stepped to her right and he stepped to his left. He was dark-eyed, dark-haired. She stepped left and he stepped right. His suit was tweed and his brown bowler had a shallow crown, unlike the high-crowned bowler Mr Nugent wore. She stepped right again as he stepped left.
He said solemnly, ‘Once more and then I must go.’
Laughing, she relaxed. He turned sideways to wave her past. She gave him a shy half-smile and hurried on her way.
Later, when Mrs Naseby was upstairs with a customer who had come for a fitting, the shop door opened. Juliet looked up from the new ribbons she was putting away to find herself face-to-face with the young man.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a stationer’s.’
‘Turn right out of the shop, walk to the market square and it’s on the far corner.’
‘Thanks.’ He opened the door, then glanced back. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Juliet Harper.’ Was she blushing?
‘You’ve been most helpful, Juliet Harper.’
The bell pinged over the door as it closed. You didn’t often see a stranger round here, and now she had had two small encounters in one morning.
And that evening, as she neared the bench halfway up the hill, there he was, seated on it. Should she acknowledge him? When he rose, she felt obliged to stop.
‘You’re on your way home,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Stands to reason. You came down the hill before the shops opened and you’re heading back up when most of them have closed. I’ll walk with you, if I may.’
‘I’m spoken for,’ she blurted out.
‘I only asked to walk with you.’
He fell in step beside her. The path was wide enough for two to walk abreast. Even so, she buried her hands in her pockets so her fingers couldn’t accidentally brush his.
‘I’m sure it’s much more respectable if you know my name,’ he said. ‘I’m William Turton.’
She stopped in surprise and, after another pace or two, so did he. Standing lower on the path, she found herself gazing up into his face as a mixture of relief and confidence rushed through her.
‘You’re Cecily’s William.’
‘Is that how she describes me?’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.’ She resumed walking, hoping she hadn’t scuppered Cecily’s chances. Then she realised something. ‘You asked my name this morning, but you already knew it, because Cecily told you when you saw me in the park.’
‘My, she does have a loose tongue, doesn’t she? What else has she said?’
‘Nothing. Only that you’re here on business.’
‘And I assume from what you said that you’ve got a bloke of your own. What does he do?’
‘He’s one of his lordship’s gardeners.’
‘How come you work in a shop when you live on the estate?’
‘We’ve always lived on the estate. My parents both worked for his lordship at different times.’
‘So why aren’t you a maid? Your mother being seamstress, she was ideally placed to get you taken on at the big house.’
‘How do you know she was seamstress?’
‘Cecily told me. So why didn’t you become a maid?’
She suppressed a huff of annoyance. ‘Why all these questions?’
‘Just making conversation. I bet most of the girls hereabouts would give their eye teeth for a maiding post up yonder.’
‘Maybe, but I’m happy at Naseby’s.’ She slowed her pace. ‘We’re near the village. I – I’d rather not …’
‘Rather not be seen keeping company?’
‘We’re not keeping company.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll go a different way.’ He raised his bowler. ‘Perhaps we’ll bump into one another again.’
The next morning, she took a different path down the hill.
Leaving Mother settled for the night, Juliet went into her bedroom, catching a faint scent, something sweet and elusive alongside the usual smell of beeswax: rose. A fresh candle stood in the candleholder with the little brass mouse. Her white candle was gone, replaced by one of creamy-white with pieces of rose petal inside. Mrs Whicker must have brought it when she called today. According to Mrs Grove, Mrs High-and-Mighty Whicker had run her fingers over various surfaces, though not a speck of dust had she found. Juliet had felt indignant on behalf of the loyal friends who cared for the cottage, but she softened now as she breathed in the candle’s aroma. Its full scent would be released only when it burnt, so she would prepare for bed by candlelight and fall asleep surrounded by the smell of roses.
She picked up her nightgown. Was that a sound? Just the cottage settling for the night. She had herself turned the key in the front door.
She slipped her nightgown over her head and when her head emerged, there was Mr Nugent.
‘Cover yourself, Juliet,’ he said softly. ‘Standing there like that, showing your privates like any common slut.’
She dragged down the nightie, fastening the buttons on the yoke with shaking fingers.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve come. I saw the candle’s glow against your curtain.’
‘Mrs Whicker left it for me.’
‘Did she? Think again, Juliet. Who has your best interests at heart? Did Mrs Whicker put a roof over the head of your ailing mother? Did she provide this furniture? I’m disappointed in you. After everything I’ve done, after all your protestations of gratitude, it doesn’t occur to you that this gift is from me, even though you made a point of telling me your favourite scent.’
‘I never meant you to give me anything.’
‘Of course you did. And all I ask in return is gratitude. I’ve come for some gratitude now.’
Her heart raced. She wanted to hide.
‘Brush your hair for me,’ he said. ‘Stand in front of the looking-glass I provided and brush your hair.’
Her feet were glued to the floor. Then she stepped across to the chest of drawers. How stupid of her to have imagined the candle came from Mrs Whicker. She began to brush her hair. Mr Nugent stood behind her. She fixed her eyes on her white-faced reflection, determined not to meet his gaze in the mirror.
‘Your hands are trembling.’ Gently he took the brush from her and began to draw it through her hair, using his other hand to stroke her hair smooth. ‘There.’ Reaching over her shoulder, he replaced the brush, settling his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘Look at me.’
She dragged her eyes up to his in the mirror. Her eyes were blank with fear; his, as dark as a thunderstorm.
‘
Unfasten your buttons.’ His fingers tightened on her shoulders, squeezing her collarbones.
Her tummy turned over, then went still and cold. Her hands raised – how they were doing it she didn’t know, because it didn’t seem anything to do with her – and her fingers found the tiny buttons Mother had sewn on. They had always been fiddly, but today of all days, just when she needed them to be impossible to undo, they slid straight through the buttonholes. Mr Nugent slipped one hand inside the yoke of her nightie. Her flesh went cold under the soft rasp of his fingertips. Her hands flew to grab at his through the fabric, to stop its progress, to shove it away.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ he murmured. ‘It’s time to be grateful. Think of everything I could take away if you’re not grateful.’
She didn’t want to remove her hands because that was like letting him. But she had to let him. For Mother’s sake, she had to. Sick with reluctance, she dropped her hands, closing her eyes against whatever was going to happen next. His hand moved to cover her breast, cupping it, gently squeezing. She felt sick and cold and stupid, stupid, stupid. He uttered a soft groan, which made her think his eyes must be closed, and she opened her own, only to find his boring into them through the mirror.
Gently he withdrew his hand. ‘A little gratitude, that’s all I wanted.’
And he left.
Chapter Nine
With a suddenness that Agnes saw reflected in the silent shock in everyone’s eyes, her condition worsened. Fear rolled in her stomach, bulky and sour, but she never actually threw up. Her bones would shatter if she did. And the pain … She needed yet more of the medicine to dull it. God, what a wretched way to go.
Doctor Entwistle appeared at the bedside.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said.
‘Mrs Grove sent for me.’
Bloody Beatrice, throwing her weight around, but she was too exhausted to drum up resentment. Even before Doctor Entwistle left, she began to drift off. Oh, the indignity! With a massive effort, she hauled herself back to consciousness. The doctor was speaking to Beatrice.
‘More medicine is the only answer. It will control the pain, up to a point anyway, and make her sleep more, but she’d be doing that in any case. It’s one of the symptoms.’ In a lower voice, he added, ‘It’s spreading through her body.’ He didn’t say what ‘it’ was. No one ever did.
She drifted off. When she woke, Juliet was there, smiling, but her eyes were scared.
She laid her hand on Juliet’s. ‘Good day at the shop?’
‘Never mind me. How are you?’
‘No worse than usual. Having Doctor Entwistle wasn’t my idea.’
‘Shouldn’t we write to Auntie Clara?’
Agnes jerked her hand away. ‘I’m not having her see me like this, thank you very much. Clara – here? Not on your life – or not on mine.’
‘Mother …’
‘If you’ve got nothing useful to say, leave me alone.’
As Juliet crossed the market square, William Turton appeared.
He tipped his bowler. ‘Have you been avoiding me, Juliet Harper?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why have you changed your route up and down the hill?’
‘I just felt like it.’ Drat: here came Mrs Cobbley, a regular customer. ‘I must go.’
She hurried on, smiling at Mrs Cobbley to show she wasn’t ashamed of being seen talking to this young man. How did William know she was using a different path? It was a question she didn’t want to answer.
Before the shop had been open half an hour, Mr Nugent walked in. The hair lifted on Juliet’s arms, but he barely gave her a glance.
‘Good morning, Mrs Naseby, and how are you this fine morning? A word in private, if I may. Good morning, Juliet.’
He followed Mrs Naseby through to the back, leaving Juliet to cope with a string of customers, the last of whom departed just before Mr Nugent and Mrs Naseby reappeared.
‘I trust that will be satisfactory,’ Mr Nugent said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Naseby replied, but Juliet could see it wasn’t.
Mr Nugent came to the counter. ‘Doctor Entwistle has informed me your mother’s condition is deteriorating. She needs someone with her at all times. Therefore I’ve arranged with Mrs Naseby that you’ll finish here at the end of the week to be at home with her.’
Juliet stared from one to the other, wanting Mrs Naseby to object, but knowing she wouldn’t – couldn’t.
‘Your place is there now,’ said Mr Nugent.
When he left, she and Mrs Naseby looked at one another.
‘Well, that’s that,’ Mrs Naseby said.
‘Will you …?’ She had to know. ‘Will you keep my job for me?’
Mrs Naseby sighed. ‘I can’t manage on my own, and there’s no knowing how long your poor mother will last. There, that’s blunt speaking, but it has to be said. I doubt I’ll find another girl as good as you, if it’s any consolation.’
Juliet felt hollowed out with shock. When she got home, she didn’t say a word, not in front of Mrs Grove and Ella, nor to Mother after they left. Mother would be as hurt as she was to know the job was ending.
Except that she wasn’t hurt at all. Well, she was, but only by Juliet’s failure to tell her.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ she demanded the following evening. ‘I had to hear it from Mrs Whicker.’
‘I thought you’d be disappointed.’
‘Disappointed? To have you here with me? I’ll feel easier knowing I’m never alone. Why would that upset me?’
Put like that, why indeed? Juliet hated herself for caring about her job when it was clear where her duty lay, but she couldn’t help feeling upset, not least because everybody else thought it a grand idea. Even Mrs Naseby was triumphant because Miss Bradley had produced a capable girl, and Mr Nugent, in his lordship’s name, prevailed upon Mr Ferguson to release her before the end of term.
On Friday evening, the night before Juliet’s last day at Naseby’s, Mother said, ‘Mr Nugent came today. He says that … afterwards … you’ll go into his household like you were going to before, only it’ll be a full-time position. So that’s something I needn’t worry about.’
For one wild moment, she wanted to shout from the rooftops what Mr Nugent was like. But no one would believe it and, anyroad, she was too ashamed. The impulse died, sucked down in the quagmire of memory of the bedroom she had been shown in Arley House, all on its own on the other side of the building.
Walking in the demure crocodile behind Mrs Whicker and Cook, Cecily saw Juliet arrive alone at church and her heart swelled in compassion. A couple of villagers headed towards Juliet, that bossy one with the purposeful air and the pretty one with the kind eyes. The crocodile processed into church, and Cecily didn’t see her again until after the service.
‘Has Mrs Whicker spoken to you yet?’ Cecily asked.
‘What about?’
‘Becoming seamstress, of course. Close your mouth, love, or you’ll catch a fly. That’s what’s being said in the servants’ hall. Not official, like, but it would make sense, wouldn’t it?’
‘Mr Nugent has already said I’m to go to him.’
‘Not if Lady Margaret says otherwise. Goodness!’ Cecily exclaimed. ‘What have I said?’
Juliet smeared away a tear. ‘Nothing. It’s such a relief to know I’m coming back to Moorside.’ She smiled. ‘I met your William Turton. He knew about Mother being seamstress.’
‘Did he?’
‘He said you told him.’
‘Then I must have. He’s so interested in hearing about everything that I forget what I’ve said.’
‘I bumped into him earlier this week and he knew I’d been going up and down the hill a different way recently. I wondered how he knew.’
What a daft thing to care about. ‘I’ll ask.’
‘No, don’t.’
‘No harm in asking.’
But the next time she sneaked away to meet William, he had more en
ticing things on his mind than answering daft questions, and Cecily didn’t mind in the slightest.
Taking her face in his hands, William breathed kisses over it and flicked his tongue against her ear, making Cecily gasp out a desperate sigh as she arched her neck for more. Was that a chuckle she heard as he began to kiss his way down the line of her throat? His hands left her face, one snaking behind her, pulling her closer so that she couldn’t have wriggled free even had she wanted to. William’s mouth covered hers, and she willingly parted her lips to receive the prolonged kiss that left her yearning for more. Now she knew. Now she understood. She had been shocked when Barbara got herself in the family way while she was courting, but now she understood.
‘What was it you wanted to ask?’ William murmured.
She could scarcely remember. ‘Juliet wondered how you knew she was using a different route, that’s all.’
William nuzzled her hair. ‘I’ve told you before. I can’t …’ Kiss. ‘… discuss …’ Kiss. ‘… my work.’
Another kiss, a longer one. Cecily felt a sharp tug of desire, but even as she yearned towards him, William put her from him.
‘Time for you to get back.’
She groaned, but he laughed. She tidied her hair and straightened her appearance. Would anyone notice that her lips were swollen from the potency of his kisses? After a lingering farewell, she raced away to resume her duties. She had been so certain no one would notice her carefully orchestrated absence that her heart lurched when Mrs Whicker swooped on her.
‘Cecily! I wish to speak to you. Make yourself available at four o’clock precisely.’
Juliet had thought there wouldn’t be much to do at home, but looking after Mother – making pots of tea, providing meals, dashing upstairs to tidy the bed when Mother dragged herself downstairs, sitting with her after she dropped off and never quite knowing whether she could move without disturbing her – was strangely time-consuming. She had to pull her weight with the housework as well. Or perhaps time-consuming wasn’t the right word. It was more that the world outside the cottage seemed far away and it was only what happened inside that mattered.
The Sewing Room Girl Page 10
