The Sewing Room Girl

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ he remarked. ‘Look at you, begging for more. Cover yourself, girl.’

  Snuffing out the candle between his fingers, he left the room. Desperate to wash his slobberings away, she fumbled with the lamp and poured water into her bowl, sloshing it over her breast and soaping it again and again. And again.

  Juliet sat beside the window, chin in hand, elbow on the sill. Hal would be leaving soon, and it was all she could do to hang onto her heart and stop it scattering in pieces. How was she to manage without him? She had thought over and over about telling him about Mr Nugent, but shame kept her quiet. Guilt too. In her head she knew it wasn’t her fault, but in her heart and her stomach, she feared it was. Besides, what would happen to Mother if she kicked up a stink? She felt frightened and dirty and stupid, stupid, stupid.

  It was a fine day, all blue skies and sunshine. And trees. That was how it was here. Either rain and trees or sunshine and trees. There was nothing else – just trees. She felt hemmed in. Or maybe that was nothing to do with the trees.

  She looked over her shoulder. Mother slept. She spent more time asleep than awake these days. The village women had stopped coming in the afternoons. It had become Juliet’s job to sit with her then. And sit was all she did. She ought to be sewing or reading, but these were beyond her. Sometimes she tried, but it wasn’t long before her mind was pulled inexorably to other matters.

  ‘Juliet? Come here.’

  She took Mother’s hand. ‘Do you need more medicine?’

  ‘Want to … talk to you. Have to tell you something. Beatrice said there’s talk going round about you.’

  Cold poured through her. Surely not about her and Mr Nugent—?

  ‘Folk are saying you’ll go to Moorside as seamstress.’

  Relief made her limbs tingle. ‘I’ve heard that too. Isn’t it good?’

  ‘But you’re to join Mr Nugent’s household.’

  ‘Not if Lady Margaret wants me.’

  Mother’s eyes sparkled with tears. ‘She won’t. She won’t.’

  ‘Everyone at Moorside says so. And why wouldn’t she? She liked having her own seamstress.’

  ‘But not you.’

  Fear fluttered inside her. ‘Why not?’

  Mother lifted her hand from the bed, taking Juliet’s with it, then dropped them both. ‘If I’d known what was going to happen … If I’d known I’d be this ill, I’d have praised you to high heaven, but I couldn’t know, could I? So I did you down. I told her ladyship that you’re … capable enough under supervision but you’ve no flair in your own right. I told her that was why I sent you to work in Naseby’s … because you weren’t good enough for her sewing room.’

  ‘You didn’t! Why would you do that?’

  ‘I know, I know, I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. You were so good at everything and I couldn’t bear it. It … it wasn’t fair, after I’d worked so hard. It’s not just that you’re a good needlewoman. You can design too; you’ve a real eye for it. I knew that when you designed the embroidered panel. It was … breathtaking.’ Mother’s face puckered as if she were about to cry. ‘So I let Lady Margaret think it was my design.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The very idea of a young chit having that kind of ability!’

  ‘But it was my work.’

  ‘And that was our secret – until you blabbed to Mrs Naseby. It was why I stopped you having drawing lessons too, because I saw what was happening. You were so busy concentrating on getting the proportions right on the figures that you didn’t notice, but I did. You dressed them. You created costumes for them out of your head. I’ve never done that. Give me a pattern and I can work wonders, but creating a costume from scratch, designing it … well, I didn’t want you doing that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  An obstinate look came over Mother’s face. ‘I was better than Clara. Mother always said so. She was hard on Clara because of it, but she was hard on me too, because she expected more of me. Honestly, there was no pleasing her. I wanted to get my salon before Clara did, and Mother used to laugh at Clara and say she could go and work for me. That made Clara cry, which was why Mother said it, of course, and I had to comfort Clara, but really I was thinking how wonderful it would be if I had the success and she was one of my workers. Only I ended up married and she’s the one with the salon.’

  ‘But you’d rather have had Pop than a salon, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘But I haven’t got him any more, have I?’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘And don’t I know it! A daughter with more talent than I’ve got. Who wants that?’

  ‘Aren’t mothers supposed to want the best for their children?’

  ‘You can want the best without wanting to be outshone. My mother would never have let Clara and me outshine her. That’s why I was glad you got yourself hitched so young. I thought: that’ll keep her busy.’ Mother uttered a sound that was part splutter, part laugh. ‘Hark at me, jealous of my own daughter.’ Another splutter followed, this time of tears and snot. ‘And if that makes me some sort of monster, so be it.’ She smeared her face with the back of her hand before Juliet could pass her a hanky.

  ‘You’re not a monster.’

  ‘I’ve made good and sure you’ll never get that job with Lady Margaret.’ Mother reached for her hand, and Juliet pretended to think she wanted the hanky. ‘Still, you’ve got the job with Mr Nugent. You’ll be all right.’

  Dear God. Mr Nugent’s sewing girl.

  Juliet trudged home from the gardeners’ cottages, a lump in her throat and hot pressure behind her eyes. Hal would be leaving for Annerby shortly to catch the train. She couldn’t go to the station with him, because she couldn’t leave Mother for that long. As it was, she had spent most of the morning and half the afternoon with the Prices. She was enormously proud of Hal, but, oh, she didn’t want him to leave.

  Hal’s mum had tried to engineer her into pleading with him to stay. ‘Juliet will miss you dreadfully, won’t you, dear? And you with your poor mother to cope with an’ all.’

  ‘Of course I’ll miss him,’ said Juliet, ‘but he knows how much I want him to achieve his ambition.’

  ‘Well said, young Juliet,’ chimed in Harold Price. ‘Leave the lass alone, Marian. ’Tisn’t fair to try to make her stand in Hal’s way.’

  Hal had squeezed her hand and dropped a kiss close by her ear as he murmured, ‘Thank you.’

  She turned her gaze towards him, wanting him to see the love shining in her eyes, even though her heart was trembling with the knowledge of how she would miss him.

  Now she was on her way home. Her heart was full – and so was her mind. After Mother … well, afterwards, what if she found a way to join Hal in London? Might she be allowed to join the Drysdales’ London household as a maid? If she asked Mrs Whicker, would she have to refer the matter to Mr Nugent? Surely not for a maid. Would she simply offer Juliet’s services to the London housekeeper?

  ‘Well, well, look who it is.’ William Turton stood in front of her, looking like he owned the place, feet apart, hands on hips. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  She felt a spark of annoyance. The last thing she needed was company. ‘Not now.’

  ‘That’s not very friendly when I’ve been waiting for you.’ His sorrowful voice mocked her.

  She stepped aside, but he blocked her path.

  William’s voice hardened. ‘I waited here once before, only old Nugent came along and saved the day, you might say. Saved your day, at any rate. Still, it gave me the opportunity to meet you officially, as it were, on the hill and in the shop. You thought I fancied you. Why else make such a point of saying you had a bloke? That’s where you’ve been today, isn’t it, to see your gardener’s boy?’

  She turned to retrace her steps, but William grabbed her arm, twisting her round to face him.

  ‘Leaving so soon? Don’t you want to say goodbye? I’ll be on my way after this. I’ve jus
t got my business to finish up. Know about my business, do you, from Cecily? A wrong that needs righting. So – let’s get it set to rights, shall we?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘With your cooperation, of course. Or better yet, without it.’

  His mouth set in a cruel line. She was baffled, then fear washed away her confusion. She tried to run, but he grabbed her, and she felt a fresh thrill of shock as she realised the strength of his hands and arms. She opened her mouth to yell, but William clouted her across the side of her head hard enough to make it spin, leaving her feeling stunned and sick. He fastened one arm around her waist, his other hand clamped over her mouth, as he half dragged, half carried her from the path. She struggled to pull free, but she was no match for him, staggering along beside his ground-eating stride.

  William tossed her down. She threw out her hands to save herself going face first into the undergrowth. She staggered to her feet, only to be knocked down again. This time William followed her down, seizing her wrists and planting them either side of her head. Juliet started to struggle, but froze when his face appeared close above hers.

  ‘Ever done it with the gardener’s boy?’

  Fresh panic coursed through her. She bucked hard, but William threw one leg across her body and straddled her. His face broke into a grin. He snapped her wrists together so he could hold them in one hand, then used his free hand to shove his way through the front of her jacket and wrench open her blouse, dragging the thin cotton of her chemise this way and that. Terrified, Juliet hauled in a breath and let out a scream, amazed at how reedy it was when it was meant to be a huge sound to bring rescue pounding this way. The sound cut off sharply when he slapped her across her face.

  ‘Much as your cries would add to the moment, I’m afraid I can’t allow them. Excuse the snot.’ He stuffed a balled-up handkerchief into her mouth.

  Her eyes bulged as her air supply was blocked, then she managed to sniff in a few thin breaths. William regarded her, his eyes steady. She gazed pleadingly at him, hoping against hope … and when he raised himself from her waist, she felt a flash of relief, but it turned to horror as he kneed her legs apart, her thighs almost cracking into pieces from the effort to resist.

  She seemed to split in two. Part of her was fighting and struggling while the other part was somewhere else, somewhere distant. Only when William rammed himself into her did the two parts rush back together, and she let loose a high-pitched humming sound that was the closest she could get to a scream. His thrusts grew quicker until he pushed himself in so deep that it seemed he must be jammed there for ever. His body shuddered violently and he slumped, dropping his full weight on her, making what little breath she had left come oozing out.

  She managed to pull an arm free. It felt hot and bruised and numb all at the same time. With useless fingers, she plucked at the handkerchief in her mouth. The weight on top of her eased as William raised himself on his elbows. When his hand came up, she tried to flinch away, but he simply took a pinch of the fabric and yanked the hanky out so swiftly she gagged.

  If there had been even one drop of juice inside her mouth, she would have spat in his face, but the handkerchief had left her mouth parched and raw.

  ‘Get off,’ she rasped.

  ‘My guess is I beat the gardener’s boy to it.’

  ‘Get off.’

  ‘In a minute. Haven’t quite finished yet. If it were up to me, I’d gladly walk away right now, leaving you lying here wondering what the bloody hell just happened. But I’m under orders, see, so I can’t. Rosie wanted you to know this came from her.’ He dropped a kiss on Juliet’s nose. ‘Love from Rosie.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Black dots clouded Juliet’s vision and the sound of her heartbeats battered the insides of her ears as she stumbled home, her legs threatening to give way at any moment. She walked with them apart, as though she had wet herself. It was as if she had been punched hard between her legs and right up inside, all the way to the bowl of her stomach.

  She skirted round the cottage to creep in through the back. Hearing voices in Mother’s room, she tiptoed upstairs. Mother’s door was open. Ella said, ‘Here she comes,’ but she couldn’t face them, couldn’t face anyone ever again.

  She shut herself in her room and sat on the bed. Then she stood up. She didn’t know what to do. Presently there was a gentle knock.

  ‘I’m off now, petal,’ said Ella. ‘She’s managed a little soup and has fallen asleep.’ Her lovely eyes narrowed. ‘Are you all right?’ She sighed. ‘I know, love, it’s hard, but she’s surrounded by friends and that counts for a lot.’

  She made a move and Juliet, fearing a kindly hug that would cause her to shatter into a thousand brittle shards, stepped backwards.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Ella said. ‘You know where I am.’

  When she was gone, Juliet stood in Mother’s doorway, watching her sleep. Her mind was frozen, but horror teemed beneath the ice. She swung away and headed downstairs. She needed to scrub herself clean, but when she attempted to lift the bath from its hook, it felt unaccountably heavy and she staggered backwards, feeling an inner swoop as she fell. Landing flat on her back, she lived again the terror of that moment when William Turton hurled her to the ground. With inarticulate sounds of fear and revulsion, she scrambled up, brushing herself down with wild hands. She wanted to scrub every bit of filth and degradation from her flesh, and when she had finished, she wanted to do it all over again to make sure.

  What was the point, if Mr Nugent came tonight?

  He didn’t come. Nor the next night or the next. She heard he was away on business. She would have rejoiced at that last week. Now she didn’t care. Couldn’t.

  Rosie had done this. Rosie.

  ‘Love from Rosie,’ William Turton had said. Oh, dear God, Rosie. Then he had rolled off her, already straightening his clothes as he came to his feet, while she lay there, stunned. She gasped in fear as he leant down, but all he did was tuck something in her pocket. ‘My calling card,’ he said and off he sauntered, whistling jauntily.

  She found it a day or two later. His business card. She held it between her fingertips.

  ‘Love from Rosie’. Oh, dear God, Rosie.

  The first Juliet knew of Mr Nugent’s return was when he came to pay his respects to Mother, who sat hunched in the basketwork chair, the footstool pulled close so she could draw up her knees. It was agony for her to manage the stairs now, but she remained determined to come down every morning.

  Mr Nugent took one look at her and said, ‘Daybed.’

  Although Juliet was relieved for Mother’s sake, she knew too that it was something else to be grateful for. Sure enough, there was a visit that night. Mother had slunk off to bed early, saying she might come down again later, but that was just pretence. There was a lot of pretending these days. Juliet sat with her hands folded in her lap. It was as if she was standing outside herself, observing how composed she looked. In another corner of her mind she imagined herself running round like a mad thing, barricading herself in. Perhaps she should. If she didn’t, was it tantamount to agreeing to what Mr Nugent wanted? Except that she had to agree, because if she wasn’t grateful, what would become of Mother? And, anyroad, after what William Turton had done—

  Mr Nugent took her upstairs, set the rose candle burning and quietly ordered her to undress. When she reached for her nightgown, he stopped her and she had to stand there while he ran his hands over her, his fingertips whispering across her flesh. She ought to have shuddered, but her heart was too heavy to bother.

  When he finished, she wrenched her nightgown over her head, slipped into bed and pulled up the covers. The bed dipped as he sat. He placed his hands either side of her shoulders, pressing down the bedclothes around her, making her feel trapped, making her feel the way William Turton had made her feel when he overpowered and defiled her.

  Mr Nugent looked at her. She imagined spitting in his face. Then he got up, snuffing out the candle as he left.


  Agnes clung to the wall at the foot of the stairs, feeling sick not just in her stomach but in every part of her body. Even her eyeballs felt sick. Her eyelids fluttered, desperate to close. Her suffering body was screaming for the release of unconsciousness. If she could just stagger back to the daybed. But Doctor Entwistle was coming. She felt a twinge of anger. Her hands fisted and her knuckles cracked. Bloody doctor. What good had he done? But she had more self-respect than to be anywhere other than in her own bed when he came.

  Juliet came scurrying to the rescue.

  ‘Have you changed the sheets?’ Agnes demanded.

  ‘Yes, Mother, and aired the room.’

  Getting upstairs was a devil of a job. Every bone and muscle, every bit of her down to the tiniest shred of gristle, jangled. The gentlest touch chafed her sensitive flesh, yet she could barely move without assistance.

  Nausea – sudden overwhelming nausea. Halfway upstairs, she sagged onto the step and sat hunched over, wrapping stick-thin arms round herself.

  ‘Bowl,’ she mumbled urgently. ‘Get a bowl.’

  But Juliet wasn’t quick enough, and with a horrid lurch that nearly turned her inside out, Agnes vomited on the stairs. Tears of shame trickled into the shrunken hollows where her cheeks used to be.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Juliet whispered. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s not all right.’ Her breath was laced with fumes; her face twisted in disgust.

  When she got back to bed, she lay trembling with pain. She was distantly aware of Juliet cleaning up the mess and opening the windows. Please let the stench shift in time. She still felt green around the gills, and not just the gills but everywhere else too. If only she could sleep …

  She awoke she had no idea how much later. Someone knocked on the door. It reverberated through her bones.

  Doctor Entwistle was accompanied by Beatrice. Agnes had had to swallow the fact that he required Beatrice’s presence. She submitted to being examined and questioned, then had to submit to his disappearing downstairs to speak to Beatrice, no doubt with Juliet hovering close by, ignored by the great man. At least she had the dignity of paying her own fees. She had insisted on that. She would accept any other form of help, but when Mr Nugent had tactfully suggested that the estate would meet the doctor’s fees, she put her foot down. Cooking and cleaning, food from the big house, the daybed – all counted as help, but money was charity.