The Sewing Room Girl

by Susanna Bavin

  ‘I’ve taken my bag to Mrs Grove’s.’

  ‘Did you pack your special candle?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then kindly fetch it.’

  Upstairs, she stared at the brass candle holder with the little mouse perched on the edge of the saucer. She wanted to hurl it through the window. Nausea rolled and she clutched the chest of drawers, bending over and breathing deeply to steady herself. She was going to be sick. She had to get rid of Mr Nugent.

  Downstairs, one of the men was waiting. She gave him the candle holder.

  ‘That’s everything for Arley House,’ Mr Nugent told him. When the cart rumbled away, he told Juliet, ‘They’ll be back later to fetch your mother.’

  They had screwed down the coffin lid. She felt a pang at being denied a final farewell.

  ‘I gather the procession is starting from the village,’ Mr Nugent said.

  ‘From Mrs Grove’s, sir.’

  She held onto the contents of her stomach while he put on his hat and twitched his gloves. She held on while he walked to the door and opened it, and while he stepped outside. The moment the door started to shut, she darted out to the earth-closet, where she heaved up everything but the soles of her shoes. She paused at the water pump to splash her face and swill cold water round her mouth.

  When she returned, Mr Nugent was in the parlour, his jaw set, his eyes hard and glittering.

  He knew.

  ‘Sick in the morning? By Christ! You’ve been whoring around with that damned Price – and after I ordered him to keep his hands off you. He’ll pay for this. And as for you, madam—’

  Juliet didn’t see it coming. Mr Nugent walloped her across the face. Her neck crunched as her head jerked sideways. Another blow sent her sprawling and she banged her ribs on the stairs. She scrambled up a few steps, only to find him looming over her.

  ‘Haven’t I treated you well, taken my time over you, broken you in gently? I could have had you till your teeth rattled morning, noon and night. God, when I think of the trouble I’ve gone to, getting rid of Price to London, so I could have you to myself. And all the while – all the while—’

  She dragged herself up a few more stairs, shrieking as he grabbed her ankle. She kicked out – wriggled – yanked herself free and sped upstairs with Mr Nugent on her heels. As she gained the landing, he caught her arm, spinning her round.

  ‘You want to see what I can do to you?’

  His hand was at her collar, his fingers sliding inside. Any second now he would rip her dress clean down the front. She kicked out, but he grasped her foot and tipped her over. She went down hard on her back, clouting her head against the wall. Mr Nugent stood two or three stairs from the top. He had lost his grip on her dress, but he still had her ankle and he tugged it, hauling her towards him. She felt the floor slide away beneath her, and a huge wave of fear consumed her. It was William Turton all over again. Her head went swimmy. Was she going to faint? She mustn’t, she mustn’t. She had to fight.

  Mr Nugent pulled her closer, lifting her foot high in the air. She scrabbled, but it was impossible to get any purchase. Her dress dropped, exposing her thighs.

  ‘I’m going to have you forwards, backwards and throatwise,’ he informed her. ‘That was going to be your Christmas present to me, having me in your mouth, the humble gift of a grateful employee.’

  Another tug on her ankle, then he lowered himself into a kneeling position on the edge of the landing. Mustering all her strength, she bent her free leg, drawing her knee as far back as she could, and slammed her boot heel where it would hurt most. Mr Nugent moved at the same moment, so she caught him in the top of his thigh instead, but that was enough to make him drop her ankle and stagger back, grabbing at the rail to keep from falling. She scrambled up, but already he had righted himself, and in another moment he would be on the landing. She snatched the candlestick from the shelf and, wielding it in both hands, swung it back over her shoulder, then forwards with all her might, smashing it into the side of his head. The crunch travelled all the way up her arms. Mr Nugent blinked – staggered – missed his footing – toppled. As he crashed down the stairs, relief cascaded through her, followed by horror.

  Had she killed him? They would hang her. Then she heard a sound between a gasp and a groan. Her legs wobbled, but she had to get moving – now.

  Juliet stood at the top of the hill above Annerby, her gaze following the railway lines to the station. Did she have enough money for her ticket? She had run and walked and run again all the way here. The crown of her head was so hot, it felt as though her scalp was peeling: she was hatless. Would that make her noticeable? She headed down the hill.

  She was reluctant to ask for directions, but she had no choice. Presently, she was seated on a bench on the station platform, next to a tub of lavender. She had only five minutes left to wait when a policeman appeared. Seizing her bag, she dived into the ladies’ waiting room and dropped into a corner seat. The lower half of the windows was frosted for privacy, but through the upper part she could see the policeman’s helmeted head and broad shoulders. He disappeared from view and presently walked back again.

  The train was due. She chewed her lip, then stopped in case it looked like suspicious behaviour. Casually she stood and peered over the frosted glass, watching the policeman. He stopped to talk to the ticket collector – about the girl who had viciously attacked a fine upstanding gentleman, his lordship’s agent, no less!

  The train pulled in. Her eyes widened at the vastness of the handsome, gleaming engine. What to do? Skulk here waiting for the next one or try her luck? She couldn’t afford to wait. Grasping her bag, she opened the door. The carriages were smartly painted in toning shades of brown. Up and down the platform, doors opened and slammed as passengers climbed in and out. She tried to open the nearest door, but the handle proved unexpectedly stiff.

  A voice behind her said, ‘Do you mean to get in first class, miss?’ and there was the policeman. ‘Thought not. Let’s find you a place down yonder.’

  He shepherded her towards third class. Whatever had brought him to Annerby Station, it wasn’t the pursuit of a desperate hellcat.

  A whistle blew. The train pulled forward with a solemn jolt that created an odd sensation in her tummy. It looked as if the platform was sliding past the window instead of the train moving along the platform. She was on her way, but there was no sense of triumph, just an overwhelming bleakness. She had missed Mother’s funeral. She would never forgive Mr Nugent for that.

  Juliet had gone – run away. Hal struggled to believe it. He had travelled up to Manchester on the milk train from Euston, then made a mad dash from Piccadilly Station to Victoria and flung himself aboard the train for Annerby, where Dad met him in the gardeners’ cart. Anxious as he was to see his beloved Juliet, there hadn’t been time to go to the cottage. He and his family went straight to church.

  When the vicar had walked down the aisle to meet the coffin at the door, the congregation rose in readiness, but the funeral procession hadn’t walked in. For a few moments, no one thought anything of it, then folk cast questioning looks at one another. Hal had tugged his jacket more firmly into place, trying to dismiss the unease.

  The vicar slipped back inside and whispered to Denny Myers, whereupon Denny followed him out. Then the vicar started back up the aisle, followed by the coffin, with Denny now one of the pall-bearers. Behind the coffin came … no one. Sharp murmurs darted round the church, bright little echoes bouncing off the stained glass. Hal wanted to push his way out of the pew, to ask questions, to go looking, but you couldn’t cause a rumpus at a funeral, could you?

  Agnes Harper had barely been laid to rest with her husband before the talk started.

  ‘It’s a reet rum do,’ Alf Mulgrew remarked. He had been a pall-bearer. ‘When we arrived at the cottage with the cart, there was Mr Nugent lying groaning on the floor, and not sight nor sound of young Juliet. That’s why we needed Denny, because Bert stopped to see to Mr Nugent.’
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  Hal’s skin prickled as curious eyes turned his way. He didn’t wait to hear anything else but took off at a run, not stopping until he reached the cottage. He burst in, only to find it empty – well, of course it was empty – what was he thinking? Hadn’t Alf said Juliet wasn’t there? There was no sign of Mr Nugent either. Bert must have helped him back to Arley House. Even so, Hal searched round the cottage. He even went out the back and checked the earth-closet.

  He must get to Arley House. That was where Mr Nugent would have been taken. As he reached the garden gate, Saul came racing through the trees.

  ‘There you are. You’re wanted at Arley House.’ Saul’s chest heaved as he delivered the message. ‘Bert came to church to find you. He and your dad are on their way here – aren’t you going to wait for them?’

  Saul stepped aside as Hal brushed past. He sprinted all the way, banging in through the back door, taking a breather while Dolly informed her master of his arrival. Stuffing his cap in his pocket, he waited for Dolly, then followed her along a corridor and through a door backed with green baize, into the grand part of the house.

  Dolly opened a door for him. It was a study – desk, bookcases, a smart armchair by the hearth.

  Mr Nugent was on his feet. His right temple was purple and swollen, and there was a livid red graze down the side of his face. He should have been sitting; he should have been bandaged.

  ‘Thank you, Dolly,’ said Mr Nugent. ‘Don’t waste your time walking in, Price. I’m going to take you outside and horsewhip you.’

  Horsewhip? This was no time for tugging the forelock. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me.’

  ‘I’ll take any tone I like when a man speaks of horsewhipping. I repeat: what d’you mean? Where’s Juliet?’

  ‘You tell me. I assumed she’d run off to join you until Bert said your father had collected you from the station – unless you attended the funeral to throw us off the scent.’

  ‘All I know is Juliet’s gone and I have no idea where. Why would she run away?’

  ‘Because she’s pregnant – with your child. Didn’t I tell you to keep your hands to yourself?’ Mr Nugent clenched his fists. ‘You couldn’t leave her alone, could you?’

  ‘Pregnant? Juliet?’ He almost laughed in sheer astonishment. He looked at Mr Nugent’s injured face. Had that blow to the temple addled his brain?

  ‘Aye, and throwing up merrily, the way women do.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. And you’re the father.’

  ‘No.’ Juliet with morning sickness? It couldn’t be true. It was a horrible mistake. But Mr Nugent sounded so certain, and where was Juliet? ‘The most I ever did was kiss her.’ He spoke more to himself than to Mr Nugent. Juliet couldn’t be pregnant, she couldn’t. Throwing up merrily the way women do. ‘She must be ill with distress over her mother.’

  ‘It was morning sickness. She didn’t try to deny it.’

  ‘What about …?’ Hal touched his temple, nodding at Mr Nugent’s.

  ‘She clobbered me with a candlestick to make her escape.’

  Juliet? Impossible. But there was the injury, for all to see.

  ‘So,’ snapped Mr Nugent, ‘if you’re not the father, who is?’

  ‘You’re wrong. Juliet would never—you’re wrong.’

  Mr Nugent’s eyes darkened and he went very still. ‘No, I’m not.’ Those quiet words carried more force than any tirade. ‘She’s pregnant and she’s run away – presumably with her lover. If you’re not the father, you’ve been duped every bit as much as I have.’

  ‘You’ve been duped?’

  ‘Wasn’t I going to welcome her into my household, in accordance with her mother’s dying wish? She’s made fools of us all – you, me, the village, everybody at Moorside.’

  A knot tightened in Hal’s belly.

  ‘You’d better go,’ said Mr Nugent. ‘It seems there is to be no horsewhipping today.’

  Hal opened the door. He couldn’t breathe; his skin was cold and tingling.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Mr Nugent. ‘I’ll write to Clayton and tell him that if a girl turns up asking for you, he’s to sack you on the spot.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘If you’re not the father, you’ll have nothing to fear on that score, will you?’

  Hal staggered towards home. He crashed into a tree and sank to the ground, sobbing so hard it felt as though he would bring up his guts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the train pulled into Victoria Station, Juliet was hollowed out with hunger. Her ribs and back were sore, and there was an unpleasant stiffness about her jaw and the side of her face where she had been clouted. But all that was nothing compared to the sheer fear of arriving at a strange place. Her hands were clammy inside her gloves as she grasped the handles of her carpetbag. With the sharp tang of steam in her nostrils, she joined the stream of travellers walking down the platform. So many people! Watching what they did, she surrendered her ticket. First things first. There was a public convenience for ladies, and she surreptitiously watched what to do before committing her own penny. Afterwards she joined the row of women at the mirrors and was horrified to see the mark on her face. Her hand flew instinctively to cover it.

  ‘Bash you one, did he? Eh, they’re buggers, some of ’em.’ A pause, an assessing look through the mirror. ‘Starting young, aren’t you?’

  She fled, panic thrashing in her ears. Then she forced herself to stop. No one knew who she was; no one knew how she had come by her injury. No one was going to grab her by the shoulder, yelling, ‘Here’s the girl who clobbered Mr Nugent.’

  She must find Auntie Clara’s shop. At the station entrance, she halted, the smells of soot and manure and gutters swarming round her. How did folk stand it? Someone cannoned into her from behind.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was my fault for stopping.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ snapped a smart-looking gentleman. He brushed past and strode on his way.

  ‘Rude fellow,’ said an apple-cheeked woman in a tartan jacket with a basket on her arm. ‘You look lost, love.’

  ‘Do you know Caroline Street?’ Juliet’s grateful smile faltered when the woman shook her head. ‘It’s off St Ann’s Square.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nowt but a hop and a skip from here.’

  Juliet listened carefully and offered profuse thanks, looking at the woman intently rather than at the road, the buildings, the people, the horse-drawn traffic. The place was so busy – dusty – noisy. How would she ever cope? She shouldn’t have come. With a sharp emptiness inside her, as if she were about to walk off a precipice, she stepped onto the pavement and set off, licking lips that had gone dry.

  Soon she came to what must be the Royal Exchange. Her helper had told her to look out for a grand building, though fortunately she had mentioned the columns at the front, because as far as Juliet was concerned everything here was vast and grand, built on a scale she had never imagined. How could Moorside, the centre of so many lives, have seemed so impressive? She felt small and countrified – and all at once, her fear fell away. She was tiny – invisible. She didn’t matter. She was anonymous. Safe. She had run away in such fear and turmoil, but maybe – maybe – this was the right place for her. Somewhere to start again.

  St Ann’s Square housed handsome buildings several storeys high, all of which seemed to have a shop on the ground floor. What all those upper floors were for, she couldn’t imagine. In Birkfield, shopkeepers lived above their shops, but perhaps that was something that happened only in the provinces. Hansom cabs were lined up along one side, ready for customers, and over there was St Ann’s Church, in front of which was a statue of a man, but she didn’t get to see his name because she came to Caroline Street.

  It was a blind alley with three shops on either side and another at the end, each with a diamond-paned bow window. Above the middle window on the right-hand side was a green-and-cream-striped awning with a scalloped
edge, an ornamental touch that didn’t conceal the name of the shop, which was painted in elegant script above the window: Mademoiselle Antoinette.

  In the bow window stood three pictures on small easels, each a detailed drawing of a lady in a fashionable costume. Behind was a green and cream panel, so Juliet couldn’t see into the shop. She didn’t want to go in if there were customers. Should she have written, after all? But she hadn’t wanted to give Auntie Clara the opportunity to say no.

  She peered through the glass panel in the door. A smartly dressed woman was seated at an elegant table, her head bent over something she was writing. There weren’t any customers. She pushed open the door, automatically listening for the bell to tinkle overhead, but there was no sound – except for a sharp intake of breath across the room.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘Please may I see Mademoiselle Antoinette?’

  ‘How dare you enter this establishment?’ The woman came to her feet. ‘Depart this instant!’

  Juliet felt panicky. The woman swept towards her.

  ‘Please – I must see Mademoiselle Antoinette.’

  ‘The presumption,’ snorted the woman. She grasped Juliet by the arm.

  Her head felt odd and swirly. ‘You don’t understand. Mademoiselle Antoinette – Miss Clara Tewson – I’m her niece.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  And then—

  Juliet opened her eyes and saw a ceiling. She was lying on the floor, her feet propped on a chair. ‘She’s awake,’ said a voice. Swivelling her head, she saw a grey-haired woman, wearing what looked like a white pinafore but with sleeves, sitting at a big table. Juliet started to move, but had barely unhooked her feet before hands scooped her up by the armpits and deposited her on a wooden chair.

  ‘You’re not going to faint again, are you?’

  ‘I fainted?’

  ‘Either that or you chose a fine time for a nap. I expect a cup of tea would sort you out.’ The woman’s gaze flashed across the room somewhere behind Juliet. ‘I’ll leave you to it … Mademoiselle.’