And she couldn’t feel wretched for long, anyroad. She was too excited. By sneaking the occasional letter to the post, she had let William know how her absence had been extended. She had told him when to expect her home an’ all.
How easy it would be for him to get away from work was another matter, but she knew that if anyone could manage that, it was her William. Now all she had to do was contrive to slip out to their secret meeting place.
It was a risk, but well worth taking.
Adeline walloped Juliet. Her hand, far from stinging from the impact, felt cool and invigorated. The chit staggered, banged against the table and just managed to save herself from falling. Adeline stepped forward, following her quarry.
‘You trollop! Coming here with your belly full. Do you hear that, Clara? Do you see how you’ve been taken in?’
‘What do you mean, Mother?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Clara.’ She glanced heavenwards in an exaggerated manner: Clara invariably roused scorn. ‘She’s with child. That’s why she ran away. Forget the man with the roving eye. The only roving eye was hers. She had a young man – and what your sister was thinking, letting a girl this age have an understanding, I’ll never know. But he wasn’t enough for you, was he, madam?’ She rounded on the girl. ‘You had to put yourself about, didn’t you?’
‘That isn’t what happened—’
‘I know precisely what happened.’ Adeline drowned her out. ‘I wrote to Lord Drysdale’s housekeeper to enquire about your work. She replied that, while honesty compelled her to praise your sewing, your moral turpitude has left the neighbourhood profoundly shocked.’
‘What’s turpitude?’ Clara asked. Idiot.
‘Mrs Whicker told me everything. The only thing I don’t know is what became of the secret lover. Did he throw you over before or after you arrived in Manchester? No wonder you appeared at Mademoiselle Antoinette’s without warning. Until the last minute, you had no notion you would need to throw yourself on Clara’s mercy.’
‘You must listen. I adored Hal. I never looked at anyone else—’
‘Enough!’ Adeline barked. It was like being thrown back in time. The fury, the disgust, the betrayal – this was how it had felt all those years ago, except that then, there had been blighted expectations as well. ‘You’re the same as your mother, a slut like she was. At least she debased herself with a man who was free to wed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Agnes had to get married because she was carrying you.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘I offered her a way out, but she threw it back in my face, fool that she was. I’ll offer you the same thing, the difference being you’re under twenty-one and abandoned, which means you’re in no position to refuse.’
‘Refuse what?’
‘You’ll be sent away. The baby will be adopted and you,’ she added with a sneer, ‘can return to your life of charring.’
‘You want to help me?’
‘I don’t give a fig about you, girl. It’s myself I’m thinking of. My idiot of a daughter has taken you in and has brought you to my house. I will not have my good name tarnished by your lax behaviour.’
‘Wait a minute.’
Adeline’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. Did this chit have the brass neck to try to call a halt to proceedings?
‘You wanted to send my mother away when she was having me?’
‘She was pregnant out of wedlock. I could have dealt with it, but she chose to tie herself to her labourer.’
‘You wanted to have me adopted?’ The chit shook her head, a frown clouding her brow. ‘I could have had a completely different life.’
‘And your mother could have had the success for which I had prepared her.’
‘Another name, another family, another … everything, without ever knowing who I really am.’
‘Sentimental claptrap. You’d never have known any different. Your mother’s downfall was tawdry and unpleasant in every respect. Don’t romanticise it.’
‘No.’
‘Good. I’ll make the arrangements—’
‘I mean, no, I won’t be sent away. You wanted to get rid of me before I was born and now you want to get rid of this child. It’s … appalling.’
‘It’s common sense and it’s a godsend for you. Be grateful, girl. I might have offered a visit to a louse-ridden backstreet drunkard with a bottle of gin and a sharp implement.’
‘Is that what you offered my mother?’
Adeline drew in her breath on a sharp hiss. ‘Be packed and ready the day after tomorrow.’
‘I won’t be ordered about by the person who wanted my mother to get rid of me.’
‘You’ve no alternative. You can’t stay here. Clara won’t keep you – will you, Clara?’ It was a command: Clara hung her head.
‘It so happens I’ve a bit put by, with the possibility of more to come.’
‘Ah yes, your Ingleby designs,’ scoffed Adeline.
‘How do you know they took me on?’
‘More to the point, how dare you approach them? You should have shown me your work. You owe me that.’
‘How can I owe you anything?’
‘You learnt everything you know from Agnes, and where did she learn it? Any ability you possess belongs to me. I tell you this, girl. Ingleby’s won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole when they hear of your condition. Soon you’ll beg me to send you away.’
The girl lifted her chin. ‘If you tell Ingleby’s, I’ll make sure they know whose granddaughter I am. Word will spread like wildfire through the local sewing world.’
‘I shan’t need to say a word. Your figure will say everything that needs saying.’
‘I’ll post my work to them.’
‘If you’re designing for Ingleby’s, you must be using their wares and that means visiting the shop. The only hope of earning your own way in the future is to disappear discreetly now. Be ready midday Saturday.’
The chit said nothing, but her face had drained of colour.
‘Or else you’ll come with just the clothes on your back,’ Adeline said. ‘But believe me, you’ll come.’
Juliet lay awake. She had defended the baby. Yet a strange sort of defence it had been, protecting her baby (merciful heaven, had she just thought of it as her baby?) from adoption into a decent, well-to-do family when the best she had to offer was to dump it on the orphanage doorstep. She was ashamed of that now. She was as bad as Adeline, looking for a way to get rid.
Would Mother and Pop have married had Mother not fallen pregnant? All those times Mother said, ‘I could have had my own salon.’ Juliet went cold. But Mother had chosen to marry Pop and keep her baby. That was what she had to hold close to her heart.
She crept about, getting dressed, knowing Clara was wide awake, though they both pretended she was asleep. Making her way to work, she pondered her situation. This was the best time of day, with early sunshine and quiet streets, but it would be hellish come winter, dark and wet and freezing cold. Would she still be charring then? Or would everyone have sacked her for being pregnant?
How much income might she hope for from Ingleby’s? Had she been a fool to agree not to approach other shops? Yet, if she hadn’t, Mr Owen would have shown her the door. She sighed so deeply her bones throbbed. On top of everything else, she needed somewhere to live. Rushing from job to job, she snatched the odd moment to search newsagents’ windows for cards with details of rooms to let, agonising over how cheap she might go without encountering rampant mould and equally rampant cockroaches.
She dashed home to freshen up before setting off with a few bob in her pocket for her first week’s rent. The first three landladies shut the door on her because of her age and the next room was being sublet by a family renting the downstairs of a shabby terraced house, except it wasn’t a room they were offering, just half a room curtained off. She came to the last address on her list, where the door was answered by a strapping middle-aged woman with an enormous bosom
hanging almost to her waist.
‘I’m here about the room.’
‘Oh aye? Bit young, aren’t you?’
‘I have regular work.’
‘You’ll be out on your ear if you haven’t. Have you burial insurance? I don’t want you if you’re not respectable.’
‘I’m respectable,’ she replied stoutly, vowing to get insurance on Monday.
‘Good. I’m Mrs Busby. The room’s up here.’
It was at the top of the stairs, big enough for a bed, hanging cupboard and a chair. A mirror hung on one wall and some shelves on another. The window overlooked a landscape of grey yards and the backs of red-brick terraces. It made her feel … friendless.
‘There’s no fireplace,’ Mrs Busby said, ‘but you can sit with us come the cold.’
She pretended to look round to avoid answering. Chances were she wouldn’t be here by then, because Mrs Busby would have slung her out. What she was going to do between then and the birth, she didn’t know.
‘Three shillings for the room and extra for meals. I’m a good cook and you won’t go hungry.’
‘May I move in tomorrow?’
Mrs Busby extended a hand that was surprisingly slender considering the quantity of flesh she had up top. ‘Six bob. A week in hand in case of breakages. Any time after ten tomorrow.’
She returned home. Why didn’t she feel pleased? Her intentions were in turmoil. Learning of the threat that had been made against her own identity had unsettled her, arousing a protective instinct. Was this how Mother had felt? And if Juliet hated the thought of adoption for herself, how could she inflict it on this child? Yet what kind of parent would she make, young, unwed and pinching every penny until it squealed?
She arrived at Mrs Duggan’s, feeling torn in half, too overwrought to care when Clara gave her the silent treatment.
Before they went to bed, she said, ‘I’ll be gone when you get in from work tomorrow.’
Something flickered in Clara’s face. Uncertainty? Regret? But all she said was, ‘I see.’
She didn’t ask where and Juliet felt ridiculously hurt.
When Juliet knocked on Mrs Busby’s door, a man answered. He was big-boned and jowly, with puffy bags under his eyes. ‘The wife’s out shopping. I’m Mr Busby. Pleased to meet you.’ He had a surprisingly limp handshake. ‘I’ll take your bag. After you.’
The room was smaller than she remembered. Mr Busby came bustling in behind her.
‘Say if you want more shelves. I’m pretty handy.’ His eyes rested on her. ‘The wife said you were young, but I never thought she meant this young.’
‘I can pay my way.’
‘I might be able to help with the rent … if you know what I mean.’ He licked his lips. ‘I could slip you the odd couple of bob, a pretty girl like you. You know, you be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you.’
She froze. She wanted to fly at him and rake the flesh from his face with her nails, but she couldn’t move. It all came flooding back. Dirty girl, grateful girl, stupid, stupid, stupid. His hand reached towards her and in that second he could have touched her, fondled her, done anything and she couldn’t have stopped him. Then the spell broke, ice turning to fire. She would never be touched that way again.
‘Get away,’ she said, then louder, ‘Get away!’
‘I only—’
‘I know precisely what you only! You’re disgusting. Stand aside.’
Snatching her bag, she hurtled downstairs and threw the door open. Behind her, Mr Busby blustered about a misunderstanding. Slamming the door, she ran – then halted. Six shillings was a lot of money. She went back and hammered on the door. It opened so abruptly she almost fell inside.
‘I want my money back.’
‘The wife took that money in good faith. Not her fault if you change your mind. I’ll say you’re stopping with your mam, and quite right too, a slip of a thing like you.’
‘If you don’t give me my money, I’ll report you to the police.’
Mr Busby stood taller. ‘Aye, you do that. Tell them you want to complain about Police Sergeant Busby and see where it gets you. Now bugger off.’
The door slammed. She stood there, seething, but there was nothing she could do. She walked away, fighting to put the experience behind her. She had to find somewhere else and it would look better, less desperate, if she weren’t lugging around all her worldly possessions. She must take the bag back to Mrs Duggan’s while she searched. But she had visited all the respectable possibilities, the ones where she would be thrown out once her condition became known. All that remained were places where her condition would be irrelevant: filthy, frightening places in diseased parts of town, sopping with damp and infested with vermin.
When she got home, who should be standing on the doorstep but Mr Owen? He clicked his tongue impatiently.
‘There you are. You must come immediately.’
Mr Owen would answer no questions. Juliet had time only to pop her bag indoors before he hustled her to the bus stop. Ingleby’s was far too important to her for her to refuse, but Mr Owen took her, not to Market Street, but to St Ann’s Square and then into Caroline Street, where he turned into a discreet little passage that led to the alley at the back of the shops. Alarm rattled through her. Was Clara ill? But Mr Owen was nothing do with Mademoiselle Antoinette’s.
She remembered the corridor from last time. There was no sign of anyone, but she could hear – was that sobbing? A door opened and the volume increased. Mrs Bowen appeared. Seeing Juliet, she was about to draw back, but Juliet glimpsed Clara draped over a chair, weeping and wailing. She darted inside and tried to put an arm round her, but Clara surged to her feet and paced about, clutching a sodden hanky.
‘They found out. That blouse – those sleeves – they found out.’ She grabbed Juliet’s hand, her reddened eyes brimming with a hectic mixture of fear and hope. ‘Say it was my design and you copied it. Tell them – or I’ll lose my job.’
Mrs Bowen pulled Juliet away. ‘Later. You can see her later.’
Bewildered, Juliet followed Mr Owen and found herself in a room that appeared part-office and part-sitting room, occupied by Miss Lindsay and Miss Selway. There was another woman too, middle-aged and plain, but so exquisitely turned out that it was a shame she lacked the beauty to go with it.
‘It’s Tewson’s niece,’ Miss Selway exclaimed. ‘That explains it. Here’s your thief, Miss Lindsay.’
‘On the contrary,’ Miss Lindsay replied, ‘I have seen Miss Harper create a design, with my own eyes.’
‘Ladies, please.’ The other woman spoke mildly. She looked at Juliet. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Good grief, was this Mademoiselle Antoinette? Juliet had pictured a timeless beauty, and here she was, as ordinary as you please.
Mademoiselle nodded to Miss Selway, who looked down her nose at Juliet as she explained, ‘Several of our ladies have ordered a blouse with distinctive sleeves, a design that Tewson claimed as her own. Now a client has returned to complain that her housekeeper was wearing the same design, as made by Ingleby’s.’
‘The question is,’ said Mr Owen, ‘who designed it?’
‘What does my aunt say?’ Juliet asked.
‘Tewson,’ Miss Selway replied, ‘is too hysterical to say anything worth listening to.’
‘I’ve explained to Mademoiselle Antoinette and Miss Selway,’ said Miss Lindsay, ‘that I’ve seen you create the beginning of a design on paper and then put a costume together in words, as it were, by choosing fabrics and notions. I’m sure the design in question is your own. The reputation of Ingleby’s is at stake.’
‘As is that of Mademoiselle Antoinette’s.’ Miss Selway made a dismissive gesture. ‘Look at her. She’s too young to have this sort of ability.’
‘Do as I did,’ suggested Miss Lindsay. ‘Give her a pencil and paper.’
Mademoiselle addressed Juliet. ‘You’ve been asked a question.’
Juliet thought furiously. Tell the truth and Clara
would be sacked. Tell a lie and kiss goodbye to Ingleby’s. She didn’t want Clara to lose her job, but neither could she afford to throw away her own prospects or her reputation.
‘It’s my design,’ she stated quietly.
‘This is insupportable,’ exclaimed Miss Selway and swept from the room.
Mademoiselle looked at Miss Lindsay and Mr Owen. ‘This is deeply embarrassing for my salon. I trust you see no need to take matters further …? The publicity would damage both our establishments. Are you still here?’ She blinked at Juliet. ‘You may go.’
Juliet hastened to find Clara, but she was too late. She caught up with her at the bus stop, finding her gulping deep breaths that came way too quickly. Juliet bundled her onto the next bus and got her home, where she slumped in the armchair, one hand plastered across her mouth.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Juliet.
As she ran downstairs, she saw her carpetbag and picked it up. At the same moment, there was an imperious rap on the door. With her bag in one hand, she opened the door with the other.
‘I see you’re packed and ready,’ said Adeline.
Chapter Sixteen
In the ten excruciatingly dismal days since returning to Moorside, Cecily had contrived to sneak out every day in the increasingly urgent hope of finding William in their secret trysting place. Every day she hoped afresh, and every day she fought back tears so as to return, stunned, to her duties with an unblemished face. Her heart had grown hungrier by the day during their enforced separation and now she was frantic with longing. William would find a way to return to her. He had to. She would die of desire if he didn’t.
Perhaps she could write again. If she were to sneak a letter home, would one of her sisters help her?
But there was no need, because he came.
She didn’t see him at first. She crept forward, heart pitter-pattering, her hopes as precious and as fragile as the finest Bohemian glass. A pair of arms came around her from behind. One snaked across her waist, pulling her firmly against a body; the other hand slid over her breast. She was so shocked, it took a moment for her to react, but as she started to struggle, she was whirled round and there was William. He pulled her to him. She lifted her face, her lips eagerly seeking his, opening willingly beneath the pressure of his mouth. When he slid his tongue inside, longing tugged within her.
The Sewing Room Girl Page 18
