‘That’s not a good hidey-place. I know a good one. I know the best one ever.’
‘Show me.’
Archie trotted into his little bedroom, dropped to the floor and started scrambling his way under the bed.
‘I’m not hiding it in the chamber pot,’ said Juliet.
Archie laughed so hard that she ended up laughing too.
‘Shush,’ she admonished. ‘Mummy will hear. Now where’s this hiding place?’
He disappeared beneath the bed. After a moment, she joined him, careful not to bang her head. Archie’s little fingers worked away at a piece of skirting board under the head of the bed and it came away.
‘There,’ Archie said proudly. ‘There’s a hole.’
‘However did you find it?’
‘I was exploring.’
‘Under the bed?’
‘Yes.’ He made it sound perfectly reasonable. ‘Who put it there?’
‘Someone who used to live here, I suppose, someone who liked hiding presents.’
‘Will you tell me a story about them?’
‘Best wait till after Christmas. We don’t want Mummy getting wind of what we’ve done.’
She gave Archie the important job of putting the little parcel into the hole. Then he clicked the skirting board back into place, and they wriggled out backwards.
‘Remember – not a word,’ she warned, brushing him down.
They hurried downstairs to find Cecily laying the table.
Archie swaggered in. ‘Don’t ask me, because I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Oh, aren’t you?’ cried Cecily and pretended to try to tickle it out of him.
‘Honestly,’ Juliet remarked later, ‘I’m surprised we’ve never had the police round, the way that boy shrieks sometimes. It sounds like blue murder.’
‘He’s got a good pair of lungs on him,’ Cecily said fondly. ‘Tell me about today.’
‘Sally-Ann Thomas was there.’
‘What gossip did she pour forth this time?’
After hamming up the curse of the Darleys, Juliet described Flora McKenzie’s difficult situation.
‘The husband lost their money and then shot himself?’ Cecily repeated. ‘Men are such beasts.’
Winter gave way to spring. The front garden provided a pretty pastel display of anemones and primroses, garnering many an approving glance from Juliet’s customers. It was a different matter round the back, where they had a big vegetable patch, with shallots and early potatoes already in, the rest of the garden being Archie’s playground, complete with a swing hung inexpertly but determinedly by Juliet and Cecily, who had resolved to do the job themselves sooner than ask a man, an attitude that had flummoxed William.
Mrs Palmer summoned Juliet, wanting a new gown for daytime.
‘I have just the fabric,’ said Juliet, sifting through her samples to produce a damask in blue and gold. ‘I suggest a matching bolero jacket, leg-o’-mutton above the elbow and fitted below.’ She drew a sketch, but when Mrs Palmer sighed, she said, ‘If this isn’t to your taste …’
‘Don’t mind me. I shall never be happy with my wardrobe until they bring the bustle back. This is perfect. While I remember, a lady of my acquaintance, a friend of my two girls, wishes to make an appointment with you.’
‘I’ll be happy to wait on her.’
‘No need. She’ll come to you. Her name is Mrs Flora McKenzie.’
Oh yes, the lady who was widowed last year in such appalling circumstances.
Mrs McKenzie duly wrote, suggesting two or three dates. That was polite of her. Usually ladies offered a single date and expected Juliet to make herself available. She replied by postcard, and Mrs McKenzie and her maid arrived at the appointed time.
Juliet was sitting at the front window, on the lookout but sewing at the same time so as not to be obvious. A figure appeared at the gate, and she was glancing away politely when her head swung back double-quick and the sewing fell from her fingers.
The sleeve lady.
Flora McKenzie was the sleeve lady from outside Mademoiselle Antoinette’s.
Which meant she might possibly … she might possibly be Constance’s mother.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘I wish to go into half-mourning.’ Flora McKenzie was dark and slender with a natural gravity that added to her beauty. She plucked at the band of black crepe round her cuff. ‘Horrid stuff.’
‘It’s not very flattering,’ Juliet murmured. The Queen had a lot to answer for. ‘I have some lavender.’
‘No. Lavender is a happy colour in our family. I won’t have it used for … this.’
‘Mauve, then. I’ll use the deepest I have, so it’s as far from lavender as possible.’
‘Thank you.’ Flora indicated the bag her maid had carried. ‘I have a gown with me.’
Juliet performed a mental juggling act in which Flora’s mourning took priority. ‘It’ll be ready on Thursday. I’ll deliver it.’
‘My maid can collect it.’
‘It’s part of the service. Shall we say two o’clock?’
Nothing was going to stop her getting inside Flora McKenzie’s home.
On Wednesday night she lay awake, her mind so active it felt as if an ant colony had taken up residence in her head. She plunged unexpectedly into a deep sleep in which she dreamt she was racing round Mrs Maddox’s house, searching for Constance.
The visit to Flora was a colossal let-down, but that was her own fault, because what had she expected? That was an easy question to answer: Constance. She had expected – well, hoped for, longed for – Constance.
‘What was the house like?’ Cecily asked that evening. Juliet had made no secret of going there, though she hadn’t shared her real reason. She had never said a word about what she had seen – or dreamt – at Mrs Maddox’s, and the possible connection between Flora and Constance. That was her private piece of madness.
‘They have the upstairs of a big house in Fallowfield.’
‘I thought they lost all their money?’
‘They can’t have lost everything.’
‘If I lost so-called everything but ended up in a big house, I’d be as happy as a pig in muck. Mr McKenzie must have been soft in the head to do himself in.’
Juliet had come home in a cab with the rest of the mourning, having promised to return it next Tuesday, asking if she could call at half past four, hoping that, so near teatime, the children might be in evidence. The ants were back inside her brain, and not even the news that Mrs Treadgold, one of her at-home ladies, had been burgled could dislodge them.
But Tuesday came and went with no sign of the young McKenzies, not even a half-finished jigsaw on a table providing an excuse to murmur, ‘You have children?’ Just as well, really. No – it wasn’t just as well. Such an impertinence would have been neither here nor there, because she was never going to see Flora McKenzie again. The sewing was finished, and the only way she would see Flora again was if Flora didn’t cough up and she had to march round and demand payment for services rendered.
‘And while you’re counting the money, Mrs McKenzie, could you please tell me if your youngest is a little girl born in February ’94 and adopted through a Mrs Maddox of Freshfield?’
As if. As flaming if.
Juliet continued as normal, but underneath she felt dazed. She could almost wish she had never met Flora – and that was a barefaced lie if ever there was one. In June, she went to measure Sally-Ann Thomas for a tennis costume. She was admitted by Winnie, the parlourmaid, who led her upstairs.
‘Madam’s got her friend Mrs McKenzie visiting, so you’ll need to wait a while.’
Mrs McKenzie! The moment Winnie disappeared, Juliet slipped back down to the hall, lurking by a potted palm, hanky at the ready. A door opened, and Sally-Ann and Flora emerged.
She bent down. ‘I dropped my …’
Another door opened and a horde of girls came streaming out, different sizes, different ages. Winnie appeared too, with jac
kets and hats. Juliet seized a straw boater, whereupon an older girl presented herself. She was thirteen or fourteen, her light-brown ponytail tied with green ribbon. Hazel eyes met Juliet’s as she smiled and said thank you in a way that suggested no airs and graces.
Flora McKenzie put her hands on the girl’s shoulders from behind. ‘This is Lily, my eldest.’
‘We call her Lily-Lavender,’ chimed in another voice, and Juliet regarded a younger girl, ten or so, jamming a coral-pink felt hat onto reddish-brown curls. Her jacket and skirt were coral-pink too and had to be hand-me-downs, for surely no one would put that colour fabric with that colour hair on purpose. ‘Lavender’s her favourite flower and her favourite colour and her favourite scent and her favourite anything else you can think of.’
‘And this little monkey is Frances,’ said Flora. ‘Don’t let the big blue eyes fool you. Come along, girls.’
In the middle of the hall, four girls, who must be Sally-Ann’s for the simple reason that they weren’t putting hats on, were clustered together, bending over what must be a small child, getting her ready. The blood drained from Juliet’s flesh. In a few seconds the bigger girls would step away and she would see – she would see—
Please God, don’t let me faint. Every moment of her life since Mrs Maddox had taken her baby had been leading to this. She braced herself for the sledgehammer blow of love.
Sally-Ann’s girls scattered, and Juliet felt … astonished. That wasn’t what she was meant to feel. She was meant to feel … recognition – wasn’t she? She had assumed her daughter would have her blue eyes and fair hair, yet this child’s eyes were brown, and the hair beneath the ribbon-bedecked boater was dark and thick with a wave running through it. And Juliet had always been slender, while this child was a sturdy little thing. Mind you, that box-pleated frock didn’t do her any favours. It would turn the most petite tot into a cube.
It wasn’t love that shook her to the core, but doubt. Flora’s presence at Mrs Maddox’s might have been a dream. Even if it wasn’t, two babies had been adopted that day. This could be the other.
Except that it couldn’t. Not for any sensible reason, but because she had told herself all these years that the sleeve lady had taken Constance. She had thought it so much she had made it real.
Then the child looked straight at her. Brown eyes and a little button nose and a sweet mouth. Her bones turned to wax. She leant against the newel post to stop herself sinking to the floor.
The little girl trotted across. For one insane moment, Juliet thought she must have recognised her real, true mother and was running to her instinctively. She stood straighter, poised to sweep her daughter into her arms.
But the child slipped her hand into her big sister’s.
‘Time to go home, Izzie,’ said Lily.
Izzie? Juliet turned the name over, with a feeling not far from disgust. Isobel? Isabella? Or had she misheard? Was it Lizzie? Don’t you know her name is Constance? She clamped her mouth tight shut.
The McKenzies were leaving. She had to stop them. She needed more time. She wanted to take Izzie-Lizzie-Constance aside and feast her eyes, and touch her cheek and her hair, and … and be her mother.
She went upstairs and measured Sally-Ann for her tennis costume.
‘Cecily will be sorry she missed you,’ Juliet told William, ‘and Archie too, of course.’
William smiled indulgently. ‘He’s a grand little chap.’
‘Not so little any more. He’s five next week.’
And Constance – Izzie or Lizzie – would be five years, five months. A month had dragged by since that episode in Sally-Ann’s hall, a month during which she had woken every morning, got out of bed, done her work, and gone back to bed at the end of the day and somehow not died of anguish.
She drew a breath, shut her eyes, opened them and smiled. It was the only way.
‘Are you coming to the party?’ she asked. ‘Can you bear the company of six small, overexcited boys?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it. After Cecily’s stuffed them full of paste sandwiches, I’ll take them in the back garden and chase them in ever-decreasing circles, then they can go home in time to be copiously sick. I’ve got it all planned.’
Juliet laughed. ‘Archie’s lucky to have you.’
‘I’d like a couple of lads of my own one day. Now I’ve been promoted, I can think about settling down.’
‘William! How exciting. Do you have a girl in mind?’
‘No, but you could help by lining up candidates from among your customers.’
‘Speaking of which, Miss Taylor is due in five minutes.’
‘Good-o. Is she pretty and likely to be sensible with the housekeeping?’
‘Miss Taylor is old enough to be your mother, but I’m sure she’ll be glad to know you considered her. Now get gone before she arrives.’
Miss Taylor was accompanied by a dark-haired young woman in her twenties.
‘This is my niece, Verity Forbes. She’s going to help me choose between the green and the blue you showed me. Verity works, which is why this appointment had to be on a Saturday afternoon.’
‘What do you do?’ Juliet asked Verity.
‘I’m a clerk at Perkins and Watson, the building company on Wilbraham Road.’
‘Don’t be modest, Verity.’ Miss Taylor turned to Juliet. ‘She isn’t a clerk, she’s the clerk.’
Verity’s eyes twinkled. ‘Clerk and tea lady.’ She was pretty when she smiled. Her sensible brown jacket and skirt, and ivory blouse were suitable for her station, but the hat, with feathers sticking out, added a note of dash.
The blue was duly chosen, and Juliet set about measuring Miss Taylor.
‘You get Vera’s Voice,’ Verity observed.
Juliet glanced round, embarrassed that the magazine had been left in the sewing room.
‘I get Story Weekly,’ Verity added. ‘Don’t pull that face, Auntie Phil. The wind might change.’
‘Romantic tripe,’ said Miss Taylor.
‘If you keep old copies of romantic tripe,’ Verity said to Juliet, ‘would you like to swap? I could bring mine round next Saturday afternoon.’
Juliet readily agreed. She and Cecily would enjoy having a new friend.
Archie’s party was a wild success – ‘wild’ being the operative word, Cecily thought with an indulgent smile. They had had the usual party games before tea, and now she and Juliet stood at the back door, laughing as William rushed about with the boys, pirates one minute, bears the next, but whatever the game, it inevitably involved a great deal of chasing and catching and swinging about. William had long since shed his jacket. Now he pulled off his tie, shrugged off his waistcoat and unfastened his cufflinks, pushing up his sleeves to reveal unexpectedly strong forearms. Cecily’s heart picked up speed. William thrust his waistcoat and tie at Juliet.
‘What’s wrong?’ Juliet mocked. ‘Is the pace too much for you?’
William’s reply was a grin that transformed his serious face, showing the boyish fun-lover underneath. His hair was mussed. Cecily had an odd desire to muss it some more.
‘He’s in his element with children, isn’t he?’ Juliet observed as William dashed back into the fray with a roar that sent little boys squealing in all directions. ‘Lucky girl who gets him. He’ll make a wonderful dad.’
A good husband too. Kind, generous, good-natured, a good provider. The sort of man who would cherish his family. Why had she never noticed how attractive he was? Cecily’s heart skittered sideways. Archie had filled her life to overflowing from the moment he was born. It felt strange to have room suddenly for this new feeling. Exciting, too. She gazed across the garden, her heart yearning towards William. If she caught his eye, would he realise just as she had done? Would his heart start doing funny things, the same as hers?
‘Here you are. I hope you don’t mind my coming round the side. I knocked but you didn’t hear.’
‘Welcome to the bear garden,’ said Juliet. ‘Cecily, this is Miss Taylor’s nie
ce, Verity Forbes.’
‘Any chance of more lemonade?’ William came over, one side of his wing collar askew. A child dangled from under each arm.
Cecily gazed at him, willing him to understand the new consciousness in her smile.
Juliet introduced Verity. ‘And this is William Turton, the birthday boy’s godfather.’
William dropped the boys, and they scampered away. He stepped forward, then stopped, endeavouring to straighten his appearance.
Verity laughed. ‘Don’t trouble on my account.’
Cecily willed them to shake hands and get it over with, so she could claim William’s attention. But when their hands fell away from one another’s, instead of glancing round, William’s eyes stayed fixed on Verity’s face.
Soon Verity and William were walking out together. Juliet was pleased for them, but as the weeks went by and an Indian summer gave way to a chilly autumn, Cecily became surprisingly grumpy about it.
‘We don’t see as much of him. It’s to be expected, I suppose. That old saying “A son’s a son till he takes a wife” obviously applies to male friends too.’
‘You surely don’t begrudge him the chance of happiness?’ Juliet asked.
‘It isn’t fair on Archie. William used to come round at least once a week and now – well, when was the last time?’
As Christmas approached, William appeared, seeking advice on a gift for Verity.
‘I wondered about a piece of jewellery. Perhaps like the brooch Juliet gave you last Christmas, Cecily.’
‘You can’t give her jewellery,’ said Cecily. ‘Not unless – unless you’re engaged.’
William flushed. ‘We aren’t.’
There was a prickly moment, broken when Archie looked up from where he was playing on the rug to announce, ‘If you want, Uncle William, I can hide your present in my hidey-place. What are you getting me?’
‘Was I horrible?’ Cecily asked later.
‘You were, a bit. We might see less of him, but he’d never drop Archie.’
‘I know.’ Cecily groaned. ‘I’ve been a bitch, haven’t I?’
The Sewing Room Girl Page 28
