by Evie Grace
‘Aren’t you worried about this?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Not at all,’ she fibbed. ‘Do you think I’m ready to impress?’
‘You’ll do very well.’
‘I hope so – I don’t think I’ve left anything to chance.’ She touched the wedding ring on her finger, then picked up the bag of samples and the price list.
‘All the best.’ Eleanor hugged her. ‘I’ll go and pay the deposit on the rooms in Oxenden Street. May is going to help me move Dickens and our belongings with the pram. Remember not to come back to Mrs Chapman’s later.’
‘Oh, I’ll remember all right. Why on earth would I want to come back here?’ Violet smiled. ‘I look forward to moving into our palace.’ She only hoped that they would be able to afford it – Eleanor, May and the baby were depending on her to obtain some orders today. It wouldn’t be long before the infant was born, and she was under no illusion. The more she worked now, the better, because when it came, it would fret and cry to be fed and changed, and life would never be the same again.
If she’d imagined that the dressmakers of Dover would be interested in her designs, she was wrong. They took one look at her dowdy dress and swollen belly and turned her away, and even though she flashed her wedding ring, they seemed to know that it was a front.
One of them – a Mrs Kinnaird – recognised her name when she introduced herself, gave her her card, and showed her the butterfly sample.
‘The infamous Miss Violet Rayfield! I can’t believe your brazenness in coming here. I dress your neighbours in Camden Crescent. There is no way I’ll have anything to do with you, no matter how remarkable your work may be.’
Filled with renewed shame, Violet walked on and knocked on the door of Mr Oliver’s, supplier of embroidery for the shipping trade.
‘I wish to see Mr Oliver,’ she said to the clerk who answered.
‘Whom may I say is calling?’
‘Mrs Rayfield, embroideress. I have business with him.’
‘I’m sure you’d like to have business with him, but we have plenty of skilled outworkers already, thank you.’
‘I have a small workshop and two others working for me – we make badges, epaulettes and other piecework of the finest quality,’ she was saying, as the door closed in her face. Shaking her head at the clerk’s rudeness, she turned and went on to the next place on her list, where a Mr Evercreech allowed her five minutes of his time.
He ushered her through his shop and into his office, where he offered her a seat to take the weight off her feet. He was older than her by at least twenty years, and when he smiled, he showed three gold teeth. She unpacked the relevant samples of their goldwork to show him. He picked them up and scrutinised them with a magnifying glass.
‘These are better than I’d expected, almost too good really for my requirements. I’ve won a contract for railwaymen’s uniforms – I need more ladies to sew the letters, the small ones on the cap bands. The way I work is to provide the raw materials for a modest price, then buy the product back from my outworkers. You are new to this?’
‘It’s a new venture,’ she said, not wanting to reveal too much.
‘What about your husband? Does he approve?’ He gave her a searching look. A well-spoken married woman who was with child wouldn’t be out and about trying to earn money.
‘I don’t need to ask his approval. Tell me what you charge for materials and the price you pay for each finished piece.’
He gave her the figures.
‘If I pay that for the thread, there will be little profit in it for me and my ladies. It would behove you to reduce your prices.’
‘You speak wisely, but I have children to feed …’
And an expensive taste in suits, she assumed, noticing the cut of his clothing.
She ran through the figures in her head for a second time. The margins were tiny. There was no way they could support themselves even if they sewed the letters on a thousand caps every week. Her heart was heavy. She’d thought that she was getting somewhere, but it seemed that she would have to turn his offer down.
‘I’m sorry for you, Mr Evercreech. I’m going to have to take my business elsewhere. I can’t afford to waste any more time.’ She made to rise from the chair.
‘No, Miss …’
‘It’s Mrs Rayfield,’ she said, removing her glove to show her ring.
‘Then, Mrs Rayfield, it appears that you employ some very skilled needlewomen indeed, but can they maintain this quality with volume?’
‘Of course.’
‘I beg to differ – how can you guarantee it?’
‘Give us a month to prove ourselves. We won’t let you down, I promise.’
‘In that case, I’ll give you a better deal, but if you fail to deliver, I’ll have to let you go.’
Mr Evercreech shook her hand when she left his office.
‘If you see my clerk, he’ll draw up my contract with you, and set you up with instructions and materials. Make sure you get the finished goods back in a timely manner.’
She thanked him, met with the clerk, then went back out into the bright sunshine. She’d done it. She’d signed their first contract! She would return to pay for the materials and collect them in the morning. They were on their way.
Walking along Snargate Street, she passed the noisy Packet Yard which stood at the foot of the cliffs, and opposite the dock where the ships came in for repairs. She could hear the cacophony of steam engines, men shouting and blacksmiths hammering metal into shape.
Continuing along the road, she came to the bottom of the Grand Shaft, an arched passageway dug into the cliff which led up to the barracks on the Western Heights. There were people about, workers from the yard taking a break, some rough navvies, and a constable leading a drunken sailor away in handcuffs. She noticed the sentry on duty, and the railway line ahead, but she missed the sound of a galloping horse coming up behind her at full pelt, until it was almost upon her.
‘Beware! Runaway ’orse!’
‘Ladies, out of the way.’
When she turned, she saw the white of the horse’s eye, the scarlet flare of its nostrils and the veins of its chestnut skin standing proud. It dropped one shoulder as though it was trying to avoid her, but this sent the cart behind it off to one side. Its wheels were heading straight for her, and she knew she couldn’t get away in time.
Just as the wheel touched her arm, something – someone – snatched her away, pulling her off balance so she was falling backwards. She landed on her back, winded and looking up at the sky, a pair of arms around her waist, hands on her belly and the sound of the horse’s hooves disappearing into the distance.
Slowly, she sat up.
‘Are you all right, missus?’
She turned as her saviour moved away and stood up, brushing the dust from his trousers and waistcoat.
‘William?’ she breathed. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Violet? I’ve been looking out for you. I didn’t know where you’d gone.’ He took her hand and helped her up. ‘Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said quietly. She was aching all over. She would live, but what about the child growing inside her? Having longed to see William again, she was suddenly overwhelmed with mortification. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, and she picked up her skirts and fled.
‘Violet,’ he called after her, but she kept moving, half running, half walking, until she reached the warren of alleyways in the Pier district. Catching her breath, she found her way to Oxenden Street where she met Eleanor and May at their new lodgings.
‘What happened to you?’ Eleanor said, letting her in.
‘It’s been a day of mixed fortunes,’ she said, going straight to sit down on one of the chairs in the groundfloor room.
‘You’re shaking,’ May observed. ‘Let me put the kettle on.’
‘Let me tell you my news first. I’m a little disturbed because I was almost run over by a bolting horse, but I’m well, apart fro
m a few bruises.’
‘What about work? Did you find any?’ Eleanor asked.
‘I have a contract.’
‘Oh, Violet, that’s wonderful,’ May said.
‘I shouldn’t get too excited – it’s only for sewing the letters on railwaymen’s caps.’
‘That’ll do,’ May said. ‘When do we start?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Violet gazed around the room, taking in the cracked window, the soot in the grate and the dust on the floor. ‘In the meantime, we’d better get this place into shape.’
When she had recovered her composure, Eleanor showed her around. As well as the room they would use as a workshop, they had a kitchen, an outside privy in the small backyard where Dickens was sunning himself, and a room upstairs.
‘What do you think?’ Eleanor said.
‘It has potential,’ Violet said guardedly.
‘It isn’t quite what we’re used to, is it?’
‘It isn’t, but we’ll soon make it home. We’ll know we’re back on our feet when we can buy furniture at Flashman’s.’
They had sheets, but no other linen for the bed – a double bed with a plank base and a thin mattress. May decided she would sleep on the settle in the kitchen.
Eleanor took charge of the dusting and removed the creepy crawlies which emerged from the cracks in the walls and wainscoting. May swept the ashes out of the fireplace, and blackened, brushed and polished the grate. She sprinkled the floor with tea leaves to settle the dust and make it smell better. Violet sorted through the cutlery and crockery that had been left behind by previous tenants. The plates were chipped and the knives blunt, but they would do.
Later, she and May went out to buy hot meat and vegetable stew for supper, bread and eggs for breakfast, and plenty of candles, along with paper and ink for Eleanor to write to their aunt to give her their address and ask if she had received any letters from Ottilie. Having dined, there wasn’t much left to do except retire to bed. In the morning, they were woken early by the knocker-upper with his peashooter, aiming dried peas at the upstairs window which they’d left half-open overnight.
Violet looked out.
‘What do you think you’re doing, sir?’ she called down to him.
‘This is on my round.’ He frowned briefly, then grinned. ‘’As Mr Clarke got a lady friend? Well, I never.’
‘Mr Clarke doesn’t live here any more.’
‘’E owes me money.’
‘He isn’t here!’ Violet said quickly.
‘Are you sure ’e hasn’t put you up to this?’
‘Quite sure. Please go away and leave us alone. We won’t be requiring your services, thank you.’
‘You’re a polite one, quite the young lady with your pleases and thank yous.’
‘Good day, sir,’ she said, closing the window.
Violet couldn’t get back to sleep, so she went downstairs into the workshop to plan where they would keep the needles and threads, and the finished orders, and make a list of the other items they needed, such as a ledger for their records, and a book for invoices and receipts. They would need an area where they could welcome callers who might drop by to offer them commissions, and boxes in which to pack away their finished work. She felt a thrill of excitement and anticipation as she pictured the three of them, happily sewing and talking together, as the orders – and the money– came flooding in.
None of them would be depending on the whims of a father or husband to support them. She couldn’t wait to get started.
Later that morning, Violet took Eleanor with her to Mr Evercreech’s, where she handed over most of what was left of the money from the pawnshop in return for the materials they needed for their first week in business.
Life as an embroideress wasn’t easy, though. By the end of each fourteen-hour day, Violet’s eyes were stinging, her fingers aching, and her back was so painful that she could hardly move.
They lived on Eleanor’s egg curry, onion soup and the cheapest cuts of meat, and May melted down the candle stubs to make new ones.
The long days were brightened by the arrival of a letter from Ottilie.
Dear Violet and Eleanor,
I hope this letter finds you well and happy in Dover. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear back from Aunt Felicity who sent me your address. Although it had been coming for a long time, the news of our poor mother’s passing was still a shock to me. I pray that you will forgive me for not being there with you.
I was wondering if I would ever find you again, having corresponded with Mrs Pryor, our former neighbour, who took great delight in writing about how she last saw you and Mama outside the house at Camden Crescent, and how she had no idea where you went after that. I wrote to Mrs Chittenden, but she sent my letter back, return to sender. It pains me deeply that she refuses to have anything to do with us.
John and I are living in Woolwich in a small but handsome house which suits us very well. I couldn’t have a better, more loving husband. He has made some excellent contacts while setting up his agency and everything is looking rosy.
I’m pleased to hear about your plans for a workshop and wish you and May every success. Mama and Pa would have been very proud of you. Embroidery is a very respectable way to make a living.
You are welcome to visit at any time. Let me know when you can come, or when I can come to you. I can’t wait to see you.
Your loving sister,
Ottilie
P.S. Jane is engaged to be married, not only a great joy to her, but a relief to our aunt, I suspect.
Eleanor wanted to go straight to London, and was upset when Violet advised that they should write back, saying they would wait a while. They couldn’t afford to take a couple of days off while they were establishing themselves, and they couldn’t expect Ottilie to stay in their rented accommodation – there just wasn’t the room. At least, that’s what Violet told Eleanor. She didn’t want Ottilie to see how they were living. She didn’t want to worry her.
All the while, Violet’s child was growing so big inside her that she had to let out one of her dresses at the waist. But even though it was a struggle, she didn’t yearn for the long, lonely days that she’d spent in the house at East Cliff, waiting for Arvin’s return from his trips to France.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shipshape and Bristol Fashion
The month of June came and went, and Violet began to understand her father a little better. She had assumed that he’d taken risks out of greed, but she could see that it was more likely that he’d done it out of a sense of insecurity. Having run the workshop for a few weeks now, she had experienced the cold sweats and panic, worrying that their orders would dry up and she wouldn’t have enough income to support the three of them, and the cat.
They fulfilled their orders every week, but how were they going to improve their lives by sewing letters on caps? It was tedious, repetitive work for a wage on which they could barely survive and, even though she went out one day a week to look for other, more lucrative commissions, she failed to convince anyone else to take them on.
July was ushered in with long, sunny days and oppressively hot nights when Violet would dream of the accident: the darkness, the lights and the fog, and the man she’d grown fond of, who had claimed to love her, falling into the sea, then William trying to save him before he was engulfed by the black swell. She would wake, the bedsheets damp with perspiration, remembering the way that Arvin had betrayed her.
He had taken her to bed and made her his, and then ruined her, but in spite of everything she had gone through since, he hadn’t broken her spirit.
One morning, she was woken by pains dragging through her loins and thighs. Her belly ached and she wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to sip at some tea and take some bread soaked in milk. She couldn’t afford to rest when there were orders to be fulfilled – Mr Evercreech would be waiting. Downstairs in the workshop, she sat down and picked up her needle and thread.
May sat down beside her.
‘How are you feeling today?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said irritably.
‘You’re all wittery.’ May smiled. ‘I expect you’re tired of people asking you.’
‘You haven’t eaten much,’ Eleanor said, joining them.
May gave her a knowing look. ‘That’s because she’s about to drop. Look at the size of ’er. And she can barely sit still for the pains. I know what I’m talking about – a friend of mine had three littl’uns: with the first one she almost died from the pain, the second she pushed out and the third popped out like a cork.’
‘Oh May, we don’t want to hear the details.’ Eleanor winced.
‘I don’t see why you’re so sensitive about childbirth when you write of monsters and murder,’ May said. ‘It’s the natural lot of womenfolk to suffer. Look at our poor queen – she’s borne nine children.’
Violet stared at the letters she was supposed to be working on. A pain caught her in its tightening grip, and her needle fell to the floor.
‘It will be spoiled,’ she gasped, leaning down for it, but she couldn’t reach with the pain stabbing into her stomach. Forcing herself to straighten and stand up, she moved to the workbench where the completed orders were boxed ready for delivery, and the raw materials of their trade were arranged ready for use. Violet gripped the edge with both hands.
‘The babe is coming and there’s nothing you can do to stop it – it will be ’ere by this time tomorrow,’ May observed, moving up to the bench. ‘If it isn’t, we’ll be in trouble.’
Violet felt May’s hands massaging her back, as a rush of wetness drained from her body.
‘Let’s get you back to bed. Help me, Eleanor. Don’t just stand there gawping.’
‘I need to finish—’ Violet looked towards the embroidery that Eleanor had picked up from the floor and placed on her chair. ‘If these orders aren’t completed in time, we won’t be paid.’ She groaned as another wave of pain took over.
‘I’ll go and fetch a doctor,’ she heard Eleanor say.
As May said there was no need for one, Violet found herself being ushered up to the room she shared with her sister. She could barely crawl up the stairs and fall on to the bed. The pain! Other women had warned her about its intensity, but she hadn’t believed them. She couldn’t have imagined how terrible it was, as if she was being crushed through her middle by a road roller.
