The Dressmaker's Christmas

by Eliza Lawley

  Holly frowned, affronted. “I did not, sir. It was a gift from a dear…friend.”

  “That friend must be very dear indeed!” The old man placed the locket on the counter and appraised her. “Who are you, girl?”

  Thomas opened his mouth, but Holly cut him off. “My name is Holly Clements. My papa, Silas Clements, asked me to remember him to you.”

  “Clements?” he seemed to struggle with his memory and Holly panicked that Silas had given her the wrong address.

  “Yes, the solicitor from Savile Row?” she said, cautiously.

  The old man went white and clasped the countertop.

  “Sir?” Holly took a step back as Thomas darted forward to ensure the man had not fallen suddenly ill. “Sir, are you quite all right?”

  He nodded and looked up at her, tears in his eyes. “Your papa saved my wife’s life,” he said. “We are forever in his debt.”

  Holly glanced at Thomas and then back at the jeweller. “Really?”

  “Indeed. Mr Clements… he argued for my wife at the courthouse. He saved her from the noose. For a crime that wasn’t her fault… and he proved it. I told him… I said… if he ever needed anything…”

  Holly welled up with pride. Her papa was a good man. He had fought for someone, and saved a life, even if it wasn’t hers.

  The jeweller donned his spectacles and studied the locket again. “This piece dates back to the 1650s. Well, the locket does… the chain is maybe only thirty years old. But still, it’s worth a small fortune to you.”

  Holly gaped, and Thomas released a breath next to her.

  “How much would you pay for it?” she asked the jeweller.

  The man considered her. “Two hundred pounds.”

  Holly’s stomach flipped. Two hundred pounds! She would never have imagined the little trinket was worth so much.

  “Deal!” she declared.

  “Holly, are you sure you want to do this?” Thomas asked as the jeweller went to fetch her money.

  She smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am. I’ve never been so sure of anything. This money will go towards something more important than that old locket.”

  He furrowed his brow. “And what is that?”

  “Our new life together.”

  With a chuckle, Thomas wrapped her in his arms and held her close. Holly hugged him back, soaking up his warmth and his love.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt she belonged somewhere.

  She was wanted. She was protected. She was cherished.

  Epilogue

  On Christmas Eve, the day after her eighteenth birthday, Holly held Thomas’ hands as they stood together in a small church and exchanged their marriage vows.

  Their only witness was Edie, and she was more than enough.

  Thomas hadn’t invited his family, knowing that they would have ignored the event, but he’d been sure to send word back to his mother. And Holly had no family to invite.

  It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was the two of them, together, promising to love and cherish each other until death.

  As the vicar pronounced them man and wife, Thomas leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Holly’s lips. She smiled at him, her heart full, and her soul whole.

  “I love you, Holly Chesterford. With everything I have, I love you.”

  “I love you too, Thomas. You are the family I have always dreamed of, but never thought I’d find.”

  Arm-in-arm, they walked down the aisle and out of the church, a silent promise between them to love each other and the family they would create, until the end of their days.

  A Note About Reviews

  Dear Reader,

  I’m always delighted to welcome new readers and very much hope that you enjoyed

  The Dressmaker’s Christmas.

  If you did, and you purchased this book from Amazon, please could I ask that you consider leaving a review.

  Reviews are so important to authors, especially new and emerging authors who are independently published, like myself.

  Plus, every time someone leaves me a review or a kind word about my book, I do a little happy dance and hug my dog. If you want my dog to get more hugs, please consider leaving me a review ☺

  Also, to be among the first to learn about my forthcoming releases or book giveaways, sign up to my mailing list.

  Eliza x

  And, if you’ve not yet read it, I’d like to treat you to the first chapter of my book

  The Ragman’s Daughter

  The Ragman’s Daughter

  Chapter 1

  Briar Walker curled up into a tight ball under her thin, grey knitted blanket as she tried to block out the sounds of her papa stumbling into the room. She whispered a silent prayer, hoping that he would soon collapse onto his dirty, bare mattress and pass out. In the meantime, she just needed to avoid catching his attention.

  Jasper Walker was a mean drunk, and Briar was often on the receiving end of his rages. At six years old she’d taught herself how to mend her own bleeding lip, and now, at the age of nine, she was old enough to nurse him back to some semblance of sobriety.

  She heard him mumbling to himself as he staggered through the room. Briar curled up tighter, hugging her knees to her chest and pulling the blanket around herself. She held her breath, wishing she was invisible.

  Some nights it seemed as though he forgot she was there. Those were the best nights. The nights she went to sleep, a little cold, but with no tears or pain.

  Sadly, it was not one of those nights.

  “Hidin’, are we?” he growled. His words slurred as he neared her bed. Reaching under her blanket, he grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Where’s the whiskey?”

  Her heart raced as fear hummed through her.

  There was none.

  Not because she didn’t wish for there to be. She took great care in making sure there was always a bottle stashed away because it made him fall asleep faster. Today, however, she’d not been able to get any. They simply didn’t have the money.

  “Papa, I’m sorry, I couldn’t afford—”

  His thick calloused palm connected with her cheek; his accuracy sharp, despite his inebriated state.

  “Stupid girl,” he spat. The smell of old liquor coated his breath and wafted over her. She resisted the urge the gag. “Can’t you do anythin’ right?”

  Briar bit her lip as she fought to hold back her tears. Her cheek throbbed and she briefly wondered if he had left a mark this time.

  She wouldn’t let him see her cry, though. She just wouldn’t.

  When she was sure she could speak without sobbing, she looked back at him and murmured, “It wasn’t my fault, I swear it.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “It’s always your fault. Everythin’ is your fault, y’hear me? No whiskey… y’mother… everything!”

  Briar shuddered at the disgust in his voice as he once more laid the blame for his beloved wife’s death at her feet.

  Her mother, a sweet and kind young woman, or so she’d been told, had died in childbirth. Before then, her papa had been a respectable man with a proper occupation. Some say he was the manager at one of the finest gentlemen’s outfitters in all of London. But when her mother died, she’d taken more than his heart with her.

  When he’d lost his love, he’d lost his kindness. His compassion. His ability to walk away from a bottle. Jasper Walker’s life had fallen into ruin. His excessive drinking had cost him his profession and their home. They’d been forced into a tiny room in a crumbling tenement just off of St. Mary’s Street, where he barely scraped a living together as a rag-and-bone man on the streets of Cripplegate.

  And all of this calamity, he blamed on his only child, Briar.

  Briar, who’d been nothing but a helpless babe in his arms, oblivious to the tragedy of the world around her. She knew it was outrageous for him to think their lot in life was in any way her doing, but if she dared to point it out, she’d only face another beating.

  Instead, she cast h
er eyes downward to hide her sorrow and shame. “I’m sorry, papa. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

  He narrowed his eyes and glared for several long, hard moments, and she feared her apology wouldn’t be enough to appease him. At length, however, he released a snort and dropped her arm.

  “Ungrateful,” he muttered, turning away from her. “Everythin’ I do for the girl, and she can’t even bring back one measly bottle.”

  Anger bubbled in her belly at his words, but she kept her mouth sealed in a tight line. Let him say what he wants. At least his words don’t leave bruises, she thought.

  Briar waited until he crossed the room and collapsed face-first onto his mattress before she lay back down on hers. Staring up at the damp and mould on the ceiling, she listened to his snorts and snores and wondered if she would sleep tonight. With a sigh, she rolled over to rest with the tender side of her face to the cool air and hugged her grey blanket. Her cheek continued to pulse with heat, but the worst of the pain had subsided. By morning, she imagined it would be nearly as good as new.

  She watched her papa sleep and she tried to do the same, but deep down, in the darkest recesses of her heart where she kept all of her secrets locked away, a tiny part of her hoped that in the morning, he wouldn’t wake up.

  The rising orange sun cast long shadows in the dirty alley when Briar stepped outside, her papa not far behind her. Their tenement was situated in a poor Cripplegate neighbourhood, with rickety buildings and filthy bare-footed children running in the streets. While Briar had never known a different life, her papa had, and the very sight of it soured his already bad mood on most mornings.

  “Move along, don’t dawdle,” he snapped. He was sober for the time being, but Briar knew it wouldn’t last. The first coin they made, he’d take straight to a pub.

  She hurried down the building’s steps before he swatted at her, wanting so badly to kick his shins. They set off along the street together, keeping an eye out for old rags and other such cast-offs that they could salvage and sell. Briar hated scavenging for such scraps. They would often dig through the garbage, or heaps of ashes to find old clothing, or worn blankets and the like. It was smelly, disgusting work, but her papa forced her out with him. Anything they found would be thrown into the greasy bag he wore over his shoulder. A bag that had become almost as much of a permanent fixture as his bottle.

  Each day, they walked for miles, picking through rubbish and collecting anything that might have value. If Briar didn’t move fast enough or complained about her aching feet, her papa would reach out and idly smack the back of her head and call her lazy. She absently rubbed at her cheek as she walked, glad that it was only a little sore from the night prior.

  As the morning light broke through the filth and grime of the streets, the quiet part of the day gave way to the rumbles of waking families, the banging of pots and pans and screams of babies as they cried out in hunger.

  Briar liked the earlier mornings. She preferred the quiet. She could think straight and relax somewhat, even though her papa was close behind her. There was no-one to see her rummaging through the rubbish on the side of the streets, and she could explore and hunt without shame.

  “Pay attention. Check that pile there,” her papa ordered his voice like a whip.

  Briar spotted a small mound of ashes close to the wall of a house they were passing, and obediently hurried to it. She carefully brushed her fingers through the heap, wishing her papa would let her use his hooked stick to dig. He never allowed her to borrow it, and she had no choice but to pray there was nothing sharp concealed in the ashes.

  At first, it seemed there was nothing to be found. She huffed in frustration, but then she pushed the last layer of ash aside and something glinted in the sunlight. It looked like some type of coin or tiny medallion. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure her papa was out of sight; she pinched the piece between her fingers and picked it up. With narrowed eyes, she studied it. It was a little green button with intricate gold-coloured designs painted on its surface. Rubbing it clean of soot, she admired it for several moments, deciding it was too beautiful to be sold to an unappreciative merchant. Tucking it into the small pocket in her skirt, she stood and clapped her hands together to shed them of grey, ashy filth.

  “Find somethin’, child?” her papa barked from a little way down the street.

  Briar schooled her features so as not to give anything away. “No, papa. Nothing to be found here.”

  He gnashed his teeth in frustration and returned his attention to his own pile of refuse. Briar released a breath of relief. When she returned home, she would hide the button with her other treasures behind an old brick in the tenement’s wall in the alleyway where no-one would find it. She had begun gathering a little hoard the moment she realised that her papa hated her. If the day came that he cast her off for good, or that she found the courage to run away, she would have her small stash to fall back on.

  She would not die out on the cold London streets.

  She would not be helpless.

  Find out what happens to Briar in The Ragman’s Daughter

  Out now on Amazon Kindle

  More Victorian Romance books by Eliza Lawley

  The Runaway Maid

  The Flower Girl

  Girl from the Workhouse

  The Ragman’s Daughter