The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

30

  Head down and pencil in hand, Lacey made swift, deft strokes on a large sheet of white paper. The past nine months had been hectic and now she was taking advantage of the lull in business to create new designs for the coming seasons.

  ‘Gentleman to see you, Mrs Brearley.’

  At Katie’s announcement, Lacey glanced round to see a tall, smartly dressed man hovering in the workroom doorway. She smiled in welcome and then ushered him into the dress shop, away from the noise of the machines.

  ‘Adam Brook, at your service, madam.’ He held out his hand. Lacey shook it, impressed by his elegant manner.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Brook?’

  ‘My wife suggested I should call on you to discuss a matter of business.’

  A frisson of expectation surged through Lacey’s veins. Outwardly she remained calm. ‘Would that be Mrs Adelaine Brook of Ferndale House?’

  Adam Brook smiled. ‘The very one: she’s delighted with the work you’ve done for her and suggested I approach you with a view to putting business your way, should you feel able to fulfil the requirements.’

  ‘Lacey’s Modistes are extremely competent, Mr Brook. What are the requirements?’

  ‘I’ve recently inherited a ladies’ mantle house in Leeds. My research shows that the demand for inexpensive, ready to wear dresses is increasing, therefore I wondered if you could make up a selection of garments to capture that corner of the market.’

  Lacey’s heart thudded so loudly she thought he must hear it. A contract to supply dresses on a regular basis would ensure work for her girls for months, if not years to come.

  ‘Mr Brook, I’m flattered that you should consider us.’

  ‘My wife assures me there’s no better dressmaker in the district.’

  ‘Please convey my thanks to Mrs Brook. Now, if you’d follow me through to the house we can discuss the details over a cup of tea.’ An hour later she returned to the workroom, triumphant.

  ‘Girls, we’ve just landed a contract to supply dresses to a shop in Leeds. If we do a good job – and we will – it’ll keep us in work until we’re old an’ grey.’

  By October, Lacey’s Modistes had produced such a successful winter collection that Adam Brook extended the contract for the following spring and summer. Lacey was overjoyed.

  During this time, Lacey not only wrote letters to Nathan, she included tiny sketches of the garments they had produced, Nathan praising her initiative, and the main content of the letters they exchanged about Richard’s progress (with accompanying photographs) and, as usual, hopes for the future and their devotion to each other. But come December there was no seasonal greeting from Nathan to mark Christmas or the New Year.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ said Lacey, barely acknowledging the greetings cards it was increasingly fashionable to send at this time of year, ‘It’s not like Nathan to miss sending a Christmas letter, of all letters.’

  And so, the festive season being anything but, Lacey watched and waited for the post. As the Old Year ran into the New she still waited, her fears for Nathan’s safety deepening with each passing day and her temper unusually irascible.

  ‘Katie, clear this table. I can’t work until you shift all this clutter. I’ve Susan Hepplestone’s wedding dress to cut out.’

  Hurt by Lacey’s sharp tone, Katie attempted to lighten the mood. ‘I wouldn’t want to get married in January; it’s too cold. I’d like a summer wedding, the sun shining an’ me wearing a white lace dress.’

  ‘Well, just make sure you keep yourself right so’s you can choose when you get married,’ snapped Lacey. ‘Susan Hepplestone didn’t have any choice. She’s four months pregnant.’

  The bell above the door of the dress shop shrilled. Lacey hurried to answer it; she liked to serve her customers personally.

  The sale of a jacket completed, the satisfied client left, remarking ‘it’s nothing short of a miracle.’ It reminded Lacey of something Nathan had once said: ‘The impossible I can do. Miracles take a little longer.’ She’d laughed then but with no letter from Nathan for almost three months, miracles seemed thin on the ground. She gazed wistfully through the shop window.

  Outside, a telegram boy was dismounting from his bicycle. For one second her heart missed a beat, and in the next the boy thrust open the door.

  ‘Letter from the War Office for Mrs Lacey Brearley.’ His urgent cry practised, he fished in his leather pouch and withdrew the dreaded missive. Having delivered the now familiar envelopes on too many occasions he was almost certain of the contents.

  Somehow, Lacey managed to remain upright although her legs trembled uncontrollably. ‘That’s me,’ she croaked, ‘I’m Mrs Lacey Brearley.’

  Not daring to move, she stretched out her hand. It shook so badly she had difficulty grasping the small brown envelope the boy handed her. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ he muttered before turning tail.

  Lacey crushed the unopened envelope to her chest and then tottered into the workroom. Joan glanced up from the paper pattern she was pinning to a length of material. At the sight of her cousin’s ashen face she tossed it aside, paper, pins and fabric flying from the table. She dashed across the room. ‘What is it, Lacey? What’s wrong?’

  Lacey proffered the envelope, croaking, ‘Open it. I can’t.’

  Joan paled, memories of receiving a similar envelope springing to mind. ‘Katie, bring Mrs Brearley a chair, an’ you, Ann, make a pot o’ tea; good an’ strong wi’ two sugars.’

  Katie placed a chair behind Lacey then hovered impotently, shaken to see her employer stripped of her usual brisk efficiency.

  Lacey sat. Again, she proffered the envelope. This time Joan took it. Molly and Sarah hurried over, Molly placing a comforting hand on Lacey’s shoulder.

  Joan opened the envelope and withdrew the flimsy yellow paper. Taking a deep breath, she scanned the missive, relief of a sort on her features.

  ‘He’s missing, Lacey. Not dead. It says he’s missing.’

  Lacey snatched the letter, forcing her eyes to focus on the small black type:

  I regret to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that No. 12934, Rank: Captain, Name: Nathan Jonas Brearley, Regiment: 1st Duke of Wellington’s, was posted ‘missing’ on the 24th November, 1917.

  The report that he is missing does not necessarily mean he has been killed, as he may be a Prisoner of War or temporarily separated from his regiment.

  Official reports that men are Prisoners of War take some time to reach this country, and if he has been captured by the enemy it is probable that unofficial news will reach you first.

  The letter fluttered to the floor. Katie picked it up, holding it gingerly between finger and thumb, unsure what to do with it. Lacey hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Ann arrived with a mug of tea. ‘Here, drink this,’ Joan said firmly. Lacey withdrew her hands from her face and fumbled for the mug, tea slopping into her lap. She brushed at the damp patch distractedly, took a deep drink and then thrust the mug back into Joan’s hand.

  ‘It doesn’t say outright that he’s dead. It just says he’s missing.’ Lacey’s voice strengthened as hope soared and she began to gabble hysterically. ‘He could be anywhere. Just not with his regiment. In all that chaos men must get separated all the time. An’ if he’s been taken prisoner it means he’s still alive.’ On the verge of tears, she glanced wildly from one to another of the women and girls.

  Joan nodded eagerly. ‘That’s right, Lacey. Somebody’ll find out what’s happened to him, an’ when they do they’ll let you know.’ Again she thought of Stanley; the letter she had received more than a year ago had given her no hope.

  *

  Throughout the following weeks Lacey simply went through the motions, numb inside and blindly impervious to all but the necessary tasks. In her mind’s eye she conjured pictures of Nathan staggering under the influence of mustard gas or suffering from shell shock as he tried to find his way back to his r
egiment; or wounded and lying in a morass of mud in No Man’s Land, waiting for help that never came. At other times she imagined his broken body left to rot in a hastily dug, unmarked grave.

  She stopped reading newspapers, the reports and grainy photographs only exacerbating her imaginings. At other times she tried to picture him as a prisoner, alive but subjected to cruel treatment at the hands of the murderous Germans. Although she hated the thought of him being captive, this was the scenario she most hoped for.

  At Fenay Hall the Brearleys too, were numb with grief. Constance bore the news with fortitude, bravely continuing with her charity work although her heart wasn’t in it. Jonas spent increasingly long hours in the Mill office pondering on the absence of his son and heir. If Nathan never returned, who would run the Mill until young Richard was of an age to take command? Felicity also grieved but whilst she, like her parents, lived in hope for Nathan’s safe return she had another secret hope burning deep inside.

  When Lacey and Richard went to Fenay Hall to take Sunday lunch with the family, Lacey was disappointed to find that Alice and Violet were also there. They had come to offer their commiserations, so Alice told her. Irritated by her simpering manner, Lacey swiftly removed herself, and thinking it far more likely that they were there for a free lunch, she crossed the room to where Felicity stood gazing pensively through a window overlooking the garden.

  ‘Stefan has written; Maria’s dead,’ she whispered, as soon as Lacey joined her. ‘If he’s allowed to leave Germany, he says he will come to Garsthwaite after a suitable period of mourning.’

  Lacey squeezed Felicity’s arm affectionately. ‘I’m pleased for you, Felicity. At least one of us has good news.’

  Felicity looked doubtful. ‘I’m confused. One part of me fears for Nathan, another is saddened yet relieved by Maria’s death and the biggest part of me sings with joy to think Stefan will come for me.’

  ‘Nathan will come back as well,’ Lacey replied stoutly, ‘I’d know if he were dead, I’d feel it in here.’ She thumped her chest, her words sounding braver than she felt, but of late she had convinced herself he was alive, and now, partly to comfort Felicity and also to bolster her own belief she added, ‘wherever Nathan is, he’s not dead.’

  ‘I do so hope you’re right. Not only for our sakes but the sake of this little chap.’ Her voice shaking with emotion, Felicity lifted Richard into her arms who, in order to escape Violet’s cloying, and false, affection had hurtled across the room to join them in the window recess.

  ‘Vi’wet howibble,’ said Richard, protruding his top teeth over his bottom lip in imitation of Violet. Felicity laughed out loud, Lacey remarking, ‘For one so young he’s an excellent judge of character.’

  ‘Isn’t he just,’ said Felicity, ‘I wonder what he makes of Alice?’ She set Richard down, groaning, ‘and to think we have to endure their company over dinner.’

  At the dinner table Alice’s bracelet clinked noisily as she applied her spoon to her plate. ‘I’ve lost so much weight even my jewellery is too big for me,’ she twittered.

  The bracelet, a chunky collection of green stones, dangled loosely from her scraggy wrist. When it clattered against the plate a third time she removed it, setting it on the table.

  Constance smiled tolerantly. ‘Was it your mother’s, Alice?’

  ‘It was. One of the few remaining pieces I’ve managed to hang on to since we were so cruelly left in straitened circumstances.’ Her eyes sought the sympathy she considered her due. Only Violet responded.

  ‘Yes,’ Violet lisped, ‘poor mama has had to sell most of the pieces that by right should have come to me.’

  ‘You’ll have to find yourself a husband to buy you replacements,’ Jonas growled. To hide her amusement at the barbed comment, Lacey fussed with Richard’s napkin, tucking it firmly under his chin.

  Violet cast her mother an embarrassed glance. Smoothly, Alice responded, ‘Alas, Violet has pledged her dear, loyal heart to one who failed to appreciate her worth; isn’t that so, my dear?’ She laid a comforting hand on Violet’s, causing her to fumble with her spoon. Soup slopped onto the table. Richard crowed with delight, Violet’s chagrin palpable. ‘See,’ piped Alice, ‘the poor darling is quite heartbroken.’

  ‘Balderdash!’ barked Jonas, tossing his napkin onto the table and pushing back his chair. ‘It’s you that’s brokenhearted, Alice. You failed to get your sticky hands on my brass and now you’re going to make that poor girl suffer for the rest of her days.’ He marched to the door. ‘I’ve heard enough of your twaddle for one day. Make sure you’re gone before I come out.’ To Soames he said, ‘I’ll take my dinner in my study.’

  ‘As you will, sir,’ said Soames, although his words were drowned by Constance protesting, ‘Really Jonas, is this necessary?’ and Alice wailing, ‘How can you be so cruel as to say—’

  Jonas didn’t stay to listen.

  The meal over, the ladies and Richard retired to the drawing room. After an uncomfortable half hour of tedious chat, Lacey bade Richard take leave of his grandmamma and aunt. Hugs and kisses delivered, Lacey ushered Richard into the hallway. She set her handbag on the hall table then stooped to button his coat, surprised when she came upright to find Alice standing beside her.

  ‘I gather your business is flourishing nicely. What with that and the property you’re soon to inherit, you’ll be a wealthy widow.’

  Stung by the remark Lacey hissed, ‘You bitch! I’m not about to inherit anything. Nathan isn’t dead.’

  Alice opened her mouth to make what would, no doubt, have been a vicious response, but before she had chance to air it, Felicity appeared. ‘I’m coming with you Lacey,’ she said.

  Outside the house in Towngate, Lacey delved in her handbag for the door key. Withdrawing her hand, she dangled Alice’s bracelet in front of Felicity’s face. ‘Now how did that get there?’

  *

  The police constable who presented himself at the shop in Towngate was unknown to Lacey. Even so, she smiled a welcome. ‘What can we do for you, officer?’

  The constable coughed self-consciously as he looked at the respectable, pretty woman who stood calmly before him. ‘Are you Mrs Lacey Brearley?’ he asked.

  Lacey affirming she was, he mumbled ‘Sorry to trouble you madam but… er… we’ve been informed that some jewellery belonging to Mrs Alice Burrows has gone missing, stolen whilst she was a guest at Fenay Hall. We have… er… reason to believe you may be implicated.’

  Lacey accepted the accusation calmly. ‘And what jewellery would that be, constable?’

  ‘An emerald and gold bracelet so I’ve been informed.’ Dropping all pretence at formality he gabbled, ‘She says you stole it yesterday evening.’

  Lacey heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘Have you a car to take us to Fenay Hall or do we have to walk?’

  The constable, taken aback by Lacey’s response, muttered that he had come by bicycle. Without another word they made their way up to Fenay Hall, Soames looking bemused when Lacey arrived with a policeman in tow. Then his face fell as he imagined the worst; Master Nathan was dead. To add to his bemusement, Lacey asked Soames to take the constable to Constance and Jonas. ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said.

  Soames ushered him into the breakfast room where Constance and Jonas lingered over coffee. Jonas leapt to his feet, his features expressing the same unwelcome thoughts as those of Soames. Constance paled and clutched at her breast. ‘What is it, officer?’ Jonas’s croak betrayed his fears.

  The constable drew himself up to full height. ‘A robbery at these premises was reported early this morning by a Mrs Alice Burrows, a guest of yours, or so I was told.’

  Constance and Jonas sagged into their seats, the colour returning to their faces along with puzzled expressions. ‘So you’re not here about my son, Nathan?’ Jonas gasped.

  The constable looked bemused. ‘No sir, a bracelet was stolen yesterday evening according to Mrs Burrows. The accused person is out in the hallway.’

 
Jonas barged to the door, yanked it open and saw Lacey. ‘You bloody idiot,’ Jonas yelled at the constable, ‘this is my daughter-in-law.’ The constable’s face fell. Jonas charged to the foot of the stairs. ‘Alice! Alice!’ He turned to Soames. ‘Go get that bloody woman and bring her down here this minute.’ Soames darted upstairs.

  In the drawing room, Alice and a dithering Violet faced their irate hosts. Lacey and Felicity looked on, their lips quirking. The constable looked from Lacey to Alice. ‘Is this the lady who stole your bracelet?’

  Alice said, ‘It is. I saw her slip it into the large, black handbag she was carrying when she was here yesterday, the same one she now has with her.’

  Felicity burst into peals of laughter. ‘Oh, Alice, how foolish you are. Here’s your bracelet.’ She dangled it enticingly. ‘You left it on the table at dinner and Soames brought it to me.’

  ‘No! Mama put it in Lacey’s…’ Violet’s hand shot to her mouth in an attempt to smother the incriminating words. Alice glared at her, then recovering a shred of composure tweeted, ‘How… how silly of me. I thought it had been stolen.’

  The constable harrumphed. ‘This could be classed as wasting police time, Mrs Burrows. What with a war on, we’ve enough to do.’

  After the constable had left an icy silence fell over the room, Alice and Violet darting anxious glances at Lacey, Felicity, Constance and Jonas and then finally at one another.

  ‘What will you do next to bring me down, Alice?’ Lacey asked calmly.

  ‘Nothing, if she’s any sense,’ screeched Constance, ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why she acts this way.’

  ‘Because she’s a spiteful, grasping parasite with a wicked mind,’ Felicity said blithely. ‘She deliberately placed the bracelet in Lacey’s bag. She found it there, and I kept it until such time as it was needed. You see, Alice, you’re not the only crafty one.’

  ‘By God!’ roared Jonas, ‘you’ve done it this time. The pair of you, pack your bags.’ He turned to Constance. ‘There’s to be no more kind gestures where these two are concerned. They don’t deserve any.’