The Sewing Room Girl Page 11

  Cecily came to the cottage, bringing a baked custard. ‘Invalid food, Cook says. How are you? Missing the shop?’

  ‘I’m busy here now.’

  ‘I told William you’ve left Naseby’s.’

  Juliet rooted around for a fly net for the baked custard to avoid answering.

  ‘I mentioned what you said about your route on the hill. He couldn’t say much. It’s about this case he’s working on, so he has to be discreet. I s’pose he was watching someone involved in that and happened to see you at the same time. Coincidence.’

  ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘Yesterday. I sneaked out. There’s a place where we meet.’

  ‘Oh, Cecily, be careful.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t see him for a while, so you can stop fretting. Lady Margaret and the girls are off to London and, guess what, I’m going too, as a try-out for Miss Phoebe having her own maid instead of sharing with Miss Vicky.’

  ‘Really? Congratulations. Mrs Whicker must be pleased with you, Miss Marchant too.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve worked hard enough, though I was scared half to death when Mrs Whicker sent for me. I thought she’d found out about me and William, but it was about this.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity.’

  ‘It’d be a lot more wonderful if Miss Phoebe was staying put and I could carry on seeing William.’

  ‘Don’t throw away this chance for his benefit.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you,’ Cecily snorted. ‘You got slung out on your ear because of Hal.’

  ‘That’s different. We have an understanding.’

  ‘So do we … sort of. Look, he gave me this.’

  Cecily delved in her pocket. There was such a glow about her that Juliet expected a piece of jewellery, perhaps even a ring, but all Cecily produced was a piece of card.

  ‘His business card,’ she said and, give her her due, she couldn’t have sounded prouder had it been a ruby surrounded by diamonds.

  Juliet had a quick look. There was William Turton in the top corner and Junior Clerk underneath, and a glimpse of an address, then the card vanished into Cecily’s pocket.

  ‘I know he likes me. He goes out of his way to meet up and he wouldn’t do that, would he, if he didn’t like me? And let’s just say he shows me how much.’ Cecily giggled, starry-eyed and flushed.

  ‘Have you let him … you know?’

  ‘He hasn’t tried. Mind you, if he did try, I don’t think I’d be able to say no. He’s so handsome and when he kisses me …’ She shivered.

  ‘Cecily.’

  ‘Anyroad, he doesn’t earn enough yet. That’s why this job he’s on is important. It could lead to promotion and then …’

  ‘A wife?’

  Cecily grinned. ‘Wouldn’t that be grand? Me, wed to a professional gentleman.’

  ‘Will you write to him while you’re away?’

  ‘He’s given me the address where he lodges in Manchester, but he won’t be able to write back, because you have to be a senior servant before your letters get to you unopened.’ Cecily heaved a sigh. ‘Shall I tell you the worst thing about being Miss Phoebe’s maid? They don’t choose personal maids from those they think will marry. This is as good as a public announcement that I’m on the shelf.’

  Juliet hugged her. ‘Shall I tell you the best thing about being Miss Phoebe’s maid? It’s a better position than chambermaid. “My wife used to be a lady’s maid” has a much better ring than “I married a chambermaid”.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Think of it now, Mrs Turton.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Price.’

  There were moments, like now, standing at one end of the laburnum walk, when Hal felt the tug of dedicating himself to a single estate. It was something he never voiced, because Ma would have pounced, but he understood the connection between Grandad and Moorside that was expressed both in the perceptive application of shape and colour that created flower beds of apparently casual abundance, belying the knowledge and skill that had gone into them, and in the dramatic pieces such as the laburnum walk, where two lines of laburnums had been trained to arch together to create a shimmering golden tunnel. Imagine making your mark on one place over the years. Only a fool wouldn’t be tempted, but in his heart, Hal knew it wasn’t for him.

  It was Juliet’s birthday, and he had spent hours perfecting a painting of the laburnum walk. Ma had taken it to Birkfield to be framed. To Hal, it seemed the perfect gift: a piece of his own work that showed his grandfather’s craft and celebrated Moorside, the place where he and Juliet had met.

  He trundled his wheelbarrow of weeds away from the flower gardens. Spying his cousin, Saul, he called, ‘Finish this for me, will you? Mr Nugent wants to see me.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Saul.

  He jogged home to spruce himself up, removing his gaiters and putting on a tie and a tweed jacket. The last time he had been summoned to the big house, there had been snow on the ground. Now the front of the house was curtained in wisteria. That other time, he had been accused of fathering Rosie’s baby. This time – was it foolish, presumptuous, to feel a flutter of hope? Might the summons spring from Mr Nugent’s interest in him?

  Tucking his cap in his pocket, he hovered outside the estate room, waiting for the grandfather clock in the hall to strike the hour. The moment it did, he knocked.

  ‘Come,’ called Mr Nugent. ‘Ah, Price, come in. Thank you, Farmer Grey. I’ll be out to see the new ditches next week.’

  Hal stood aside to let Farmer Grey depart and closed the door behind him, before placing himself squarely in front of Mr Nugent’s desk.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘How are your studies coming along?’

  Hal described his progress at the Institute and how he was filling notebooks with details of his grandfather’s planting schemes. ‘And through a fellow at the Institute, I got an introduction to a builder in Annerby, who allows me to spend my weekly afternoon off learning the basics on his construction site.’

  ‘You do that in preference to spending your free afternoons with your young lady?’

  ‘She understands, sir. I see her every Sunday. She comes to us for dinner and stays afterwards until I start greenhouse duty.’

  ‘It’s fortunate she is so accommodating.’

  His posture was tall and proud. ‘Juliet knows what I have to do.’

  ‘Then let’s hope she’ll be equally agreeable about this.’ Mr Nugent glanced at a letter in front of him. ‘I’ve found a situation for you with a garden designer named Clayton, who is at present working in London. He’s prepared to take you on for the remainder of his current project. If you impress him … who knows?’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, sir. It’s precisely what I hoped for, though I never imagined it would happen so soon.’

  ‘You’ll take it?’ asked Mr Nugent.

  ‘I’d like to, obviously, but – you must know how things stand with Juliet’s mother.’

  ‘Mrs Harper, I regret to say, does not have long to live. A few weeks at best, according to her doctor.’

  Hal felt torn straight down the middle. How could he leave Juliet to face inevitable bereavement alone? His heart swelled with protective love.

  ‘Might Mr Clayton wait until …?’

  ‘Until Mrs Harper has departed this life? Certainly not. I realise this places you in a difficult position, Price, but I require an answer directly. Either you want this opportunity or you don’t, and if you don’t, I shall be deeply displeased, as Clayton has offered it as a personal favour to me. You said yourself that Juliet understands what is required. I’m going to reply to Clayton’s letter today. What should I tell him?’

  It felt uncomfortable having a birthday under the circumstances. Inappropriate. Juliet leafed through the pages of the old cloth-bound book of embroidery stitches that had belonged to Mother for as long as she could remember. Now it belonged to her. Inside, a bold hand – Mrs Grove’s? �
� had written For my dear daughter on her sixteenth birthday, with best regards from and then a weaker hand had scrawled Mother in writing that must have made poor Mother weep with shame, because it was so spidery and unlike her usual firm hand. Had Mother chosen the sentiment or was ‘best regards’ Mrs Grove’s idea of a suitable inscription to a daughter? Juliet hadn’t asked, because she badly wanted the message to have come from Mother’s lips, if not from her hand, even though it wasn’t the more loving message she would have preferred.

  It was a warm afternoon and she had the windows open. Mother had tried to stay awake but had been overtaken by sleep, and Juliet had carried her chair over to the window to enjoy the fresh air, insofar as anything was enjoyable these days. Mother had shed an appalling amount of weight: her cheeks were sunken, her arms as thin as twigs. Juliet didn’t want her to suffer, but she didn’t want her to die either. She couldn’t bear to lose her. Was that selfish? She had heard the words ‘merciful release’ being murmured among the village women and she wanted to bang their heads together. How dare they make it sound so simple?

  Hal appeared from among the trees, carrying a huge bouquet of pinks, and her facial muscles fluttered as a smile formed. She waved to him before creeping out of Mother’s room, running downstairs and meeting him halfway up the path, flying straight into the shelter of his free arm to snuggle close, and never mind that she practically got a faceful of pinks, their heavenly scent enfolding her along with his embrace. Slipping her arm about his waist, she drew him indoors.

  The pinks were in a jug. Her bones melted. Trust Hal. He had provided a vase so that she wouldn’t have to root around for one, a seemingly small gesture but, oh, such a meaningful and important one when her nerves were stretched to breaking point with worry, and even the tiniest additional task could pile on the tension.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ said Hal, presenting the pinks.

  ‘Thank you. They’re lovely.’

  ‘There’s this as well.’ He took a flat parcel from under his arm. ‘I hope you like it.’

  She unwrapped it to reveal a framed watercolour of the laburnum walk. ‘Did you do it? This will have pride of place on our parlour wall one day.’

  She drew him to the window seat, where they could sit close together.

  ‘I spent the walk here wondering whether it was appropriate to wish you a happy birthday,’ Hal said.

  ‘Wondering whether it’s safe to say “happy” under the circumstances?’ She huffed a breath. How to explain? ‘Something I’ve learnt from Mother’s illness is that it’s now that matters. How she feels can change so much so quickly. It isn’t “How are you today, Mother?” or even “How are you this morning?” She could feel wretched from her toes to her back teeth now, then perk up in an hour or two’s time. So what matters is now, this minute. And here, now, being with you, I’m happy.’

  Happy. And safe. Hal’s embrace was her safe place.

  He pressed a kiss into her hair before drawing his face away to look at her. His light-brown eyes, though warm, were troubled, and a knot of unease appeared in Juliet’s stomach. Her safe place wasn’t quite so safe any more.

  ‘I hope you’ll still be happy when you hear my news,’ he said. ‘Mr Nugent has found me a position with a garden designer currently working in London.’

  ‘London!’

  ‘I know. It’s a long way.’

  The hairs lifted on the back of her neck. Her one safe place was going to be wrenched away.

  ‘I’m more sorry than I can say.’ Hal leant his forehead against hers. ‘But if I don’t accept this chance, Mr Nugent isn’t going to put himself out for me a second time.’

  She squared her shoulders. ‘You must go. Of course you must. This is what you’ve been working towards all this time. It’s a marvellous opportunity.’

  ‘It is, and it’s happened much earlier than I thought it would.’

  ‘You deserve it and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.’

  ‘Leaving you, with your mother so poorly, feels like I’m abandoning you.’

  ‘No, you aren’t. We always knew this opportunity would come. I’d rather it hadn’t happened just now, but …’ She forced a smile. ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. Mr Clayton’s work is already in progress.’

  She clenched her hands in her lap so as not to grab hold of him for support. ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I can’t say. I’m sorry, love. Nothing is decided at present.’

  ‘Then we must make the most of the time we have.’ How calm she sounded – not cheerful, precisely, but pleased. As if this were a good thing – which, of course, it was. It could be the beginning of Hal’s career. She had promised to support him in everything he did. She just hadn’t realised how hard it would be. For better or worse – wasn’t that the marriage vow? This was both, and it was up to her to make it as easy as possible for him. ‘You’re not to feel bad about leaving me. Afterwards … I’ll be going back to the big house as seamstress, so I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m proud of you for that.’

  ‘You never know, maybe you’ll be back before I go.’

  But the look on his face told her he wouldn’t. She knew it too, really. She just couldn’t bear to face it. She wanted Mother to hang on and on.

  Chapter Ten

  There was a knock at the cottage door and in walked Alf Mulgrew. ‘I’m here to remove the bolts. Mr Nugent says if there’s an emergency in the night and you’ve bolted the doors, it could cause problems.’

  Juliet stared. She had been bolting the doors, back and front, since the incident in her bedroom. Had Mr Nugent attempted to come in at night since then? She watched helplessly as Alf set about his task. Locking herself in would be no good, as there were sets of keys to all the cottages in the estate room.

  She fretted all evening, but Mr Nugent didn’t come. Neither did he appear the following evening. She wished he would come so she could get it over with – no, she didn’t.

  She went to bed, exhausted and wretched, sighing herself to sleep at long last. When she woke the next morning, she lay for a while, her head stuffed with worries. As she threw back the covers and swung her legs out, she caught a whiff of – yes, rose. Her gaze flew to the candle. She hadn’t touched it since that occasion with Mr Nugent. Her heart beat faster. Had Mr Nugent—? No.

  But the candle was shorter than it had been, and there was no denying the fragrance in the air.

  That night, she started to heave the chest of drawers across the door, but the noise brought Mother stumbling out of bed. She sagged against the door frame, heavy-eyed and bone-thin.

  ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘I dropped something down the back.’

  ‘Leave it. I can’t sleep with that racket.’

  So that was the end of that. She got into bed and sat curled up with her arms locked round her knees, her back pressed against the wall. She stayed like that until she was stiff with cold and her body was screaming at her to snuggle down, but she wouldn’t give in, not even when she felt herself nodding off.

  She jerked her head up, breathing in sharply – and there it was, the scent of roses. Mr Nugent stood in the candlelight, one side of his face bathed in its soft glow, the other deep in shadow.

  ‘Did you fall asleep waiting for me? How eager that makes you look. How needy. I like that. I enjoyed watching you sleep, but I prefer you awake.’

  A shudder pounded through her, jarring every bone. She pressed deeper into the corner, willing the wall to crack open and suck her inside. The muscles in her neck burnt, and she moved her shoulders, trying to ease them.

  ‘Does your neck hurt?’ Mr Nugent enquired softly.

  The mattress dipped as he sat. She seemed about to roll onto his lap and she squirmed away, except that there was nowhere to squirm to, because she was already flattened against the wall. Mr Nugent patted the bed beside him. Heart beating fiercely, she shook her head.

  ‘No? Are you saying no to me?’ He laughed qu
ietly, indulgently. ‘It was a simple offer of help. Your neck is painful: I can ease it. If you don’t want my help, all you need say is “No, thank you, sir” and that’s all there is to it.’

  She swallowed. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And then I say “Don’t be foolish. I know better than you” and help you anyway.’

  He lifted her towards him, turning her so her back was to him. His hands rested on her shoulders, thumbs pressing in slow circular movements, fingers kneading and manipulating. Her hardened muscles relaxed and she felt stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Mr Nugent tutted softly. ‘I come to collect some gratitude and end up helping you … again. You know I’ll never refuse you. And,’ he added, ‘you mustn’t refuse me either. Unfasten your buttons.’

  She didn’t move. She remembered what happened last time and she didn’t move.

  ‘You’re right,’ Mr Nugent murmured. ‘You dear girl, you’re right,’ and her relief was so huge that it hurt more than the dread, until he continued, ‘It has to be more each time, just a little more. Here, allow me.’

  He slipped to his knees in front of her and set to work on the buttons himself. When the last of them surrendered, he pushed aside the edges of the yoke. Mother had worked hard on it, all those tiny pleats and the ribbon-work. Mr Nugent leant in and rested his cheek against her chest. He stayed like that, and she began to think it wasn’t so bad, then he moved his face and slid his fingers inside each edge of the yoke, pulling them so that the gap shifted away from her chest and instead it was her breast that was exposed, only to be covered by his face, his mouth and an odd murmuring that might have been words, might have been kisses, and dear heaven above, was he sucking her? Her lips peeled back from her teeth. It hurt too, his moustache rasping across her soft flesh.

  At last, with one final flick of the tongue, he withdrew. His eyelids looked heavy and he breathed deeply. He rose and looked down on her. With the candlelight at his back, his face was all shadows and darkness.