The Sewing Room Girl Read online

  ‘It’s none of your concern what Doctor prescribes for his patients.’

  She hurried on her way. Halfway up the hill, she saw Mr Nugent sitting on the bench and felt embarrassed. It would be rude to look at him – and just as rude not to. He solved her dilemma by addressing her, making her stop.

  ‘Good afternoon, Juliet. On your way home, I see.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Nugent.’ She stood there, feeling awkward.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  She stepped backwards. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you can. You’re about to enter my employ, and I expect my orders to be obeyed.’

  She slid onto the bench, perching at the far end, brown paper bag on her lap clutched in both hands.

  ‘You’d be in my employ already, if I’d had my way,’ Mr Nugent remarked. ‘But your mother wanted to keep you until your notice is up, and who am I to thwart a mother’s wishes?’

  Was she meant to thank him?

  ‘Are you looking forward to joining my household? To becoming my … sewing girl?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. So am I.’

  Juliet looked at him. She had an odd feeling of chill, like walking through bushes after rain and getting slapped by a wet branch.

  ‘For Dolly’s sake,’ he added.

  She nodded. She thought he might dismiss her then, but he rose and stepped forward to look at the view. Should she stand too, out of politeness? Then he walked along a few paces, crossing in front of her in the narrow space, and stopped beside the path. Good: he was going.

  He turned to look at her. ‘Have you bought yourself something special?’

  ‘Oh – this. Doctor Entwistle sent it for my mother.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘It’s a tonic. She’s not ill.’

  Mr Nugent nodded. Dismissal. ‘You’d better be getting back, don’t you think?’

  She came to her feet, then hesitated, waiting for him to stand aside, but he didn’t move, just continued to stand there, looking at her.

  ‘Off you go,’ he said softly.

  Ducking her head to hide the heat in her cheeks, she obeyed, passing so close that she brushed against him, couldn’t do otherwise. She could almost feel the tiny fibres of his Norfolk jacket trying to cling to her coat. Gaining the path, she walked away as swiftly as politeness permitted.

  Two days later, coming in from work, Juliet stopped dead in the doorway when she saw Mr Nugent sitting with her mother. Surprise vanished beneath a lurch of panic at the sight of Mother looking pale and shaken, her fingers entwined in her lap.

  Mr Nugent said in his smooth voice, ‘Should I tell her or shall you?’

  Chapter Eight

  Things happened quickly, which made it easier to evade Juliet’s increasingly insistent and frightened questions. The girl wanted to talk – needed to. Agnes finally admitted the snow-headaches had been pure fabrication.

  ‘You lied,’ Juliet said wonderingly.

  ‘I was tired.’ She was weary now too. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

  More questions. She admitted the tonic wasn’t a tonic. It was medicine – well, in a manner of speaking.

  ‘It dulls the pain,’ she said when pressed.

  ‘But will it make you better as well?’ Juliet said anxiously.

  ‘It’s for the pain,’ she repeated and returned to the packing.

  They were moving. She wasn’t the seamstress any more and Juliet wasn’t going to Arley House. They were moving into one of his lordship’s cottages, which stood by itself on the edge of the park.

  ‘Near enough for village folk to pop in while you’re at work,’ said Agnes. ‘One of the gates in the park wall will be unlocked during the day. It’s very good of his lordship.’

  ‘It’s very good of his lordship,’ everyone said after church.

  And it was. His lordship would be within his rights to cast her off as unfit for work, even more so because she had kept her condition secret for so long.

  ‘It must be a relief to have it out in the open,’ Beatrice said matter-of-factly.

  But it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t. It was bloody terrifying.

  They were gone from Moorside in a couple of days. Juliet went to work as usual and when she came home, she went to the cottage. Mrs Grove was seated on an upright chair with wooden arms – seated on it, not in it. Beatrice Grove didn’t sit in chairs, however comfortable. She sat on them, bolt upright. Mother, on the other hand, was definitely sitting in a basketwork chair. It was wide and deep, and cushions bulged behind her back.

  ‘There you are,’ Mrs Grove greeted her. ‘Pop the kettle on.’

  Had they been waiting for her to skivvy for them? Then she saw Mother’s pale face, her eyes shadowed by fatigue, and did as she was bade.

  Mrs Grove followed. ‘The move has worn her out,’ she said quietly, ‘but she wanted to be up when you came home.’ More loudly she said, ‘There’s bubble and squeak keeping warm and the cook up yonder sent a stew that’ll do for tomorrow. Kettle’s boiling. Don’t forget to warm the pot.’

  Soon after they had drunk their tea, Mrs Grove stood up.

  ‘The gatekeeper will lock the side gate soon. I’ll come tomorrow morning and get fettling, and Florence and Ella will be along at different times in the afternoon. Don’t worry about the washing, Juliet. That’ll be took care of.’

  No sooner had she gone than Mother went to bed. Juliet felt hungry, but it seemed callous to fall on the food the minute Mother disappeared. She looked at the sewing basket, which Mother had insisted accompany them, though Juliet knew the work would fall to her. Ah well, better get started. She was busy darning when there was a knock and the door opened.

  Without looking up, she asked, ‘Did you forget something? You’d best be quick or the gate will be locked.’

  ‘Your concern is appreciated,’ Mr Nugent replied gravely.

  Her head snapped up. She came to her feet, knocking the pile of mending to the floor. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘So it seems. I’ve come to enquire after the move. Have you settled in?’

  ‘My mother’s asleep.’

  ‘I haven’t come to see your mother. I’m here to see you. May I sit down?’

  She pressed her lips together. She was tired and hungry and worried sick about Mother. She wanted to say that in an estate cottage, his lordship’s agent could do whatever he jolly well pleased, but all she did was nod self-consciously, then knelt to gather the mending. That was a mistake. She should have sat down when he did. Now he was sitting and she was standing, feeling awkward about taking a seat without permission.

  Which was duly given. ‘Sit – please. What do you think of your new home?’

  ‘It’s very nice, thank you.’ She sat on the chair − on it, not in it − as poker-straight as Mrs Grove.

  ‘You understand why you had to leave Moorside? Once I knew the extent of your mother’s illness …’ He waved one hand expansively. ‘That was thanks to you, of course, with your mention of the … tonic.’

  ‘That’s what I thought it was.’

  He smiled genially, exonerating her from blame. ‘You did right to confide in me.’

  She opened her mouth to say she had done no such thing, then shut it again.

  ‘Anywhere else, your mother would have been left to fend for herself, but not here.’

  ‘His lordship is very good.’

  ‘His lordship is indeed very good. He is also absent from home, enjoying North Wales with her ladyship and the young ladies. I act, of course, on his behalf and all I do is done in his name, but make no mistake, Juliet, I am the one who has been good to you.’

  He looked straight at her. She wanted to look away but didn’t know how.

  Their old neighbours kept the cottage sparkling as well as providing Mother with company. ‘Taking me out of myself’, she called it. The final visitor stayed until Juliet came home, then hurried away before the gate was locked. And
then – and then Mr Nugent would come. Not immediately and not every day. Occasionally Mother was present, but more often she was in bed. Knowing he might drop in, she tried to stay up, but fatigue usually overwhelmed her, and Juliet would assist her to climb the stairs, biting her lip on the way back down and hoping this evening wasn’t one of those evenings.

  Yet why was she uncomfortable? All he did was make conversation. She felt guilty and foolish for wishing he wouldn’t come. She should be grateful for his concern. It was his concern that had given them a roof over their heads.

  When she finished the mending, the basket vanished before she could return it to the big house.

  ‘Mrs Whicker called,’ said Mother. ‘She brought a steamed suet pudding and apple dumplings. She saw the mending was finished and sent a footman to collect it.’

  Juliet waited for the basket to be returned replenished. She wasn’t sorry when it didn’t appear, but Mother grew agitated.

  ‘Ask Mrs Whicker for more. I insist on pulling my weight. We don’t pay rent here, you know.’

  Juliet set out. The violet haze of bluebells had given way to the rosy-pink of red campion and the dainty white stars of ransoms. Being back in Moorside made her realise how much she had missed it. Cook made a fuss of her, and everyone wanted to know how Mother was.

  When she asked for another basket, Mrs Whicker refused. ‘Mr Nugent’s orders. He says you’re the one doing the work. Make sure you thank him.’

  Juliet swallowed. Another thing to be grateful for. She was already grateful for the cottage and not paying rent. The thought of seeking out Mr Nugent to thank him made her feel squirmy.

  But not thanking him turned out to be the wrong thing, because a day or two later, he walked into the cottage saying, ‘I don’t care for disobedience.’ His lips set in a tight line beneath his moustache. He threw aside his hat and gloves. ‘Mrs Whicker asked if you had thanked me for relieving you of your sewing duties.’

  Juliet groaned silently.

  ‘Have the courtesy to stand when I am reprimanding you.’

  She came to her feet, feeling the heat in her face.

  Mr Nugent came closer. ‘I thought we understood each other. I thought you were … grateful.’

  ‘I am, sir.’ He wasn’t going to throw them out, was he?

  ‘I don’t know, Juliet. Sometimes I wonder.’ He spoke in a soft, sad voice. His fingers were soft too, tracing a line down her cheek, such a gentle gesture and so brief that his hand had dropped away almost before she realised.

  She blinked. He clearly expected something of her and she heard herself babbling, ‘I am grateful – we both are. This cottage … rent-free. And not even the sewing to do. Please don’t throw us out.’

  ‘I am your benefactor.’ There was that sad-sounding voice again. ‘How could you think that? Even for one moment, even in panic – how could you think it?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  And all because she hadn’t said thank you. She thought of Pop, vexed with himself, saying, ‘I made a right pig’s whisker of that,’ and of Mother and her illness, and there was a spurt of tears. There was the quiet snap of cotton being flapped free and a pristine handkerchief was pressed into her hand. She moved – towards him, away from him – she could never afterwards remember which, except that it must have been towards him because – oh, she would die of shame – his hand caressed the side of her breast. Her face flamed red-hot; tears sizzled and vanished. She stared at Mr Nugent, more than stared, gawped, honest-to-goodness gawped, eyes popping, jaw slack. But his hand wasn’t there any more. Had she imagined it?

  ‘I hope you don’t do that with young Price,’ said Mr Nugent. ‘I hope you don’t press forward at a strategic moment, so that he touches you … like that.’

  Had she done that? Humiliation washed through her.

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Nugent. ‘Do you?’

  She hung her head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Look me in the eye, Juliet, or I might think you’re lying.’

  She raised her eyes, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his, looking instead over his shoulder. ‘Never, I swear.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  She dropped her head, her chin almost hitting her chest. Embarrassment roared in her ears. Mr Nugent wasn’t there any more, but before she could collapse in relief, something made her look towards the door. There he stood, looking back. One more second and he would be gone. Every ounce of herself, her insides, her nerve ends, every inch of her flesh, hung on for dear life. Just one more moment and then she could give way.

  But Mr Nugent paused, and the pause dragged on.

  ‘Not that it wasn’t extremely pleasant,’ he said.

  Juliet came home to be greeted by knowing smiles from Mother, Ella and Mrs Grove. She looked at them looking at her and knew something had happened.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Go upstairs and see,’ said Ella.

  She ran to her room, stopping in the doorway. A rug. A bedside cupboard. On top of her chest of drawers was a mirror on a hinged stand. In front of it was a candleholder, a deep-lipped brass saucer with a tiny brass mouse sitting at the edge and a short holder in the centre.

  She had no idea where these things had come from.

  Liar.

  When she reappeared, the others laughed, even Mrs Grove. Pleasure shone from their faces.

  ‘Those things were in the room you were to have at Arley House,’ said Mother. ‘Mr Nugent sent them here.’

  ‘And he sent yon footstool for your mother,’ Mrs Grove added.

  Mother’s legs were stretched out. She said, ‘Much more comfortable.’

  Juliet’s heart tweaked. If Mother’s situation was better, how could anything else matter?

  Oh, it felt wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. But it was essential to keep her happiness hidden, because if word got back to Mrs Whicker … Cecily shuddered, but it wasn’t a wholehearted shudder, because she wouldn’t be sorry to give William a shove in the right direction. Just imagine being shown the door by Mrs Whicker, and William scooping her up to marry her and set up home in Manchester, near where he worked.

  They had met one Sunday after she had visited her family. As she left the cottage, with Mam waving her off, she had glimpsed a handsome stranger along the village street. She turned to wave and watched Mam disappear indoors, then continued on her way. The stranger wasn’t there any more. Then he appeared beside her, making her jump.

  The attraction was immediate. He was in the vicinity on business and today was revisiting old haunts, since he was originally from Ladyfield. Their romance had to be conducted in deadly secrecy, but Cecily would burst if she didn’t tell someone, so the next time Cook sent food to the Harpers’ cottage, she volunteered to take the basket.

  She helped Juliet unpack the food. Out came a hunk of cheese, a jar of chutney, a slab of gingerbread, a fresh loaf and a pot of leek stew, wrapped in a cloth.

  ‘A bite to eat?’ offered Juliet. ‘The beekeeper sent honey.’

  ‘Never mind food.’ She caught Juliet’s hands. ‘I’ve summat to tell you. Can you keep a secret? I’ve got myself a chap.’

  ‘Cecily!’

  She felt like dancing them both round the room – no, she didn’t. She dropped Juliet’s hands. ‘I don’t mean to be tactless. I mean, with your mum so poorly …’

  ‘You have no idea how good it is to hear happy news. Let’s sit in the parlour and you can tell me everything. I won’t breathe a word.’

  ‘I know.’ Cecily grinned. ‘I’m not going to get caught like you did.’

  ‘I didn’t get caught. We did everything openly.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Go on then, tell all. Do I know him?’

  ‘No, but he knows you – by sight, anyway.’ She chuckled at Juliet’s bewilderment. ‘We spotted you walking to Hal’s on Sunday and he asked who you were.’

  ‘You mean – he comes in the park?’<
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  ‘Thanks to that side gate being unlocked.’

  ‘Is he from Birkfield?’

  ‘He used to live over Ladyfield way, but he went to Manchester. He’s here on business. He’s clerk to a firm of lawyers.’

  ‘Oh, Cecily,’ Juliet breathed. ‘A law clerk.’

  ‘He’s looking into a matter for a client, something about putting right a wrong that were done ages ago, but William says I mustn’t ask questions because it’s confidential. Besides, he’s more interested in hearing about my life.’

  ‘William?’

  ‘William Turton. I know what you’re thinking.’ She smiled to herself as Juliet tried to look as if she was thinking something. ‘Cecily Turton. Well, you never know, do you?’

  Hurrying through the park on Sunday afternoon to see Hal, Juliet pictured Cecily sneaking around and felt relieved and grateful that her understanding with him was out in the open. She helped Mrs Price in the kitchen, then young Sophie and some of the other gardeners’ children mithered her and Hal to play French cricket. In the early days, Juliet hadn’t liked this sort of thing because it ate into her precious time with Hal, but then his sister had remarked that it showed what a good dad Hal was going to be, and since then she had relished it.

  When they got some time alone, they strolled among the trees, but when he slid his arms round her and kissed her, instead of melting into the embrace, she froze, remembering Mr Nugent’s accusation. Did she really get so carried away that she presented her body for a feel?

  Hal broke off kissing her, his face close to hers. ‘Are you all right?’

  Her hand snaked round his neck, pulling him back into the kiss. She loved him and he loved her, and that was all that mattered.

  When he had to do greenhouse duty, she walked home. The wood sorrel was out, pretty white and violet flowers above carpets of heart-shaped leaves. Coming across a patch of sweet woodruff, with its scent not unlike that of newly mown hay, she crouched to pick a handful.

  A twig snapped.

  ‘Hal!’ Rising, she looked round. Was someone else doing the greenhouses for him? But he was nowhere to be seen. ‘Hal?’