Pins and needles ran up my legs. I scooted round on my knees, trying to draw the chalk line straight on the bolt of calico.
‘You need to start the pattern closer to the edge,’ Ma called from the window. ‘Otherwise you’ll waste material.’
I nodded, but I didn’t obey her.
‘We have been using rather a lot of material, recently.’
‘I’m sorry, Ma. This is new to me.’
Ma rubbed the bridge of her nose, then returned to the stocking she was seaming. ‘I understand that, dear. I would bend to do it myself, if I could, but …’
‘I know. The baby’s too big.’
Always the baby. At least this time, it was doing me a favour.
You might think it was a shabby trick, making waste on purpose. But if Mrs Metyard and her customers could dress in silk and lace, I reckoned I was entitled to a scrap of calico from her stores. Calico was the perfect lining.
I finished my marks and dusted off my hands. ‘There.’
‘Good. Could you cut it out?’
Reaching for the fabric scissors, my hand brushed something smooth. I turned my head.
It was a scrap of peach sateen, entwined seductively around the scissors. My fingertips began to tingle.
Such a soft, sweet colour. Warming. A rose opening on a spring day. I wanted to touch it, wanted to be it. Cautiously, I picked up the scissors and the sateen together, holding them close to my apron.
‘The light is poor today,’ Ma sighed. ‘Your father will be having a hard time of it in the studio. It is so important for him to render the shadows correctly.’
Carefully, carefully, I slipped the material into my apron. I felt a bit brighter, a little more beautiful, just having it about my person.
‘Can you see to cut, Ruth?’
Only my scissors answered with their sharp snip.
‘A bit wider than that, darling, for the seams.’
‘Yes, Ma.’
Seams be damned. What I had in mind was more important.
Cutting out panels was long and laborious work, especially in the gloom. The scissors grew heavy; their metal handles bit into the skin around my fingers. I fought to see the chalk lines through tired eyes. My pupils felt drier than parchment, sprinkled with sand.
‘I thought I had some rushlights down here, but the box is empty.’ Ma frowned, looking across the room. ‘And do you know what became of our matches? I couldn’t find them in the kitchen.’
‘No. Should I run out and get some more?’ I offered.
‘Well, perhaps you should. You are struggling to cut that.’
Ma laid down her stocking and rummaged for a coin. Pocket after pocket turned out empty. Of a sudden, she stopped and clutched her stomach.
‘Ma? What is it?’
She didn’t heed me. She was listening to something, deep inside.
‘Ma?’
She shook herself. ‘All is well. It’s the baby, wriggling. Go upstairs and put on your bonnet, dear. I will find some money by the time you come down.’
It was just what I wanted to hear.
Pa was in his studio. I listened cautiously as I mounted the last few steps, afraid he might come out. There was a clink and a sigh from within. Then silence. I darted into my room, shut and locked the door behind me.
The loose floorboard was beneath my bed, hidden by the chamber pot. Dust made me sneeze as I scrabbled about and hooked my finger under the slat. There, glinting in the hole, was my hoard.
Ma’s matchbox and a handful of rushlights lay in a nest of pilfered material. Fabric layered upon fabric: soft and smooth; silky and rough; a kaleidoscope of colour. My greedy hands caressed it all. It was a hotchpotch, a harlequin’s wardrobe, but it was mine.
The mission was simple: remake the corset. Remake myself.
Every night I worked in secret and every night the garment became a little more real. This corset was taking a different shape to the last one. There were fewer gussets, shorter straps. It wrapped serpentine around my torso. Tight.
My busk was ruined. Nothing in my stash would serve for bones, but I found I didn’t need them. I could fortify the corset with cording: hessian, twill and buckram. Its strength would be mine. My labour, my stitches, my blood.
I laid the sateen in place and let down the floorboard. As I climbed to my feet, I remembered Rosalind Oldacre’s face that night. Once again I heard the snap of cane bones and the crack of my own shattered pride. How long will it take for them to break?
Not this time.
I vowed, there and then, to create something as strong as my rage. I would make more than a corset, more than a garment. I’d sew something that no power on earth could break.