It’s hard to think kind thoughts, sewing when you’re tired. Sometimes it struck me I’d be a nicer person altogether, if I could only get more sleep. But the season was in full swing and all the ladies wanted dresses ready to take up to London with them, rather than pay extortionate prices in the capital. And being ladies, they didn’t think of this until three days before their departure, and they couldn’t understand why their gowns didn’t appear overnight.
We had to make them appear. In half the time. Or else, Kate said. I didn’t really know, then, how bad the else was.
She never asked how I got out of the coal hole. In truth I think she was too busy. The shop bell tinkled all day. Kate was needed in the showroom almost constantly.
Mim and I were both tasked with making the voluminous skirts of a tartan gown. It was to have two rows of hem ruffles – a gaudy addition, given the sulphur and lavender colours in the pattern. Without Kate to watch us, we could actually talk as we sewed. I was sure that must be better for all involved. The less I thought about my exhaustion and how much I hated Ivy for getting me thrown in the coal hole, the less harm would go into my work. And God knew this tartan dress was going to be distasteful enough. The lady wearing it would need all the help she could get.
‘I was talking to Mr Rooker, the other day,’ Mim said. Her eyes remained trained on her needle and I was glad. She didn’t see my blush. ‘He asked if I had any family.’
‘He’s nice like that,’ I replied cautiously. ‘He’s got manners. Almost like a gentleman.’
‘And he can read,’ she added.
In my surprise, I made my stitch too big. Tutting, I put my needle down and unpicked it.
It had never occurred to me before that I’d enjoyed a better education than the other girls. I was sure the Oakgate Foundling Hospital taught its wards the skills they needed for employment, but perhaps reading was considered a step too far. If the girls could ply a needle and cook mutton, what else did they need?
Mim lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I always knew there was a word engraved on the fish my mother left. Just on one side, where it’s rougher. I asked Mr Rooker to read it for me. He told me it says Belle’s.’
All those nights she’d been flicking the fish over and over in her hands beside me in bed. I could have helped her to read it ages ago.
Wetting the ball of my thumb, I threaded my needle and recommenced my running stitch. ‘And what’s Belle’s?’
‘He says it’s a gambling house in London.’
‘Your ma was a long way from London, if she gave you up to the Foundling here,’ I observed neutrally. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, but I didn’t want to talk about our mothers in the sewing room. The lady wearing the tartan dress would feel my sorrow.
‘But she was coming back,’ Mim went on, excitement creeping into her voice. ‘She wouldn’t have left a token if she didn’t mean to come back for me. Now I can find her. If I can just get to London, get to Belle’s, I’ll find my ma.’
‘And then what?’
‘I don’t know.’ She held her needle suspended, gazing up at the skylight and letting her dreams unspool. ‘Maybe we’ll get on board a ship. Sail to … Africa. The matron in the Foundling, she used to say that’s where I belong: Africa.’
Evidently the matrons in the Foundling didn’t have much education, either. ‘That’s ridiculous. You were born in England. You belong here.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Mim shook her head dismissively, more forgiving than I would have been in her situation. ‘She was always saying horrible things to me. But it got me thinking. They say the sun shines all year round in Africa. Even when it rains, it’s hot. People dress in bright clothes and they eat fruit we don’t have. It might be nice. The Africans couldn’t treat me any worse than Mrs Metyard has.’
So that was how Mim got along: she’d created a fantasy for herself, a magic land where people would be kind. I could see the attraction. But it was just a story. The real Africa – if Mim had any connection to the place – must be entirely different. Although I didn’t have the heart to take it from her.
‘You can come with us,’ Mim whispered. ‘If you like.’
I exhaled. If I ever got out of here – and who knew when that would be? – I didn’t fancy risking my life at sea. Ma would never survive six months on a ship.
‘You don’t want to take me, Mim. I’m bad luck.’
She placed a hand on my arm. ‘You’re my friend. My only friend. You haven’t been bad luck to me at all.’
Words I had wanted to hear for so long, but they didn’t bring me the joy I’d expected. Instead I felt a queasy dread. I thought of Ma, without sight, without a husband, without her baby.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
Feet clopped up the stairs. The five of us fell upon our sewing, our fingers moving faster than they had all day. The room was quiet, the perfect model of industry by the time Kate sailed in.
The colour was high in her cheeks and her mouth was open, panting a little from her swift journey up the staircase. ‘Ruth.’
Just my luck. Was I about to pay for my escape?
I raised my eyes but I didn’t stop sewing. The constant motion of my hand steadied my nerves. ‘Miss Metyard?’
‘Put down your needle. Show me your arm.’
I swapped a look with Mim. It was an odd request, but I didn’t dare disobey. Reluctantly, I let the needle go.
‘Come on.’
I rested my elbow on the swathes of tartan in front of me and put my arm down flat.
Kate bustled over and seized me by the biceps. She held my limb out at my side. ‘He’s right.’ Her thin fingers began to squeeze my muscles. Shaping, plumping. I might have been a beef steak. ‘You are strong.’
Strength had crept up on me unawares. That must be the corset’s doing. Kate’s arm, gripping mine, looked puny by comparison. It made me feel monstrous.
‘I … suppose I am.’
‘Then it must be you. Don’t botch it.’
I blinked at her. ‘I don’t …’
‘Kate, what do you find? Is it suitable, will it serve us a turn?’ Even Kate jumped at the sound of Mrs Metyard’s voice. The old woman had stolen in like a cat and stood at the door, watching us with her gimlet eyes.
‘Yes, Mother. It’s just as Billy said. Ruth’s arms are burly.’
Burly. Did he use that word? I didn’t look at Ivy, but that was no comfort. I could feel the glee in her face.
‘Stronger than Miriam?’
‘I should say so.’
‘Right. You’ll do it then, Butterham, and you’ll make a good job. Your mother will soon know if you don’t.’
Her mention of Ma electrified me. Suppose I should blunder in this task – what wrath would I call down upon my mother? ‘Please, Mrs Metyard …’ I began.
‘What?’
‘Can you tell me what it is I’m to do?’
Kate sniffed. ‘We used to make baleen stays for our customers. We’ve had several ladies asking for them again today.’
‘But I’ve never worked with whalebone,’ I protested.
‘Billy has. I asked him to teach someone how to whittle them, but the worker has to be strong. He said you were strong.’
Not burly, then. ‘Just me? Making them on my own?’
‘No. With Billy.’
Making stays with Billy Rooker: a prospect both wonderful and horrifying. How would I bear standing next to him for all that time? My heart would beat so fast it would be like running up and down the stairs all day.
‘But take care you learn,’ Mrs Metyard warned. ‘His father can only spare him for a short time. After he shows you how to make a few pairs, you’ll be doing it on your own.’
Learn? Good God, it was all I could do to hold a bolt of cloth in his presence. If I had to do something delicate I’d be all fingers and thumbs. And Ma would reap the punishment for every skewed stitch …
‘There’s a little area just off the showroom,’ said Kate. ‘Customers go in there if they want to try on the ready-made goods. I’ll set it up for you.’
Behind a curtain. Sitting next to Billy Rooker. His smiles, his laughter, his hand guiding mine.
Ivy wasn’t grinning now. Her face was cold enough to give you frostbite.
Did you ever see a lace-making lamp? It’s like a three-legged stool with five poles on the top: the one in the centre holds the candle. The others are shaped round it in a square, and they have glass bowls full of water on them. That’s what we used to embroider by night. The water was meant to amplify the flame. Maybe it did, but it seemed very dark to me, working through the long night hours at Metyard’s.
We looked like a coven, the five of us gathered around the lamp. A yellow glow fell over Ivy’s face, and I could have sworn she had a halo of fire.
She began it, that particular night. I was minding my own business, deep in concentration on a rose motif. Golden thread against black silk, no clear line where the gown ended and the darkness began. I was sewing the night, sewing shadows with stardust.
But then the light wobbled.
I blinked, feeling giddy. Waves of gilt washed across my lap. When I looked up the sensation was intensified, like drowning in a golden pool.
‘What are you doing?’
Ivy held Mim’s work in her hands: a powder-pink jacket bodice. Mim tugged on the trailing sleeve, her eyes wide as inkwells. The legs of the lamp rocked against the floor.
‘Stop it,’ Mim cried. ‘Let go!’
‘What are you quarrelling about?’
Ivy didn’t answer my question. But her eyes slid in my direction and her cheeks lifted with a slow, treacherous smile.
I should have been expecting this: my punishment for being chosen to work with Billy Rooker. Oh, Ivy wasn’t stupid. She knew the best way to hurt me was through Mim.
‘Give it back!’
‘Careful!’ sang Ivy, kicking the lamp stool. ‘You wouldn’t want to break something.’
Beside me, Nell caught her breath. She clutched her work to her chest. ‘Stop, Ivy. I mean it. You’ll set the place on fire.’
‘Will I? And what will you say, Nelly; will you tell Mrs Metyard it was that nasty Ivy who did it? You know how she loves a tattletale.’
Nell’s jaw set rigid. ‘I’ll tell her nothing. But I’d rather not be burnt alive, thank you very much.’
Ivy laughed. Hysterical: that’s how it sounded. Maybe she was. Maybe she’d been in that place for so long it didn’t matter to her if she went up in flames.
‘Give the work back to Mim, Ivy,’ I demanded. ‘She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘It’s not your concern. You work with Mr Rooker now, not us.’ Ivy tugged the bodice, pulling it dangerously close to the candlelight. ‘Such fine work. Would be a shame if something happened to it.’
‘No!’ Mim’s hands were frantic, gathering up the material with all her strength. A stitch popped. ‘She’d kill me, Ivy, she’d actually kill me.’
‘No, not she. She’ll thrash you until you wish you were dead, but she won’t go through with it.’ The candle danced beneath her breath. Warm satin scented the air. ‘She isn’t that kindly disposed.’
Both Nell and I were on our feet, begging her to stop. Even Daisy looked afraid. But Ivy paid no heed; she just kept staring, staring into the flame.
Another tiny pop. One more stitch gone.
‘Give … it … back!’
All at once, she did.
Mim crashed against her stool, sending it skidding across the floor into the cupboards.
Daisy squealed.
‘Mim!’ I ran over to where she lay, stunned. Her face was clenched with pain, but the bodice was safe, clutched to her so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. ‘Mim, are you hurt?’
I don’t think even Ivy knew what was going to happen next. I don’t think she planned to do it. Her hand just reached out in a kind of diabolical reflex, seized the candle – and flung it.
Someone screamed. I don’t know who. My eyes were focused on the candle as it flew, impossibly slow, arcing light through the room. The flame fell with a hiss on Mim’s pink satin.
My hand moved so fast that I didn’t feel pain. There was a spark, a putrid stench and then I was slapping, hitting the material harder than I’d ever hit anything before.
A blotch: that was all that remained; dark pink at the edges and brown towards the centre. It hadn’t burnt through. Yet the bodice was still ruined.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Mrs Metyard’s shout echoed around the attic. Our ruckus must have woken her. ‘Ruth! Miriam!’
Both of us were on the floor, holding the satin. Mim lay beneath it, me to the side. It looked bad. Very bad.
I didn’t dare raise my eyes to Mrs Metyard. If I had, it might have stopped my mouth. But I was looking at Mim, at her trembling nostrils, and the words came out before I realised they were there.
‘It was my fault, Mrs Metyard. I dropped a candle. Mim had nothing to do with it.’
The coal hole, I thought. It wasn’t so terrible. I could face the coal hole, for Mim, and maybe Billy would come to let me out again.
Mrs Metyard pounded across the floor and seized me by the hair. Pain screamed through my scalp as she dragged me past the table, out of the room and down the stairs.
Bump. Bump. I bit my lip, tasted blood.
Darkness span around me. I only saw one flash of her face, upside down. It was cadaverous, the eyes unnaturally bright.
I knew then that we weren’t going to the coal hole, not this time.
After all those days longing to ascend the carpeted staircase, I ended up in the living quarters by a different route. Down, down, she dragged me and the only thing I knew about the carpet was that it burnt my cheek.
My nose stung. All the same it picked up a scent: lily of the valley. Notes of firewood and violets. This was where the Metyards lived and moved, where the good things were kept.
Cracking open an eye, I saw a skirting board, gleaming white. It came closer and closer until Mrs Metyard rounded a corner and I smacked my head against it. Pain flared bright in the centre of my brow. I didn’t see for a while, after that.
Of course she waited. She bided her time until I stuttered into consciousness, unable to move. I was on my feet, my back hard against a wall, my hands bound together above my head. I couldn’t pull them down. Something held them aloft, perhaps a hook in the ceiling.
Around me was a room I’d never seen before. The wallpaper had a muddy background, with a pattern like autumn leaves. Beneath my feet lay a brown carpet. There was a fire to my left, its flames winking off the fan-shaped screen spread before the grate.
On my right was a window, but the curtains were drawn. All the light came from the fire and a single floor lamp with a fringe around the shade. The furniture was made of dark, heavy wood: a wardrobe and a standing mirror.
And there … a dressmaker’s model, like we used in the window display. Only instead of a gown it wore a scarlet coat, ribbed with white, and pale trousers. Golden epaulettes adorned the shoulders, but it wasn’t the glimmer of them that caught my eye: it was the scabbard, slung around the waist, showing the hilt of a sword.
Crowning the whole was a black, plumed shako, where the head should be.
It must be Captain Metyard’s uniform, set up as a kind of shrine to him. The sight of it was melancholy, and a touch sinister. As if the captain had stood there in the corner and simply dissolved: his flesh had withered away.
I moved my feet. With my hands bound so high, I had to stand on tiptoe. It was uncomfortable, but at least it was warm in this room. I couldn’t decide whether it was better or worse than the coal hole.
The door opened slowly, creaking its way across the carpet. A hessian boot appeared on the threshold, followed by a cloud of tobacco.
‘Attention!’ Gruff. A man’s voice.
He entered casually, smoking his cigar. He didn’t wear an army uniform now but a country gentleman’s suit, the kind of thing a rich man might put on to go shooting. Greying hair, oiled back from his forehead. Strange, misshapen facial hair. Jamming the cigar between his lips, he shut the door behind him. I saw then what he held in his other hand: a thin, leather whip.
I moaned: my mind going nineteen to the dozen. The captain, still alive? Did they keep him locked up here the entire time? I couldn’t think; I couldn’t see why they’d do such a thing. Unless he’d come back from the wars changed. Unhinged. Dangerous.
Uselessly, I tugged at my bonds.
‘Insubordination,’ he drawled. Smoke flowed with his words, choking me. ‘It’s a damned thing, soldier. I won’t have it. I tell you, I won’t.’
I couldn’t speak. I could barely even see; I was so afraid that the walls seemed to soften and run like wax around me.
‘You put the whole company in danger. The whole bloody company.’
He sucked on his cigar as he looked me up and down. The tip glowed. He was short, for a man, but that didn’t give me hope. Ma said short men had the most to prove.
‘I’ve known them hang a fellow,’ he told me. ‘String him up for failing to obey orders. But I’m going to give you a chance, soldier. A chance to redeem yourself.’
‘Please, sir …’ I croaked. My arms were aching. I thought my shoulders would rip from their sockets.
‘First, I’m going to take off your clothes. Then I’m going to flog you. And after … we shall see. We’ll see if you’ve learnt your lesson.’
‘No!’ My feet kicked out. Useless. Every movement span me round, sending agony burning through my neck. ‘No!’
The smoke wound closer. A throaty chuckle. ‘Oh, I like it when they have some spirit.’
He caught me round the waist. With the cigar still between his teeth, his face came near. Too near. I screamed as he stubbed the smoking tip out on my neck.
It was then, in all that pain and fear, that I caught a snatch of it: something else, beneath the smoke. Powdery. Feminine.
I opened my eyes.
It wasn’t Captain Metyard, back from the dead. It wasn’t a man at all.
Mrs Metyard held me in her grasp, her eyes glassy with madness.
‘Let’s see if you scream as loud as my wife.’
I never took the blame for Mim again.