by Evie Grace
‘You have little regard for me?’
‘I admire you greatly, yet I’m not worthy of you. You saved my life. Hush,’ she said, when he opened his mouth to speak. ‘Let me finish …’ There was a time when she would have added if I may, but not now. Never again. She would make herself completely clear. ‘It is because of my regard and affection for you that I decline your suggestion of friendship. The people of Dover still see me as a fallen woman, the duped daughter of a greedy bankrupt. I have a child out of wedlock, a bastard. You see, I’m tainted. People will turn their backs on you if you are acquainted with me.’
‘My true friends won’t. I have my own mind. Life is precious, and I live it my way, with kindness, generosity and joy. All I’m asking for is your friendship, nothing more. What harm can there be in that?’
She scanned his face. There was no guile in his expression.
‘Then you have persuaded me. I’d like us to be friends.’
‘You’ve made me very happy.’ He smiled as he handed back the boxes. ‘May I call on you?’
Violet’s mind raced. Where on earth would she receive him? What would he think of their cramped workshop and lodgings? How would he deal with Joe? It was all very well meeting here, just the two of them, but her life was too involved, too complicated for her to contemplate inviting William to Oxenden Street, even as a friend. When she wasn’t embroidering and doing the accounts, she was nursing the baby.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think that will be possible,’ she said.
William looked at her beseechingly. ‘The last thing I want is to make things more difficult for you, but I would simply be calling as a friend.’
‘Much as I like the idea, it would not be suitable for you,’ she replied. ‘It’s for the best, William. I am truly sorry.’
It tore her heart to shreds as she walked away. William was honest, ambitious and caring, but she couldn’t see how a friendship would work. How would she have felt, falling in love with him, knowing that they had no future together? Her sorrow knew no bounds.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When it’s Dark in Dover, it’s Dark All the World Over
A month passed, and Violet found that she was always worrying about money, even though they were frugal with food, oil for the lamps and coal for cooking. When she’d set up the workshop, she’d envisioned creating her own designs and losing herself in embroidering items of beauty. Instead, she was stuck sewing letters and numbers, and the occasional badge for Mr Evercreech.
One morning, Joe was lying asleep in the drawer they used for a cot. They had taken it from the chest upstairs and placed it across two chairs in the workshop.
‘Oh, Joe, you look so handsome.’ Violet sighed from where she sat close by, as he opened his eyes and yawned. She rested her sewing in her lap.
‘He’s the sweetest child,’ Eleanor joined in.
‘One day, he’ll be crawling around the workshop and then what will we do?’ Violet said, smiling.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Eleanor said. ‘I wonder how Ottilie is. Perhaps she is with child and Joe will have a cousin within the next few months.’
‘We’ll write to her again.’
Joe began to sniffle and cry and, feeling his anguish as her own, Violet put down her embroidery, went over and picked him up. She held him close, pressing her mouth to his cheek, and he began to quieten.
‘He’s got you wrapped around his little finger.’ Eleanor chuckled.
‘’E wouldn’t do that,’ May said, looking up from her sewing. ‘’E’s a little cherub.’
‘How are you getting on?’ Violet asked her. May stopped, snipped a thread and checked her work, holding it up to the light, before laying it carefully in one of the packing boxes.
‘My fingers are raw and I’m goin’ boss-eyed, but don’t you worry, I’ll get this order finished by the end of the day if it kills me. I mustn’t grumble. We must be grateful for what we ’ave. That’s how I’ve got through, by bein’ thankful for the small things. I ’ave everything I need and more ’ere in these rooms.’
‘It saddens me that we have no control over our destiny,’ Eleanor said. ‘We’re subject to the whims of men like Mr Evercreech, and the demands of the market. We do the same thing every day.’
‘Except on Sundays,’ Violet pointed out. She looked forward to their days of rest when they went for long walks along the cliffs, pushing Joe in the pram, which had seen better days.
Eleanor went to answer a knock at the door.
‘Who’s that?’ May said. ‘We don’t usually receive visitors.’
‘Oh, do come in,’ Violet heard her sister say, and her heart sank, because the workshop was a mess with boxes and clutter everywhere, and Joe was in her arms so she couldn’t do anything about it. She slid a box under the table with her foot and Dickens shot out with a yowl.
‘’Ere, let me take Joe for you,’ May offered.
Reluctantly, Violet handed him over, and turned to see Eleanor showing a woman through to greet her.
‘Good morning. My name is Mrs Kinnaird,’ she said.
She was about forty years old and bore an air of unmistakable superiority. She seemed familiar, Violet thought, and then she remembered that she was one of the dressmakers who’d turned her away when she’d first started looking for business. She had skin like porcelain, a straight back and small waist, and was the perfect mannequin for the dresses that her seamstresses sewed in the room at the back of her shop.
‘Good morning,’ Violet responded stiffly, noticing how her bonnet was adorned with lilac beads which matched those on her dress.
‘I have something for you,’ Mrs Kinnaird said, looking through a purple cloth bag embroidered with silver thread. She pulled out a folded slip of material and handed it to Violet.
‘Oh, it’s my butterfly. Thank you for returning it.’
‘You left it behind and I put it in a drawer where I keep various designs and samples for safekeeping. I’d forgotten about it, but when one of my ladies saw it, she said that she must have a gown made with butterflies exactly like this one flying up from the hem. I’ve been in touch with my usual embroideresses, but none of them can produce sewing of this quality. It’s so very fine …’
Violet smiled to herself, delighted that someone had appreciated her art.
‘Would you accept this commission?’ Mrs Kinnaird went on. ‘My seamstresses will make the gown while you create an overlay of butterflies.’
Violet hesitated. They had Mr Evercreech’s orders which kept them busy, and she wasn’t sure about working for Mrs Kinnaird after the way she’d treated her.
‘It will be very lucrative. My customer will pay whatever it costs.’
‘How lucrative?’ Violet asked, tempted not so much by the money, but by the chance to do something different, a job she would enjoy.
Mrs Kinnaird named a price, and Violet remembered a time when Mama wouldn’t have thought twice about paying the same for a gown for herself or her daughters. It seemed outrageous now – she, May and Eleanor would be lucky to make that in a month. How could she refuse?
‘This will do wonders for your business,’ Mrs Kinnaird said. ‘Your reputation will spread by word of mouth.’
As it had before, Violet recollected dryly. She glanced towards the door into the kitchen where May was singing to Joe. If she took this on, she would be able to provide more for her son: toys; clothes; maybe rent a whole house. Money didn’t buy happiness or love, but a little more put by would help.
‘I’ll accept your commission, thank you,’ she said.
‘A wise decision. I’ll send one of my girls round with the design and fabric later. You will supply the silks. It’s a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Rayfield. I wish you a good day.’
‘Just a minute,’ Violet said. ‘When does it need to be done by?’
‘My customer needs the dress ready for a fitting a week on Wednesday.’
‘That soon.’ Violet
glanced towards her sister, whose face said it all. She was aware of a sense of mutiny in the ranks as Eleanor showed Mrs Kinnaird out.
‘Who does she think she is, waltzing in here and throwing her weight around?’ Eleanor exclaimed. ‘Violet, you’re exhausted. How do you think you’re going to finish this commission by next week?’
‘We can’t afford to turn it down. Mrs Kinnaird’s right – it could lead to a change in our fortunes. A few pieces of work like that, and we can forget about Mr Evercreech’s orders. Instead of bread and butter, we’ll have fish in court bouillon, and sole meunière.’
‘We can do it,’ May said, bringing Joe back. He squirmed and stuck his fist into his mouth, wanting his mama.
Violet took him into the kitchen, sat down on the settle and let him suck until he fell asleep and she was able to put him back down in his crib. How long would it be before he outgrew it? she wondered. Yawning, she returned to the workshop, leaving the door into the kitchen open so that she could listen out for him.
The following day, having bought the silks and received the fabric and instructions from one of Mrs Kinnaird’s girls, Violet made an immediate start, turning the design into a pattern which she traced on to the fabric.
As she sat down with her needle and thread, making the most of the light from the window, she wondered if they should take on a girl to train up when they could afford it. Soon, though, she was lost in another world, creating the delicate beauty of myriad gossamer butterflies.
‘I envy you,’ Eleanor said, looking over her shoulder. ‘You make them look real, as if they’re about to stir their wings and take flight.’
She could picture them, hundreds of colourful butterflies lifting off from the fabric and rising out through the open window, dancing and fluttering along the streets of Dover …
‘I wonder who will wear them and for what occasion?’
‘A society lady.’ It was strange to think that someone who would turn away from her if they met in the street would be wearing her embroidery at some social event like the regatta ball, or the Lord Warden’s dinner.
Having worked day and night, in between attending to Joe, and supervising May and Eleanor, Violet began to hallucinate. At dawn on the morning she was due to finish the commission, she had just one wing to go.
‘Tea?’ Eleanor said.
‘No, thank you. I can’t risk spilling anything on this.’
‘Stop then – for five minutes.’
‘I must keep going.’
‘What about Joe? He’s hungry.’
‘He’ll have to wait,’ Violet said harshly. ‘If I don’t get this to Mrs Kinnaird’s this morning, all this work will have been wasted.’
‘You would neglect your child? He’s bawling his eyes out.’
‘I can hear him. Give him some pap and close the door.’ She paused, his cries tugging at her heartstrings. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ignore him any longer. She put the sewing down and went to feed him, cuddling him to her breast. ‘I’m sorry, little one,’ she sobbed. ‘Forgive me, but I’m doing this for you.’
‘Oh, Violet.’ She felt Eleanor’s arm around her shoulders. ‘This is too much.’
‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘I will do it. This could be the making of us.’
She delivered the commission to Mrs Kinnaird just in time, and she – perhaps out of relief that there would be no unpleasantness between her and her demanding customer – paid Violet’s invoice in full.
On her return to the workshop, there was no respite. Violet helped May and Eleanor catch up with the rest of Mr Evercreech’s regular order, embroidering by candlelight until after midnight. She fed Joe, fell into bed and was up again at the crack of dawn.
By the end of October, the chestnuts were falling from the trees in Connaught Park. Two weeks had passed since she’d delivered the commission and the money she’d received hadn’t gone as far as expected. She’d had to buy medicine for Eleanor who had been unwell, and extra coal for the fire to keep them from freezing in the workshop. Violet began to lose hope that her work for Mrs Kinnaird would bear fruit. The dressmaker didn’t call again, nor did she send any of her customers their way.
One morning while checking the boxes, Violet contemplated the possibility that they were doomed to continue with Mr Evercreech and the railwaymen’s caps for the foreseeable future. With a heavy heart, she took the latest batch of finished pieces over to Mr Evercreech’s shop. She knocked on his office door, then put the boxes on the side table as she’d always done.
‘Greetings, Mrs Rayfield. Do sit down for a moment,’ he said from where he was sitting behind his desk. ‘This won’t take long,’ he added when she hesitated, wanting to get back to Joe.
With reluctance, she sat down and watched him slide the piece of paper with the next order across his desk, then form a steeple with the fingers of both hands. It reminded her of one of the rhymes that Eleanor loved saying to Joe and, smiling, she picked up the paper and read it. Mr Evercreech’s figures were no laughing matter.
‘This order is for less than a quarter of the number of pieces we normally make,’ she said, frowning.
‘I’m sorry. It’s pure economics, nothing personal. There’s a workshop that’s just been set up in Maidstone and their prices are lower.’
‘How can they do that without reducing the quality?’
‘They haven’t.’ He showed her a sample from his desk. Violet stared at it, noting the regularity of the stitches. She had to admit that it was as good as anything that came out of her workshop. ‘They’ve offered me a better deal.’
‘How much are you buying this for?’
He named a price. ‘It shocks you,’ he said as her spirits fell.
‘It does. How can I compete with that? I have overheads: rent, ladies who work for me. What am I supposed to do?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rayfield, but I can’t help you there. Let me know if you decide that you can match or better their price, and I’ll reconsider.’
She thought for a while, adding and subtracting various figures in her head. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t offer to work for less. They would run out of money and starve.
‘I’ll take this for now,’ she said, feeling sick at the prospect of having to explain the situation to Eleanor and May.
‘I’ll see you next week, usual time,’ Mr Evercreech said.
‘Yes. Yes, you will.’
The following week was the last time that she delivered boxes to Mr Evercreech because when she went back, he had no orders for her. All the work had gone to Maidstone. Like a ship, holed on the rocks of sharp business practice, their enterprise had sunk.
‘We mustn’t give up, no matter what life throws at us,’ Eleanor said when Violet gave her and May the news. ‘This will give me time to clean the workshop – I’ll make it spotless.’
‘May, if you’d like to look after Joe for an hour or so, I’ll go and knock on some doors. There must be someone who needs our services. Perhaps we can embroider children’s clothing, or do the monogramming on gentlemen’s handkerchiefs? I’ll see what I can do.’ Violet took a few cards with her and traipsed around Dover, putting them up in shop windows and handing them out to anyone who’d listen to her sales patter, but she had no luck.
The next morning, when she went downstairs with Joe, she found May in the workshop, tying a piece of string around a package wrapped in brown paper.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I’m packin’ my things and leavin’.’ May burst into tears. ‘We’ve ’ad a wonderful time during the past months, but I can’t stay any longer. You’ll be better off if it’s just the three of you. I can see what’s going on. We ’ave no work – embroidering a littl’un’s name on its bib won’t bring in enough to keep us all. And nothin’s come of Mrs Kinnaird. I expected we’d ’ave a bit of a chance with ’er and she’d bring us more commissions, but the ladies of Dover are strange like that.’
‘There isn’t anything odd abo
ut them – they don’t offer us work because they know who I am,’ Violet said sadly. ‘But, May, we sink or swim together, don’t we? Please, stay – at least until you have somewhere to live. Think of Joe. He loves you. We all do.’
‘Well, I don’t want to leave,’ May said eventually.
‘Don’t, then. Put your belongings back and come and have some breakfast. We’ll make a plan.’
May stayed with them, but their plan didn’t work out. Nothing worked out. As the days shortened, Violet’s worries continued to grow.
They were living hand to mouth on the income from small orders for embroidering children’s clothing and household linens, and it didn’t seem that anything was going to change. Dickens brought a whole circus of fleas into the workshop, making them itch. The bread they bought started to taste of dust, not flour, and made Eleanor sick again.
By the middle of November, they were almost penniless. Joe was now four months old and Violet wanted to buy him a second-hand high chair – a wooden one on brass wheels with a hole in the seat for his pot – ready for when he started crawling and they needed to keep him safe in the workshop, but she couldn’t afford it.
On the third Monday of the month, she spent the day in the workshop with May and Eleanor, embroidering and singing to Joe, but although she presented a brave face, she spent the whole time praying that the landlord wouldn’t turn up. He was a strange little man, a widow according to May, who had had the misfortune of having to listen to his life story. Whenever Violet had seen him, he’d been wearing the same neckerchief, brown shirt and braces. His teeth had been stained from years of smoking baccy, and his back was hunched.
‘Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon,’ they sang as Joe lay on a blanket on the floor, waving his arms and cooing. ‘The little dog laughed to see such fun, and the dish ran away with the spoon.’
Joe grinned.
‘Do you remember Mama singing to us?’ Eleanor said.
‘It wasn’t Mama. It would have been one of the nurses who looked after us in the nursery. Oh no, not a hairball.’ Violet went to grab Dickens who’d started to choke. She whisked him on to the table and opened his mouth, catching sight of the eye of a needle at the back of his throat. She grabbed the end of it and pulled. Dickens turned and swiped her.