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THE STITCHING

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CHAPTER I: OPPORTUNITY

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March, 1889

Birchwater Park, Hertfordshire

With one eye narrowed to a tiny squint and the tip of her pink tongue poking from the corner of her mouth, Emily Brownley held her embroidery needle up to the light. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, her finger twitching as she pinched the end of a strand of olive green thread, easing it towards the eye. She frowned, scrunching up the bridge of her nose as the tip of the thread frayed just enough to be a nuisance.

Stretched taut like the skin of a drum over its wooden frame, the cream-coloured linen stared blankly up at Emily from her lap, awaiting the prick of her needle and the threading of colour through its plainness. When olive green had been joined by blue, by yellow, by scarlet, by tan, by mauve, by Emily’s own favourite pale pink – when all those colours had been threaded through that same cream cloth in a certain way, with all those patterns coming together in their own manner – only then would everybody else be able to see what Emily had in mind for it.

Of course, there would be upsets. She was sure to miss a section, or use the wrong colour, or make a clumsy French knot, or tangle her threads and be forced to painstakingly unpick the subsequent mess. And although she would not like it, and might groan in exasperation, or even huff or pout, she would do it. And the final result would be no less beautiful for it.

But it would all begin with a single stitch of olive green. After she had threaded the needle, of course.

Sighing, Emily pressed the thread to her tongue, moistening the tip, before taking it up between her fingers once more, pinching hard. Before the tiny strands could fray again, she poked the damp thread directly through the eye of the needle, her frown turning to a self-satisfied smile as the rest of it followed. Absently holding the now-threaded needle in mid-air, her gaze trailed down to the wooden frame and she stared back at the blank linen. For Emily, this was always the most difficult, and yet, the most exciting part – regardless of how many linen scraps she embroidered, it always proved tricky to guess exactly how each new project would turn out in the end. Why, for all she knew, she may begin her sewing thinking to create a likeness of the view of the Birchwater Lake from the drawing room window, but somehow (after a great amount of musing, unpicking and re-stitching) end up with a most wonderful image of a sprawling weeping willow surrounded by delightful sprites embroidered in Emily’s treasured silver thread that she would only ever use for her most special of pieces. At any rate, that was what had happened last month when she had embroidered the corner of a handkerchief as a fifteenth birthday present for her younger sister, Catherine.

However, Emily had no chance to begin discovering the fate of this particular piece of linen at that moment. Before she had the opportunity to even pierce the fabric, a nervous intruder bustled into the drawing room, pursing her thin lips and wringing her hands as she headed over to Emily.

“Emmy, dear,” she said, “you have not happened to have seen my glove anywhere, have you?”

Emily let her gaze float upwards as she thought, patting the empty space beside her on the settee in an invitation for her older sister to take a seat. Winnie Brownley did so at once, peering at Emily with her shoulders hunched and chin thrust forwards as she raised a self-conscious hand to her head and smoothed a few flyaway strands of coffee-coloured hair back behind her ears. If one was to be kind to Winnie, one might call her slender, but when whispering behind one’s hand, the more likely word to pass through one’s lips was “scrawny”. Like her sister, she had fine, brittle hair, but where Emily’s framed a pale face besmirched only by a smattering of fading freckles, Winnie’s fell around cheekbones and a chin that looked as if they had spent the better part of their lives being pinched outwards by clothes-pegs, and cheeks that, if one did not know better, one would have sworn had been scrubbed raw with sand.

After a few moments of silence, Emily pursed her lips and said, “Which glove?”

“The grey kid one,” Winnie replied, shifting herself a little closer to her sister. “I wore them to the Harringtons’ on Saturday, and wouldn’t you know it, the left one has quite disappeared!”

Emily’s head snapped around, the vague expression on her face replaced by a quickly-stretching grin. “You wore them to the Harringtons’?”

Winnie pulled back and folded her arms, clutching her elbows. “Yes, Emmy. And before you ask – yes, I am certain that I had it on our return.”

“Are you certain that you’re certain?” said Emily, matching dimples twinkling in her cheeks. “You don’t think that Mr Harrington—?”

“Mr Harrington did not take my glove. What on earth would he want with it?”

Emily shrugged one shoulder, squeezing her lips together to hold back a giggle. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

“But even so – he’s your fiancé! I think it would be positively perfect of him to keep something of yours!”

Winnie raised her eyebrows and let out a “tuh!” of exasperation. “Well, one might find that it is not quite so ‘positively perfect’ when one is, in fact, in need of one’s grey kid gloves.”

“So you do think that he has it?”

Mirth tingling in every joint so that it was all she could do not to bounce up and down in her seat, Emily watched in glee as Winnie bowed her head, her ruddy cheeks turning even redder than usual. “No. No, I don’t.”

“I think I should like it if my fiancé kept my glove,” Emily said with a firm nod.

Winnie raised her head, her blush having left her as quickly as it had come, and chuckled humourlessly, pinching her sister’s chin before tapping her little turned-up nose with her index finger. “You’re a sweet one, Emmy,” she said, “but let me assure you – Mr Harrington does not have my glove. He’s hardly the type to do something like that. He’s not a romantic like you.”

“But wouldn’t you like for him to have it?”

Winnie drew in a deep breath, tipping her head back as she let it out in a sigh. “He’s my fiancé,” she said, “not my sweetheart.”

Emily blinked and slumped a little, pushing her shoulders harder against the back of the settee. As she threw her arms down by her sides, her elbow dug into a tiny embroidered turtledove swooping in and out of the vinelike stripes on one of the cushions. “Well, I think you should be sweethearts,” she said. “It’s only two months until your wedding, and I shall be ever so terribly disappointed if you aren’t in love.”

“Oh, Emmy,” said Winnie. “You know that I like Mr Harrington—”

“Can you not at least call him John?” Emily interrupted, pouting.

Winnie paused, then smiled. “Very well. You know that I like … John. He’s been good to us all—”

“And good to you!”

“—but you also know as well as I why I am marrying him.”

Emily’s gaze fell to her knees as she lifted a hand to fiddle with the edges of her still-blank linen. “Because of the money.”

“Yes.”

“But does that not sound horrible to you? How do you bear it? I know I couldn’t.”

Winnie shrugged. “I like him. There is no ignominy in marrying somebody I like – money or no.”

“Well,” said Emily, sticking her chin in the air and pushing herself up to sit straight again, “when I marry, I shall make sure that I am deeply and madly in love with my husband. Just you watch – I’m going to be like Cinderella. True love at first sight.”

Emily thought she heard Winnie snort, and she bristled, batting away her sister’s hand as the older woman tried to run it over her hair. With a sigh, Winnie stood, dropping her hand to smooth her skirts. “Well, I hope that you’ll be so lucky. But you’re eighteen now, Emmy. You mustn’t let your fancies run away with you. Do be sensible.”

“I like my fancies,” said Emily, punctuating the declaration with a decisive nod. She picked up her needle again. “And I still think that Mr Harrington has your glove.”

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About an hour later, Winnie poked her head inside the nursery as she pushed the door open, smiling to herself as she set eyes on the twins. Both of them had the same green eyes as Winnie herself, and wispy hair the same colour as Emily’s – so light a brown that, with the right light, one might call it fair. James’s, of course, was trimmed neat and short about his ears, but Penny’s skimmed the tops of her shoulder-blades, the ends twisting around themselves in a feeble attempt at curls.

Winnie stayed still for a moment, watching James sit astride his grand rocking-horse, digging his knobbly fingers into its wiry mane – real horse-hair, he liked to tell anyone who would listen, which clearly made it the next best thing to a real live animal. The rockers scuffled backwards and forwards a little with every tip of the young rider’s body, such was the force with which James threw himself back and forth. He yelled out, “Tally ho! Tally ho!” as if the old wooden toy was a magnificent beast, stretched out in full gallop, leading the hunt. Well, it did have real horse-hair, after all.

Meanwhile, Penny sat nearby, surveying the mess of tiny dolls’ house furniture strewn all around her. The house in question stood with its front swung wide open, leaving four storeys’ worth of rooms exposed to the world like empty, gaping mouths. Crinkling her little nose, Penny picked up a spindly table – the one whose leg had had to be glued on again after one of James’s toy soldiers snapped it off. With all the concentration of the eight-year-old girl that she was, Penny set the table in the centre of a room on the third floor, eyes narrowed as she scrutinised her choice before shaking her head and setting it back by her feet again.

Winnie swung the door open a little further and stepped through, offering a smile first to James, who stuck his tongue out in return and bellowed his “Tally ho!” even louder, and then a second to Penny, who lifted a stubby-fingered hand to wave at her sister.

“Penny,” said Winnie, crossing the nursery with small, quick steps before crouching down beside the girl, wobbling a little as she tried to avoid standing on the diminutive tables and chairs surrounding her. “Penny, dear, can you tell me if you’ve seen my grey kid glove? The one I wore on Saturday when Mamma and I went out calling?”

The little girl bit her lip, eyes widening as she tilted her head to the side for a moment before her gaze fell and she nodded twice.

“You have?”

Penny levered herself up from the floor, tiptoed through the dolls’ house furniture and over to a low shelf on which sat a fine china-faced doll wearing a white pinafore with Emily’s embroidery around its hem. Winnie watched as Penny silently lifted the doll by its waist and, from beneath its skirts, withdrew a grey glove.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Winnie, rising on unsteady feet as she took one great half-stride, half-leap to a clear patch of floor and extended her hand to take the glove from Penny. “Thank you so much, dear! Now tell me – where did you find it?”

Penny slowly shrugged her shoulders up to her ears, and then just as slowly let them down again. “Stairs.”

“The stai—oh!” Winnie’s face brightened as she slipped the glove into her pocket. “The stairs that go to my bedroom? I must have dropped it and not realised.”

Penny nodded. “I meant to give it back.”

Winnie chuckled and bent down to kiss her littlest sister on the forehead. “Of course you did, dear.”

And with that, Winnie left the twins alone again, sliding her hand inside her pocket and rubbing the worn softness of the glove between her fingers as she made her way up the very stairs Penny had mentioned, heading for the bedroom she shared with Emily.

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When Winnie entered the bedroom, Emily was sitting in a rocking chair by the window, absently stroking the coal-black ringlets of her own china doll, which had slipped from where she had propped it up against her belly and now lay splayed awkwardly over her lap. Winnie watched for a moment, then sighed and pulled the glove from her pocket, walked over to her sister and dropped it onto the doll’s cotton skirt.

Emily started and wrenched her torso around, her mouth handing open in outrage as she picked up the glove by one of its fingertips, as if it dripped with mud. “Don’t throw things at Catherine!”

Winnie rolled her eyes and took the glove back from Emily. “Penny found my glove. I told you that Mr Harrington hadn’t kept it.”

Emily shut her mouth at once into a thin, straight line and turned back to stare out the window, hugging Catherine the doll to her belly properly again. With another sigh, Winnie wandered over to the modest vanity they shared, tugged out the drawer on the top left-hand side, and nestled the glove beside its partner. She looked over at Emily again as she pushed the drawer closed with the heel of her hand, waiting for her to speak.

“Emmy?”

“Can you not just give him some favour when you see him next?” grumbled Emily, ramming her feet against the floor to send the chair tipping sharply backwards. “It doesn’t matter what. Your glove, a handkerchief – I’d sew it for you – oh, please, Winnie!”

“It’s impractical,” Winnie said, rubbing her palm along her hairline. “I have nothing I wish to give him, and he wishes to receive nothing from me.”

“Well, he should!”

With a great huff, Emily pushed herself up from the rocking chair, which continued to tilt backwards and forwards of its own accord as she strode over to the vanity. Once she reached Winnie, Emily ducked her head, pulled Catherine out gently from the crook of her elbow, and set her down on the vanity top in her usual space, next to Emily’s other china doll with as much care as if she had been a real child. The other doll, Emily had christened Winnie and she had a head adorned with golden tresses that once matched a now-faded corn yellow dress. Even so, the two dolls still managed to give off some air of dignity, with their perfectly oval faces with lips glazed to make them shine, long, soft lashes and hands folded demurely in their laps, lace gloves hugging their slim fingers – except for where one of Catherine’s pinkies had poked through the tip and make a tiny hole, the real Winnie noticed.

Emily pouted and trailed a finger along the dolls’ matching white jaws, finishing with an affectionate tug on one of the china Winnie’s curls.

The other Winnie stepped behind her sister, placing a hand on either shoulder and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I don’t know why you named those two for Catherine and me,” she said. “They don’t look a thing like us.”

Emily raised a hand to press down on Winnie’s left one, shrugging gently. “Well, Emily looked nothing like me, and Penny looked nothing like Penny. None of them looked anything like us. Too pretty.” Emily shuddered. “I suppose the girl who’s got them now has given them horrid, pretentious names that don’t suit them at all. Do you think Papa listened to me when I told him to make sure the girl who bought them would promise to call them Emily and Penny? Do you think that’s what she calls them now?”

And though Winnie could not help but think that the little girl whose father had bought Emily’s china dolls nine years ago had most probably forgotten them by now, she gave a grim smile and squeezed her sister’s shoulder.

“I’m sure she does, Emmy. I’m sure she does.”

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With one great, final tug, Philippa Moore managed to wrench the boot from her right foot, sighing in triumph as she set it beside the left one at the foot of her bed. Instinctively ducking her head to avoid hitting it on the dangling lamp overhead, she tucked one leg underneath her as she took her other foot in her hands, digging her thumbs into the fleshy part underneath her toes and closing her eyes as the ache began to fade a little.

Out of the four low beds neatly lined up against the wall, Philippa had had the one in the corner since she had come to work at Birchwater Park twelve years ago. Back then, she had liked having that bed because it was the furthest from the door, as far away as possible from where the conjured fancies of a child’s imagination might sneak into the room. But at twenty-four, Philippa’s imagination had hardened well, and now she liked the corner bed because from where she sat, massaging her feet, she could survey the entire, albeit small bedroom. With only a flick of her eyes from side to side, she could see everything, endowing her with a fleeting, yet satisfying sense of superiority.

And so it was that when Philippa heard the pad pad of footsteps approaching, she was able to look up and watch the doorknob turn, hear the hinges creak and be already sitting on the edge of her bed with a half-smile on her face as a young girl slipped into the room.

“Ev’nin’, Elsie,” said Philippa.

“Ev’nin’,” Elsie replied, stumbling over her own feet as she made her way over to the bed beside Philippa’s before slumping across it.

Philippa frowned. “Somethin’ wrong? You ain’t been snitchin’ wine, have you?”

Elsie sighed and looked up, wrinkling her nose as she started tearing the hairpins from the bun nestled at the nape of her neck. “You missed Mrs McLaughlin’s talk.”

“Oh, I did, did I? Well, what a bleedin’ tragedy. Who’d she threaten to throw out this time?”

“She didn’t threaten,” said Elsie, giving a particularly vicious tug and sending a hairpin flying across the room and onto Philippa’s bed. “She did. Kitty’s gone.”

Philippa arched one black eyebrow, leaning over to retrieve the pin before tossing it back to Elsie. “What d’you mean, gone?”

“Lost her job. Sacked. Gone. That’s another housemaid we’re down.”

“Why?”

Elsie let out a long breath, crawling up the bed to lean against the headboard, and began to unwind her bun. “Lord Brownley came back from London today. You know what he’s like when he’s been talkin’ nought but his bank accounts for a week.”

“He ought to be worried ‘bout his bank accounts. I don’t blame him. Surely you’ve cottoned on to that by now.”

“That’s not the point!” Elsie threw her arms down by her sides, making a muffled thump as they hit her thin pillow. “The point’s that while Lord Brownley’s all busyin’ himself with keeping his family from goin’ blimmin’ destitute, it’s us that’s gettin’ put out on the street. Couldn’t he just dock our wages for a bit instead? Just as long as I could have a roof over me head.”

“He already docked ‘em. Me mum was furious, remember? You saw her letter.”

“Oh.”

Philippa tilted her head to the side, watching as the younger girl pulled her hair over her shoulder, combing her fingers through its thick, ash-blonde length. “How long’ve you been here, now?” Philippa asked. “Two years or three? ‘Cause once I got to three – that was when Mrs McLaughlin started leavin’ me alone.”

“Two.” Elsie pursed her lips and balled one hand into a fist, clutching at her hair. “Almost. S’not long at all. And don’t that high and mighty old prig know it!”

“Feels longer,” said Philippa, leaning back against the wall with a shrug. “I keep forgettin’ you’re only a young ‘un yourself. You look older’n sixteen, you know.”

Elsie sighed. “I wish I was. You’re lucky, Philippa. You don’t have to worry ‘bout this whole thing. Mrs McLaughlin’d never let you go. You’ve been here too long.”

“Elsie.”

“And Miss Emily can’t do without her maid, neither, can she, now? See? But me … well, I’m just that brat in the scullery – they don’t seem to reckon I’m too important. Mrs McLaughlin had one of the housemaids come in to help me last week when Lady Brownley had her brother over for dinner, and she was better’n me at it by far. And if Mrs McLaughlin can just get the housemaids to do my work, well, I’m out. How much longer d’you reckon I got?”

Philippa paused, biting the inside of her cheek. “Well, if you can hold out two months, Miss Winnie’ll be married off to that Harrington bloke, and that can’t hurt. It’ll be the first relief we’ve had in a good while.”

Elsie shook her head. “Mr Harrington ain’t that rich. He’s got money, sure – enough to support Miss Winnie, easy – but not enough to pull Lord Brownley out of this mess.”

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Letting out a long, low breath, Lord Brownley settled back further into the drawing room armchair, drumming his fingers on his knee. His wife stood in the doorway, resting her head against the frame as she followed suit with a sigh of her own.

“Please don’t start fretting already, Henry” said Lady Brownley. “You’ve barely been back six hours.”

Lord Brownley turned his head. “I’m not fretting, Jane,” he said. “I’ve just had something on my mind.” He beckoned to her and, fair eyebrows raised, she bustled over to sit in the chair opposite him and began to trace the pattern on the upholstery with her long, nervous fingers, waiting for him to speak.

“I stayed in a very good hotel in London,” said Lord Brownley, leaning forward and letting his hands fall into a steeple. “It was quite new – opened a few months ago. The chain is run by a family called Lawrence.”

He paused, waiting to see if his wife would make any comment. She did not, merely blinking her round, hazel eyes and nodding, a couple of furrows forming on her brow.

Lord Brownley cleared his throat and went on. “I met Mr Lawrence while I was there – a very nice gentleman, said I was the first earl he’d had in this particular hotel—”

“Most other earls have townhouses.”

Lady Brownley folded her arms and pursed her lips as her husband squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and exhaled loudly. “I know,” he said. “Let me finish.”

“Do.”

“Well, he invited me to dine one evening with him, his wife and their eldest son.”

“Yes?”

Lord Brownley shifted in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap as if in furtive prayer. “It’s a splendid hotel chain, really it is. A very successful, reputable, solid business. They’re opening a new one in the Cotswolds next week. And the whole family seems very respectable – honest chaps, decent.”

Lady Brownley dug her fingers into the crook of her elbow. “What are you suggesting?”

“What I’m suggesting is that we seriously consider keeping their acquaintance.” Lord Brownley swallowed. “It could have potential benefit for our daughters.”

“Potential benefit?”

“Out of Mr Lawrence’s four sons, only one is married – the second one,” said Lord Brownley. “And I’m sure that those other three would not necessarily be averse to, well – ha! ha! – improving their standing in society.”

Lady Brownley paused and narrowed her eyes, leaning forward a little with head tilted to one side, peering at her husband. “They must be very wealthy. That would be the only thing that would possess you to talk of them like this.”

Lord Brownley closed his eyes and nodded. “Exceedingly wealthy. Disgustingly wealthy.”

Drawing back again, Lady Brownley let out a sharp sigh, almost a scoff. “Henry, there are so many wealthy families; there is no need to—”

“And what benefit comes to them from marrying one of our daughters?” Lord Brownley cut in, slapping his hands down on his knees. “Tell me that, Jane! It took us two years of searching before we found a man who deigned to marry dear Winnie – and you know as well as I that John Harrington, for all his blessed gentility, still cannot help us enough. For God’s sake, if it wasn’t for your brother, we’d already be bankrupt! But how long is his charity going to hold out? How long?”

Lady Brownley stiffened, her neck rigid and lips tight. “Lionel is a man of his word. He will not turn his back on us.”

“And I would rather not be dependent on my brother-in-law and that spoiled wife of his to keep us from destitution!”

“You would rather marry one of the girls off to a disgustingly wealthy Lawrence.”

As Lady Brownley shot to her feet with a cry of indignation, Lord Brownley only leaned deeper into his chair. “It’s a possibility. We shall think on it. But we should keep it a possibility.”

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Redwick Park, Hertfordshire

Swallowing hard, William Towns ran a hand through his hair and stared back at his reflection. He took in deep breath after deep breath, clenching his jaw and wetting his lips every few seconds, his fingers fiddling uncontrollably with his cuffs. Though he was almost twenty years old, and with such a great height that he had to duck his head to see himself properly in the full-length mirror, as William watched himself tremble, he decided with a muted horror that he could very well be mistaken for a boy of fourteen – wide-eyed and with one foot jiggling up and down.

He tore a hand from his cuffs and straightened his collar, noisily clearing his throat as he did so. Trying his utmost to steady his bouncing foot and shaking jaw, William opened his mouth and said to his reflection, “L-Lord Brownley, I would—”

That was as far as he got. That was as far as he ever got.

With a great groan, William hung his head and allowed his shoulders to slump, stepping forwards so that his forehead rested against the glass of the mirror. Still groaning, he lifted his head a little, but only to let it fall again and bump against the mirror as he muttered to himself.

“Oh, Emily. Emily, Emily, Emily.”

--Brackynn