Read Online The Crimson Ribbon by Katherine Clements - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Clements
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ruddy flush mottling her throat.
‘When did it happen?’ I ask.
‘A long time ago, when the mistress was young,’ Margaret says. ‘We do not speak of it before her, do you hear?’
‘Of course,’ I say. This must be the secret that Master Poole was so keen to hide from me, the old rumour he is so determined to quash.
Margaret shakes her head. ‘A thing like that is hard to forget. It has left my girl delicate, poor child. She is not always . . . clear-headed.’
‘Is that why she has never married?’ I ask.
‘Oh, there have been suitors . . . but none could tempt her away from us.’
Charlotte is looking at me sideways, with a smirk.
Before I go to bed that night, I step outside into the yard. There are no stars and no moon by which I can right myself, but I scratch a circle in the dirt with my foot and step inside it. I whisper a prayer to the Fen spirits, and to the four corners of the wind, hoping that my words will be carried to waiting ears.
Now I know that Lizzie has felt the same pain that gnaws inside me. Her loss mirrors my own. My mother can never be replaced, but I long so much for a kind word, a gentle touch, the sort of comfort that only another person can give. The fading memory of Joseph’s hand in mine feels a poor substitute for what I need now. I whisper my wish that Lizzie will be the one to comfort me.
But I do not know if the Fen spirits will hear me, muffled by coal smoke, so far from home.
Chapter 9
The Lord’s Day is a day of rest, but there is no such thing for a woman, especially one employed in a kitchen.
My first Sabbath at the Poole household, and I’m dressed and sweeping the front parlour before dawn. It is the first time since the night of my arrival that I have been left alone in this room. It is usually out of bounds to all but Lizzie and her father, and Charlotte, who answers the street door and keeps the place neat through the week. This is where Master Poole receives his customers, where he and Lizzie work during daylight hours and where he displays his finest wares.
As the sun comes up and pale dawn light filters through the casement, I marvel at the samples of fine cloth, the rolls of coloured ribbon and intricate bobbin lace, laid out on the table, like offerings upon a harvest altar. Dishes of buttons lie on the sideboard – perfect discs of pale wood and bone, like tiny moons, and shining silver and brass too, for the wealthier clients. There are little cushions pricked all over with silver needles, like a family of hedgehogs, and all manner of fine yarns, measuring sticks and thimbles. In one corner of the room an upright chair wears a dress of the palest blue satin.
I have glimpsed Lizzie at work upon this dress when passing the door, her fingers glittering with needle and thread as she applies fine lacework to the collar. It is a commission from a local merchant’s wife, a Mistress Cutler, who is a good customer. I know this from hearing father and daughter in discussion over breakfast. The workings must be perfect, the best quality, for the fee alone will keep us in eggs and butter all summer long.
Alone with the dress, I caress the fabric, my fingertips tracing the stitching that betrays the path of Lizzie’s hands before my own. I stroke the lace, so delicate, like dew-soaked spiders’ webs draped from a branch.
I kneel and lay my cheek upon the folds of cool satin. It is like gazing into a morning Fenland sky – the palest of blue, sheened with wisps of cloud. I think of Lizzie’s hands moving over the cloth, folding it, stitching it, and making it into something beautiful.
‘What are you doing?’
Charlotte stands at the door, hands on hips.
‘Oh . . . I – I’m sweeping.’ I struggle to my feet and brandish the broom.
‘Don’t much look like it to me.’ Her mouth twists into a sour half-smile. She nods at the dress. ‘Touch that again and there’ll be trouble.’ Her cap, always askew, tips down over her right
‘When did it happen?’ I ask.
‘A long time ago, when the mistress was young,’ Margaret says. ‘We do not speak of it before her, do you hear?’
‘Of course,’ I say. This must be the secret that Master Poole was so keen to hide from me, the old rumour he is so determined to quash.
Margaret shakes her head. ‘A thing like that is hard to forget. It has left my girl delicate, poor child. She is not always . . . clear-headed.’
‘Is that why she has never married?’ I ask.
‘Oh, there have been suitors . . . but none could tempt her away from us.’
Charlotte is looking at me sideways, with a smirk.
Before I go to bed that night, I step outside into the yard. There are no stars and no moon by which I can right myself, but I scratch a circle in the dirt with my foot and step inside it. I whisper a prayer to the Fen spirits, and to the four corners of the wind, hoping that my words will be carried to waiting ears.
Now I know that Lizzie has felt the same pain that gnaws inside me. Her loss mirrors my own. My mother can never be replaced, but I long so much for a kind word, a gentle touch, the sort of comfort that only another person can give. The fading memory of Joseph’s hand in mine feels a poor substitute for what I need now. I whisper my wish that Lizzie will be the one to comfort me.
But I do not know if the Fen spirits will hear me, muffled by coal smoke, so far from home.
Chapter 9
The Lord’s Day is a day of rest, but there is no such thing for a woman, especially one employed in a kitchen.
My first Sabbath at the Poole household, and I’m dressed and sweeping the front parlour before dawn. It is the first time since the night of my arrival that I have been left alone in this room. It is usually out of bounds to all but Lizzie and her father, and Charlotte, who answers the street door and keeps the place neat through the week. This is where Master Poole receives his customers, where he and Lizzie work during daylight hours and where he displays his finest wares.
As the sun comes up and pale dawn light filters through the casement, I marvel at the samples of fine cloth, the rolls of coloured ribbon and intricate bobbin lace, laid out on the table, like offerings upon a harvest altar. Dishes of buttons lie on the sideboard – perfect discs of pale wood and bone, like tiny moons, and shining silver and brass too, for the wealthier clients. There are little cushions pricked all over with silver needles, like a family of hedgehogs, and all manner of fine yarns, measuring sticks and thimbles. In one corner of the room an upright chair wears a dress of the palest blue satin.
I have glimpsed Lizzie at work upon this dress when passing the door, her fingers glittering with needle and thread as she applies fine lacework to the collar. It is a commission from a local merchant’s wife, a Mistress Cutler, who is a good customer. I know this from hearing father and daughter in discussion over breakfast. The workings must be perfect, the best quality, for the fee alone will keep us in eggs and butter all summer long.
Alone with the dress, I caress the fabric, my fingertips tracing the stitching that betrays the path of Lizzie’s hands before my own. I stroke the lace, so delicate, like dew-soaked spiders’ webs draped from a branch.
I kneel and lay my cheek upon the folds of cool satin. It is like gazing into a morning Fenland sky – the palest of blue, sheened with wisps of cloud. I think of Lizzie’s hands moving over the cloth, folding it, stitching it, and making it into something beautiful.
‘What are you doing?’
Charlotte stands at the door, hands on hips.
‘Oh . . . I – I’m sweeping.’ I struggle to my feet and brandish the broom.
‘Don’t much look like it to me.’ Her mouth twists into a sour half-smile. She nods at the dress. ‘Touch that again and there’ll be trouble.’ Her cap, always askew, tips down over her right
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