The dressmakers secret, p.1
The Dressmaker's Secret, page 1
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For my grandchildren, Hannah, Madi,
Liam, Ben and Johnny – with love.
CHAPTER ONE
1876
‘I’m just walking over to the church, Mrs Fudge,’ Reverend Michael Redfern called to his housekeeper. ‘I shan’t be long.’ He opened the door and stepped out into the cool May evening. The low sun had set the western sky aflame with its dying embers and a fat, creamy moon was rising in the east. Shrouded in shadow, an owl hooted in the boughs of a nearby horse chestnut tree. Michael breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the pungent scent of wild garlic.
He had arrived in the Anglo-Saxon market town of Blandford Forum as a humble curate twenty-five years before and had been the incumbent of the Church of St Mark the Evangelist ever since. Having never married, his parishioners were his family. He advised them, comforted them and rejoiced with them. He married them, baptized their children and, when their time came, he buried them. He was a man perfectly content with his lot in life. Whistling cheerfully, he threaded his way through the kissing gate, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he followed the path to the centuries-old church.
It was a short walk from the rectory to the church, yet by the time he reached the wooden porch, he was breathing heavily. He was a thickset man with a shock of greying blond hair and a paunch which had, thanks to May Fudge’s excellent home cooking, expanded considerably in recent years. Pausing to catch his breath, he made a mental note to ask his housekeeper, once again, to please reduce the amount of cakes and puddings she plied him with.
Thinking about the supper he’d recently consumed, he pushed open the heavy oak door but stopped in surprise when his eyes fell on the girl seated in the front pew, dark auburn hair shining in the pale candlelight like burnished copper. Her shoulders were hunched and it was clear to Michael from the way they shook that she was crying bitterly.
Momentarily unnerved by her unexpected presence, Michael shut the door quietly behind him and started up the aisle towards her, the soles of his shoes squeaking softly on the stone floor. He coughed as he approached, hoping to alert the girl to his presence, but if she heard him, she gave no sign. The church was otherwise deserted, evensong having finished well over an hour earlier. Michael slid silently into the pew beside the sobbing girl. That was when he noticed the baby on her lap.
It was swaddled in a frayed shawl, fast asleep, pale lashes resting on porcelain cheeks, wisps of strawberry-blond hair curling from beneath a knitted cap.
Suddenly aware of his presence, the girl turned her tear-stained face towards him. Michael recognized her immediately.
‘Bea? Little Beatrice Cullen, my star Sunday school pupil?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bea bowed her head, a crimson stain spreading up her pale neck and flooding her cheeks. Her green eyes were red and swollen from crying and carried such a look of abject misery and despair that Michael found himself momentarily lost for words. He handed Bea his handkerchief. Shadows danced on the walls as the candles flickered and sputtered in their sconces.
‘And who is this little mite?’ he asked, once Bea had wiped her face and blown her nose. She bundled the handkerchief in her fist and sighed.
‘This is my Lily,’ she replied in a small voice. ‘Lilian Mary, after my ma and my nan.’
‘Both very fine women.’ Michael nodded. Lilian Cullen and her daughter-in-law, Mary, both resided in St Mark’s churchyard, carried off by a particularly vicious strain of influenza that had swept through the town a decade before. Unable to cope with his six-year-old daughter, Bea’s father had sent her to the Union Workhouse up at Shaftesbury. Soon afterwards he had left the county and, as far as Michael was aware, no one had heard from him since.
‘As I recall, you were working at Bay Willow House.’
‘Yes, sir. I was a scullery maid, sir.’
‘You’ve come from there tonight?’
Bea shook her head. ‘No, sir, from Shaftesbury.’
‘You walked here from Shaftesbury?’ Michael exclaimed, aghast. ‘That’s nigh on twelve miles of hard road, and with an infant besides.’
Bea shrugged. ‘A passing drayman let me ride along with him most of the way. I only walked the last three miles or so.’ She yawned and Michael was reminded of just how young she was.
Now Michael noticed the drab Union Workhouse dress and the worn shoes, and the severity of Bea’s plight began to dawn on him.
‘Lilian was born out of wedlock,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Bea nodded, her eyes filling with fresh tears. ‘Yes, sir. As soon as my condition became noticeable, I was sacked without references. I tried to find work but no one would hire me because of my situation.’
‘And what of the baby’s father?’ Michael asked, his brow knitting together over his nose. ‘He must be called to account and made to marry you.’
‘That is not possible, sir,’ Bea replied with a sorrowful shake of her auburn mane. ‘He is engaged to be married.’
‘Then the engagement must be broken off,’ Michael fumed, his mind’s eyes picturing a cocky farm labourer who had played fast and loose with Bea’s heart while planning to wed another.
Bea fixed her gaze on the plain wooden cross suspended on the grey stone behind the altar. ‘He is engaged to Miss Cynthia Lovett,’ she said dully. ‘You may have seen the announcement in The Times.’
Michael’s shoulders sagged in resignation. ‘Ah,’ was all he could say.
‘I’m not a trollop like Mrs White said, sir. Freddie told me he loved me and I believed him.’
‘I take it we’re talking about Master Freddie Copperfield, eldest son of Sir Frederick and Lady Copperfield?’
Bea’s expression was one of abject misery and Michael’s heart went out to her.
‘So, after trying unsuccessfully to find employment, you ended up back at the workhouse?’
‘I had no choice, sir. I had nowhere else to go.’ She met Michael’s gaze. ‘That’s why I came to find you. You were always kind to me when I was a child, and I know you will do right by Lily.’
‘There is always the Foundling Hospital,’ Michael said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger as Bea shook her head vehemently.
‘I do not want Lily’s future left to chance. I know you will find her a good family, people who will love her like their own.’
Michael sighed deeply. He steepled his fingers and bowed his head as if in prayer. Silence stretched between them. Lily stirred in Bea’s arms but didn’t wake. Bea cuddled her close, aware that her time with Lily was drawing to a close.
‘You are certain?’ Michael asked finally, breaking the lengthy silence.
‘You know I have no choice, sir,’ Bea said sadly.
‘Then I believe I know of the perfect family right here in Blandford. Jim and Martha Hayter. They buried their infant daughter just three days ago. I shall call on them in the morning, but for now you and Lily will spend the night at the rectory. Mrs Fudge will no doubt enjoy having the little one to dote on, and you’re in need of a good supper and a decent night’s sleep.’ He got to his feet and helped Bea up. She managed a small smile.
‘Thank you, Reverend, sir,’ she said softly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let us down.’
* * *
The moon was bright, lighting their path. An owl hooted nearby, followed by the high-pitched screech of its unfortunate prey. It was a mild night with just the faintest breeze rustling the sycamore trees that surrounded the old rectory. Smoke curled from one of the chimney pots and light spilled from a downstairs window. A dog barked and the front door opened, lamplight spilling onto the path as an overweight, grey-muzzled retriever came bounding out, tail wagging in welcome.
‘You were a long time, Reverend.’ The ample figure of May Fudge, in hat and coat, filled the doorway. She was in her late fifties, with wiry grey hair worn in a bun, and facial features that gave the appearance of sternness, belying her warm, compassionate nature. Her brows arched in surprise at the sight of the young girl hovering at Michael’s side, a tiny infant cradled to her chest.
‘And who do we have here?’ she queried as Michael bent down to pat the dog, which was sniffing around Bea’s skirts.
‘It’s me, Mrs Fudge,’ Bea said shyly. ‘Bea Cullen.’
‘Mary Cullen’s lass? Well, I’m blessed. I haven’t laid eyes on you since you were knee high to a frog. Come on inside, girl. There’s a pot of cocoa warming on the stove and plenty of stew left over from the reverend’s supper.’ Shooing away the inquisitive retriever, May ushered Bea down the hall and into the front parlour where a fire crackled cheerfully in the grate.
‘I told Bea she could spend the night,’ Michael said, meeting May’s gaze over Bea’s bowed head. The old housekeeper nodded, her expression one of compassion. She had noticed the lack of a wedding band on the girl’s left hand. Bea Cullen wasn’t the first girl in the town to get herself into trouble and May doubted she’d be the last.
‘I’ll fetch the cocoa,’ she said once she’d settled Bea on the sofa, Lily sleeping contentedly beside her amidst a nest of cushions.
* * *
Some time later, Michael lay tossing and turning in his bed listening to the familiar sounds of the old house creaking and settling. His usual contentment had completely deserted him as his mind explored every possibility.
For propriety’s sake, May had insisted on spending the night. ‘You don’t want to set tongues wagging,’ she had told Michael firmly when he’d protested. ‘You know what busybodies some of your parishioners can be.’ And Michael had had to concur. The last thing he wanted was to sully Bea’s reputation any further. So, while Bea ate her stew and fed Lily, May had made up the double bed in the front bedroom where the women both now slept, Lily tucked snuggly in the crook of Bea’s arm.
Bea had cried herself to sleep, sobbing quietly into the pillow as May gently stroked her hair and whispered meaningless words of comfort.
Sleep still eluding him, Michael threw off the covers and padded to the window. The moon cast a silvery light over the back garden, neighbouring rooftops and the hills beyond. From his vantage point he could just make out the sloping roof of the police station, and the Hayters’ cottage adjacent to it. Little Annie Hayter, second child of Constable Jim Hayter and his wife Martha, had lived only a few weeks. He blinked, unable to erase the memory of Jim and Martha sitting in the front pew, stoic and white-faced in their dark mourning clothes; little Charlie, their bewildered five-year-old son, wedged between them. Please God, he prayed now, the Hayters would be willing to take on Bea’s child and, he sent an urgent petition Heavenward, please let Martha still be able to nurse, otherwise it would be the Foundling Hospital or the workhouse for the little mite and God alone knew what would become of her then.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Will you have another slice of toast, Jim?’ Martha Hayter brushed a strand of blond hair out of her blue eyes in a gesture of weary irritation. She knew she looked a mess but she was too tired and too sad to care. Ever since the funeral three days ago, she’d wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and sink into blissful oblivion.
‘You’re all right, Martha, love,’ Jim replied from where he sat beside the fireplace polishing his shoes. ‘I don’t have much of an appetite.’ He glanced over to where Charlie sat at the scrubbed pine table, his natural childish exuberance stifled in the face of his parents’ grief.
‘What about you, Charlie, lad?’ Jim said, attempting to inject some lightness into his tone. ‘Think you could manage a slice of toast?’
Charlie looked up from his porridge. A good-looking boy, he had inherited his father’s olive skin, dark brown eyes and unruly black curls. His dark eyes flicked towards his mother who was standing at the sink, staring out the window. He shook his head.
‘No, thank you, Father.’
He cast another anxious glance in his mother’s direction before venturing hopefully, ‘Am I going back to school today, Father?’ Much as Charlie had loved and missed his baby sister, Jim could see that the thought of another day of oppressive silence, punctuated by his mother’s weeping while waiting for the chimes of the mantelpiece clock counting down one long, dreadful hour after another, hung heavily on his young shoulders.
‘If your mother has no objections, I reckon it will do you good to get back to school. What do you say, Martha, love?’ He looked at his wife sadly, awaiting her reply.
He’d fallen for Martha the moment he’d laid eyes on her dancing round the maypole at the annual Mayday Fair in the marketplace. It was an event that drew crowds from near and far and Martha had travelled across the river from Blandford St Mary with her older sister Doris. Jim had been a fresh-faced lad of seventeen, Martha just fifteen.
Her blue ribbon had worked its way loose and her long blond hair tumbled around her shoulders; her white lawn dress swirled, every so often affording Jim a tantalizing glimpse of her bare feet and ankles. Jim could picture her head thrown back as she laughed, the garland of wildflowers encircling her head jauntily askew. Her carefree beauty had taken Jim’s breath away and he hadn’t been the only one captivated by Martha. Sam Elkins, a local scoundrel with an eye for the ladies, had elbowed Jim aside, determined to claim the prettiest girl at the fair for himself.
But to Jim’s immense gratitude, and surprise, Martha had been quick to make her preference known. She and Jim were married three years later. Nine months after the wedding, little Charlie had come along, followed by Annie five years later.
Jim forced down the tide of grief that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of his precious daughter and reached for his wife’s hand. It cut him to the quick that he couldn’t make things better for his beloved Martha. Never before had he felt so useless, so helpless.
Martha pulled her hand away and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Whatever you think best,’ she replied listlessly.
* * *
It was market day and, even though the kitchen was situated at the rear of the airy five-room police cottage, Martha could hear the carts and wagons lumbering down the street out the front. The smell of animal dung, the bellow of oxen and the shouts of drovers and market traders drifted in on the breeze for, although they were officially in mourning, Jim had insisted the curtains and windows remain open. Charlie needed fresh air and light. It wasn’t healthy for the boy to be cooped up in a dark, airless house. Too stricken with grief, Martha hadn’t been able to summon the energy to argue.
She stared out at the backyard. Someone had left the privy door unlatched but she couldn’t even bring herself to be irritated by the resulting intermittent banging. She spent her days in a fog of grief and despair. Having fallen pregnant so quickly with Charlie, Martha had imagined a houseful of babies, but as the months and years went by, she and Jim had begun to despair of ever having any more children. Then Annie had come along and their joy had known no bounds. For six blissful weeks Martha had thought her life complete.
Then came that terrible day. Not a minute went by that Martha did not berate herself. Surely there had been some warning sign she had missed? Some indication that something was wrong? But try as hard as she might, she could call nothing to mind.
Annie’s skin had been a little warm, perhaps, and she had been a tad more fractious than usual, but Martha had put it down to the unseasonably warm weather. Everything had been as it should that Monday afternoon when she put Annie down for her nap. She had just settled down to her mending when Annie let out a strange, high-pitched cry. Martha had gone to her immediately, scooping her from the cradle. In her mother’s arms, Annie stretched out her tiny body and went limp. By the time the doctor arrived, it had been too late. Little Annie was gone.
* * *
The knock on the door startled them all. Jim and Martha exchanged glances. As a rule, friends and neighbours would come around the back. Who could be knocking on the front door at this hour?
‘I’ll go,’ Jim muttered. Lacing up his shoes, he got to his feet and, ruffling Charlie’s tousled curls as he passed, went out into the hallway.
‘Reverend Redfern.’ Jim’s voice rumbled in the hallway.
‘Morning, Jim. I’m sorry to call so early. Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?’
‘Of course.’ Jim’s reply was followed by the sound of the parlour door being firmly shut. Martha could hear muffled voices coming through the wall.
