The Telling

have something that would do you well.’
    She slipped out of bed, her feet soft in cotton bedsocks. She went over to the far side of her bed, to her workbox. She came back with three fat envelopes, each illustrated with a drawing of an elegant young woman in fashionable dress.
    ‘They are cut to my size,’ she said, and looked me over as if noticing for the first time that I had a shape, a figure, dimensions. ‘But then we are not so different after all.’
    I watched the uneasy flicker of her eyes as she shuffled the parcels around in her hands. She selected one, and offered it to me. ‘Take this one. It will just suit the fabric, and your figure.’
    I took hold of the nearest edge of the envelope. She did not let go. I glanced at her face, but her eyes were downcast.
    ‘You’ll remember I was good to you?’ she said.
    ‘Madam?’
    She glanced up. Her cheeks were pale. ‘Whatever happens, you’ll remember I was good to you?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Of course.’
    She let go of the package. I fumbled it, then clutched it to my chest.
    ‘The Reverend has told me,’ Mrs Wolfenden said, ‘he has told me he will protect me, but Lizzy, I do not see how I can be protected , or anyone at all can be protected, not while men like Mr Moore move freely in the world.’
    I was caught between sympathy and laughter. We were as harvest mice in a corner of a field, I thought, wearing a summer’s worth of tracks through the wheat and thinking it a whole world, an eternity. She was afraid. She was afraid of change. I understood that; change is frightening.
    *
     
    Mam helped me with laying out the pattern on the kitchen table; Sally arrived as we were pinning the paper to the cloth. My heart skipped to see her; I went to hug her, but she was busy with taking off her smart bonnet, so I helped her off with it, and she took it from me and glanced about for somewhere to lay it. She set it on the dresser, and teased at the feather trim to smooth it, and when she was satisfied with that, she took off her gloves and cloak, and came to kiss us both; and the kiss was not a kiss but the light brush of her cheek against mine. I put my arms around her, but she backed off, cautioning me against crushing her poplin, and I found myself standing there, slightly shy, and not knowing what to say, and glancing to Mam, to see if she were faring any better. She stood back, glowing with admiration at her handsome daughter.
    ‘Don’t you look fine, my love? Don’t you look fine!’
    Sally brushed down her skirts, said ‘Thank you.’ She nodded to the cloth and pattern on the table. ‘Who’s that for?’
    ‘Our Lizzy.’
    A flicker of surprise crossed Sally’s countenance. ‘I thought you were taking in sewing. Mrs Millard had a tea-dyed dress this summer.’
    Mam exclaimed warmly at this, then asked ‘Who’s Mrs Millard?’
    Sally took up a fold of cloth and rubbed it between her finger and thumb, pouting. My cheeks burned. She glanced up at me.
    ‘You can borrow my second set of stays, if you need them.’
    ‘Is your box left up at the public house?’ Mam asked. ‘Shall I send the lads for it?’
    Sally shook her head. ‘The Forsters had their man collect my valise. Mrs Forster has been kind enough to ask me to stay with her.’
    The glow sank from Mam’s face. She smiled, said, ‘Oh.’
    ‘Well, I can hardly sleep on the floor here, can I?’
    Sally took herself over to the fireside chairs, arranged her skirts carefully and sat down. ‘I am parched for a cup of tea.’
    Mam rushed to set the kettle on. I returned to the work. My mam had had a notion that if we could squeeze the pattern into small enough a space, she could make herself a new bonnet-liner out of the remainder. I unpinned the front panel of the bodice, teased it down a little less than a hand-span, slid the yoke in and stabbed it into place with a pin.
    Mam was asking Sally about the milliner’s shop as she made the tea, and about Mrs Millard who was, it turned out, one of the better sort of customers. Sally told Mam about her extraordinary progress, how she had been given silk to work with, how she had feathers such as you wouldn’t dream, that came off great big birds from half a world away, and cost more than the silk; and weight for weight cost more, almost certainly, than gold. I took up the scissors and snipped into the cloth. She got up, and smoothed herself down again, and came over to watch me, distractingly. I glanced up at