Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [87]
May I know my lowly station
At the doorstep of creation.
Now Mrs. Morgan examined her white velvet slammerkin, the few inches of its hem embroidered with silver apples and snakes. 'The work goes slowly, Mrs. Jones.'
'My dear madam, I assure you, I expect to make great progress in the next month as the days begin to lengthen.'
'Your London girl embroiders?'
Mary had opened her mouth to say no, when her mistress rushed in with, 'Of course. She knows all the very latest effects!'
A stately nod. Now Mrs. Morgan was interrogating a tiny butterfly cap in the long mirror. Mrs. Jones went up on her toes to pin it onto her patron's greying head. 'How the lace sets off your hair! Just down from Bristol, this is.'
'I think Mrs. Fortune has the same.'
'Madam!' protested the dressmaker. 'Hers is nothing like. Not half so dainty. This is the very pattern of the one Mrs. Cibber wears as Juliet on the Drury Lane stage, Mary tells me.'
Mrs. Morgan frowned at her image. 'You're sure I won't be put out of countenance when I meet Mrs. Fortune at the Shrove Ball?'
'Heaven forbid,' prayed the dressmaker. She was rooting in a trunk now; her voice was muffled. 'And if I can furnish madam with any other little necessaries...' She came up, panting, with a shred of lace in her hand. 'You might like to cast your eye over this vastly pretty handkerchief, painted with the Peace of Utrecht—'
Mrs. Morgan's eyes didn't leave her image in the glass. 'I'll take the cap,' she cut in. She lifted it off as if it were a miniature crown and gestured to Mary to bring her black fur-trimmed cape. 'You may put it to my account.'
Mrs. Jones ran to help the Honourable Member's wife on with her cape. Georges the footman was waiting in the dark hall in a superb quilted jacket with pockets a foot wide. He opened the door for his mistress ceremoniously.
When it had closed behind the Morgan party, Mary let out her breath in a hiss. 'So she stays the full of an hour,' she protested, 'and all she spends is half a crown on an inch of cotton and lace, and gets it on credit too?'
'Mrs. Morgan's not always in the buying humour,' said Mrs. Jones tiredly.
'And what did you go telling her I could embroider for?' asked Mary, then smiled to soften the impudence.
'Because you'll pick it up in no time, I'm sure,' said Mrs. Jones. She took Mary's fingers in her own warmer ones and examined them. 'It's in your bones. Besides, I'll never find the time to get it done on my own, Mary,' she added plaintively, contemplating the great white waterfall of Mrs. Morgan's velvet slammerkin.
By the end of that week Mary had filled her practice square with violets, fronds, scrolls, and ribbons. The mistress had been right about her: she could flower like a natural. Her fingers were firm, and her eyes were sharp; she never confused her colours.
The day soon came when Mrs. Jones laid the hem of the white slammerkin in Mary's lap and threaded her a needle with silver. The woman's eyes were shining; she was on the point of tears, Mary realised with a prickling of embarrassment. 'What's the matter, madam?'
'It's only ... if your mother could only see you now!'
Mary managed a tight smile. For a moment she joined in the fiction. She imagined a true mother, tender in white wings, looking down on her from heaven and weeping with relief. She pushed her needle into the cloth; it was as soft as a rabbit.
Some afternoons there was a knock at the front door every half an hour. No matter how busy she and Mary were, Mrs. Jones always offered the ladies of Monmouth a dish of tea; she wouldn't dream of giving offence. One or two patrons were accompanied by lady's maids, who were much too grand to wait in the kitchen, but stood behind their mistresses' chairs with hands folded, scanning the furniture for dust.
Gossip was the local currency. 'There were two left dead after that football match last week.'
'Terrible.'
'Terrible!'
'There's a new family lodging in St. James's Square, I hear, acquaintances