An Appetite for Violets by Martine Bailey Read Free Book Online

spirit was up today, glittering behind bright eyes. The thin fingers with their red-bitten quicks stole out of her lace to take a pastille. She chewed it thoughtfully. The recollection that she might have chewed one of those jaw-crackers made my mouth turn dry.
    ‘And last night’s supper was edible too. A passable plum fool. We enjoyed it, didn’t we Bengo, my baby?’ She scooped up the vile dog and clapped its front paws together. It glared at me with the popping eyes of a frog. I bowed my head a little and curtseyed.
    ‘Thank you, Ladyship,’ I mumbled.
    ‘I am sorting my gowns,’ she announced, after staring so long into my face that I wondered if I wore a smudge of oven grease. ‘And it pleases me to be generous to persons I like.’ Her eyes swept over her bounty of costumes. ‘I believe you deserve a reward, Biddy Leigh.’
    ‘Not me, Ladyship,’ I muttered, bobbing low while edging backwards. ‘I only done my duty.’ I had rescued my wages and wished never to see that strange woman again. She twisted sideways in her chair and pointed. ‘Now that dress, the rose silk. What is your estimate of that one?’
    I did not have the eye of a town girl, to know my Française from my Indienne, but I could tell a fine stitch when I saw one. It was a beautiful dress, like a great blossoming bouquet of ruffled silk.
    ‘It is—’ I stopped and swallowed hard. The dark rose taffeta bodice was worked with tiny frills and bows that must have taken a seamstress many weeks of blood-pricking work.
    ‘Try it on.’
    ‘I could not.’ I backed away like it might strike me. She truly was the most peculiar mistress I had ever known.
    ‘I am commanding you. I want to see you in that dress.’
    ‘Me Lady,’ I protested. ‘I cannot—’
    ‘Do it!’ Her face was pinched with annoyance; the dark brows fierce. With eyes cast down I approached the dress and lifted it off its hook. It felt satin-cushioned, and as warm as newly risen dough. The skirts trailed the floor and I prayed I might not damage the precious fabric.
    ‘Over there, girl.’ With a waft of her wrist she directed me into a darker corner where a table stood littered with all the fine items of a lady’s toilet.
    By the time I had heaved off my old woollen bodice I was hot with shame. My shift was brown with sweat and kitchen grease. The skirt I had so proudly stitched from a length of woollen drab now looked coarser than a horse blanket. A cloud of perfume was freed as I stepped into a fine pink petticoat that danced about my legs like whipped froth. As I eased into the narrow bodice it strained at my shoulders. Hard work changes a woman’s body, I knew that. For a moment I glanced up at my mistress and envied her the narrow shoulders and thin arms of those who can barely lift their own soup plates.
    ‘Aha. You look quite changed.’ She was laughing again; leaning back to release a husky chuckle. Then she walked towards me and stared so intently I blushed.
    ‘Look at yourself,’ my mistress commanded, taking my arm and leading me to a great glass on a frame. Have courage, I scolded myself, it is only a dress. I felt like a beggar shamming in a queen’s robes. As I reached the mirror I expected to look as foolish as a gimcrack doll and for my mistress to scoff at me.
    So I was mightily surprised to see my reflection. I saw a fine woman gaze back from the glass. Tall and straight, with chestnut hair freed from her kitchen cap. A pale face with cheeks flushed like pippins fresh from the tree. A lively astonishment shone in eyes the colour of greengage wine. And the gown – why, it suited me better than many a merchant’s wife traipsing in lace along the Chester Rows. I stared at a delightful stranger who was straight, elegant, and pleasing to any eye.
    ‘Will they ever heal?’ Lady Carinna stood frowning beside me. I followed her gaze and lifted my forearms so the lace frills fell back. Bands of puckered flesh ran from fingertip to elbow – some