Just two weeks later, much to Amy’s delight, the order came in for more of the same and the whole process began all over again. This time she changed the colours of the styles and sometimes the trimmings, not wishing the order to be identical to the last one.
Molly fussed over her endlessly when she arrived home worn out at night, sure that she was working too hard, but Amy just smiled. She might be tired but she was happy and with that, Molly had to be content.
Besides overseeing the orders for the hats that had already been approved, Amy continued to work on new designs, and these she took now on a weekly basis to Forrester’s Folly for the old mistress’s approval. Amy looked forward to these visits. There was something about the old lady, minus her many frills and furbelows, that reminded her of her gran. She was aware that they had come from the same beginnings and had they ever met, Amy felt that they would have gotten along famously. They were both stubborn and outspoken and both mentally alert and bright. Despite her fancy clothes and her many glittering jewels, the elderly Mrs Forrester was still proud of her roots and not ashamed to tell anyone that she had helped Samuel to build his empire from nothing, which Amy found touchingly endearing.
It was on one of these visits that Amy met Eugenie Forrester for the first time, and the meeting was far from pleasant.
She was armed as usual with her latest sketches and the spring sunshine was so warm that she took off her bonnet and swung it merrily by its ribbons. After entering the great gates that opened on to the drive of Forrester’s Folly, she struck off it and made her way towards the woods. She had discovered this short-cut some time ago, and after the heat of the sun on her back, the woods with their overhanging canopy of leaves were cool and refreshing. It was like walking into a fairy glade, for the floor was a carpet of bluebells, each one offering up its blooms to the rays of sunlight that filtered here and there through the branches. Amy was reminded of the fairy stories that Toby used to tell her when she was a little girl. Here and there, little clumps of toadstools thrust their way through the blue carpet and Amy could almost imagine tiny winged fairies sitting upon them.
When she finally left the shelter of the woods she came upon a row of cottages, all with their own little gardens front and back. These had been built for some of Mr Forrester’s staff who worked on the estate, and Amy was aware that the end one was occupied by Mary and Joe.
After passing these she continued to skirt the woods and eventually Forrester’s Folly came into view. Stepping out smartly now across the emerald-green lawns, Amy was suddenly aware of a noise behind her and, turning quickly, she saw a white horse and woman, riding sidesaddle, bearing down on her at breakneck speed. Without even stopping to think, she threw herself to one side and landed painfully in a breathless heap. By now the horse and rider had passed her, and as she struggled up on to one elbow she saw the woman fighting to control the creature. Eventually the bucking horse slowed, and to her horror Amy saw the marks of a whip all across his flanks. His nostrils were flaring and he was rearing in distress, but still she whipped him unmercifully until eventually he came to a shuddering halt. Then dismounting heavily, the rider strode over to Amy in a towering rage, her cheeks an angry red.
‘Who the hell are
you
?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you know that this is private land? Why – I’ve a good mind to set the dogs on you!’
Amy tried to answer but the woman was so furious that she couldn’t get a word in edgeways. She stared in consternation at the designs that were scattered all about and the grass stains on her skirt, and as the woman’s eyes lit on the drawings, a look of recognition passed over her features and her lips drew back from her teeth in a sneer.
‘Why, let me guess … I bet you’re the new little brown-eyed designer we’re all so
sick
of hearing about. Well, this little tumble will bring you down to earth, won’t it? Why don’t you keep to the servants’ entrance as befits you?’
Her eyes were flashing fire but Amy wisely held her tongue although she stared back defiantly and unafraid.
The woman was impeccably dressed in a jade-green riding habit topped off with a matching velvet hat that sported an ostrich plume. On her feet were gold buckled leather riding boots and she slapped her crop against them threateningly as she continued to glare at Amy.
Amy had guessed that this was Eugenie, Master Adam’s wife. At one time, the woman must have been very attractive, but time and too much good living had robbed her of her good looks, which was partly why she was gazing so jealously at Amy now.
Even with her auburn curls tumbled and her skirts spread about her, the girl was beautiful and Eugenie took an instant dislike to her. She was sick of hearing her name. Sick of hearing the praise that poured from the lips of her father-in-law, and Adam and his grandmother every time her name was mentioned. But more than anything, she was sick of no longer being the centre of attention. Her fury was such that she could barely contain it, and afraid of what she might do, she turned on her heel and mounted her horse none too gently.
‘Just make sure you use the servants’ entrance next time,’ she said spitefully. ‘If I ever come across you again, I’ll mow you down like the common little guttersnipe that you are.’
And then with a crack of the whip to the terrified horse’s rump, she galloped away. Amy could only stare after her indignantly. It had taken all her self-control not to answer the woman back, but now the confrontation was over she shuddered, wondering how anyone as nice as Adam could have saddled himself with such an unpleasant wife.
For the first time she entered the house from the rear, and when she was eventually shown into the study where old Mrs Forrester awaited her, the latter stared at her with concern. Amy had straightened her clothes and tidied her hair as best she could, but there was nothing she could do about the grass stains on her skirts.
‘What’s happened to you then?’ The old woman missed nothing. ‘You look as if you’ve been in a boxin’ match.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing really.’ Amy was trying to make light of things, not wishing to cause any trouble. ‘I took a short-cut through the woods and as I was crossing the lawn I got in the path of a woman on a white horse.’
‘Hmph, that’ll be Eugenie, no doubt, galloping around the grounds like a mad thing as usual. She’ll kill one o’ them poor horses one o’ these days, you just mark me words. Too fond o’ the whip by far, that spoiled little madam is. Why, there’s nothing I’d like more than to take a whip to her meself!’
Amy believed her and suddenly grinned, seeing the funny side of it. ‘Well, there’s no harm done,’ she assured her. ‘As Miss Eugenie said, I was the one in the wrong. I should have approached the house from the servants’ entrance.’
Mrs Forrester’s eyes stood out from her painted face with rage. ‘She dared to say that to you, did she? Well, you listen to me,
I’m
saying you may approach the house any damn way you choose, and if that vicious little minx ever says otherwise again, she’ll have me to answer to. Do you understand?’
Amy nodded dumbly. The old lady was obviously furious, and eager to turn her mind to other things, Amy quickly removed the sketches from her bag and began to discuss them. Luckily, after a time the old mistress calmed down and the rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. In fact, Amy might even have said pleasantly.
That evening, for the first time in her whole life, Amy lied to Molly – about the grass stains on her skirt.
‘I slipped on the lawns,’ was all she would say, although she was careful to keep her eyes averted from her gran’s as she said it. She could well imagine the explosion that would have occurred had she told her the truth, and she could see nothing being gained by it. She knew that today she had made a formidable enemy in Eugenie Forrester, and were Molly ever to find out, she would only worry.
The following evening, Amy finished work at six o’clock. Lately she had often worked until much later but the last order had just been finished and sent off to London and she was looking forward to a quiet evening in with her gran and Toby. As she made her way through the cobbled alleys of the town centre, the stench was almost overpowering; it had been a warm day and the smell was always much worse then. The conditions that the weavers lived in were appalling. Their cottages consisted of only two rooms, one up and one down. The upstairs room housed their looms as well as serving as a sleeping space. The downstairs room was the kitchen-cum-scullery, as well as a sleeping space for those who couldn’t fit in upstairs.
It was common for a whole family consisting of a mother, father and five, six or even more children to dwell in these humble abodes. Tiny communal courtyards contained an outside lavatory that sported two seats. The seat, in fact, was merely a plank with two holes cut into it and a bed of ash below. Once a week the dung cart would come and shovel out the waste and then fresh ash would be thrown in. In the middle of the courtyard was usually a pigsty. The pig that it housed was always owned by more than one family who would jointly feed it to fatten it up then once it was slaughtered the meat would be shared out; a piglet would replace it and the whole process would begin again. Next to the sty was a well, which would serve the families with water for washing, cooking and drinking. Needless to say, the water was usually tainted and illness and death were tragically common occurrences.
Amy always shuddered when she passed these dwellings, particularly on days such as this when the stench was almost unbearable.
Compared to the cottagers who dwelt here, she and Molly were fortunate indeed. With their own cottage being on the outskirts of Attleborough they had fresh air and rolling fields about them, and although in her life they had known hardships, she was aware that theirs were as nothing compared to those endured by these people on a daily basis.
It was rare for the townfolk to rear all of their offspring, and it was common practice for them to pay tuppence to an undertaker to place one of their little ones in with the body of the next person he buried whose family could afford a coffin. At least this way, although their child’s grave would be unmarked and often unknown, the bereaved parents could rest easy knowing that their little ones were at least lying in consecrated ground.
Amy found this heartbreaking, but because it was a known fact she accepted it. Even now as she hurried by, little raggy-arsed urchins were playing in the streets, bare-footed yet surprisingly smiling, and she returned their smiles as she passed, pressing more than the odd penny into outstretched grubby little hands.
In the heart of the town were numerous public houses and inns. These were a favourite stopping place for the hatters and the miners on their way home following a hard day’s labour. There were also various shops, including an ironmonger, baker’s, butcher’s and grocery shops. Amy had a particular fondness for Mr Armstrong the grocer. When she was small he had always slipped her a bull’s-eye when she visited with her gran; he was also well-known for letting the locals run up a slate and settle it on payday.
Soon the church came into view and the smell began to recede as the town gave way to countryside. Amy slowed her pace and then in the distance she saw three people approaching. One of them was Toby, the other man was Mr Hickman, an Attleborough villager who worked with Toby down the mines. They were both in their work clothes and covered with soot. But it wasn’t them that Amy’s eyes fastened on but the pretty girl at Toby’s side. Cathy was Mr Hickman’s daughter. Amy recognised her from the Sunday school that they had both attended. She had fair hair tied back from her face with a blue ribbon and she was laughing up into Toby’s face at something he had said.
The little group made a merry picture as they approached and for no reason that she could explain, Amy suddenly ducked behind a hedge and hid until they had passed. She watched them from her hiding-place as they made their way along the lane. Cathy appeared to be in fine spirits and suddenly she slipped her arm into Toby’s, regardless of his sooty clothes, and almost on tiptoe whispered something into his ear. He laughed at whatever comment she had passed and as the sun slid behind a cloud the joy suddenly went from Amy’s day.
She was in a sombre mood when she arrived back at the cottage and Molly was quick to pick up on it.
‘What’s up wi’ you then – have yer lost a bob an’ found a penny?’
‘No, no, Gran, I’m just tired, that’s all. I reckon the last few weeks have caught up with me.’
Molly placed her evening meal before her, but Amy moved the food about listlessly before finally pushing it aside and rising from the table.
Molly kept a close eye on her until eventually Amy joined her at the side of the low fire.
Dropping to her knees, she placed her head into her gran’s lap and Molly gently began to stroke her hair.
‘I saw Toby on his way home tonight,’ Amy mumbled. ‘He was walking with Cathy Hickman, you know the one? She lives in the village; I used to go to Sunday school with her.’
‘Oh aye, I know the one,’ Molly replied. ‘Turnin’ up on Bessie’s doorstep regular as clockwork now, she is. I reckon she’s set her cap at Toby.’
She waited for Amy’s reaction but when none was forthcoming she went on, ‘A nice girl, is Cathy. As I said to Bessie, Toby could do far worse fer himself. But then again I’m amazed he’s escaped the net fer this long. Toby would make a fine catch for any girl and no mistake.’
Amy rose abruptly, confused by the feelings that were flowing through her. She had always imagined that Toby would always be there for her, solid and steadfast like her gran and their little cottage. The thought of life without him was unthinkable. But then as Molly had pointed out, Toby was well past the marrying age.
Heading for her bedroom, she said huffily, ‘I’m off for an early night, Gran. If Toby comes round, tell him I was tired. Night.’ And with that she was gone.
As Molly listened to her stamp away up the stairs, she raised her eyebrows. Could it be that Amy was finally realising what a good husband Toby would make? She could only hope so.