“Well, Miss Tull.” He reclined in his seat with a look of displeasure and gestured impatiently at her things. “Clear all this away, will you, so that we may get on with our business. Such a production you made of it. Did I not say you had nothing to fear?”
Esther began packing away her sewing kit, not meeting his eyes. Would he attempt to search her clothing? He had not gone so far before, but might be moved to it by some new suspicion. She replied with as much evenness as she could manage. “Those were not your words, Mr. Carew, but perhaps that was your meaning.”
He gave her a keen look, but pursued the subject no further. When she had gathered up her things, he went to unlock the door. While his back was turned, she made the last of her preparations. With delicate movements, she adjusted her clothing. It was to ease her discomfort, in part, but that was not her only concern. She had made certain alterations, in places that were hidden from view. She would depend on them, when the time came.
“There now,” said Mr. Carew, as they entered the workroom. “All neat and tidy. Whatever else may be said about us, let no one give it out that we keep a slovenly shop. What do you say, Miss Tull?”
Again, he had made the same observation many times, and always in the same words. This time, at least, he did not wait for her response. The workroom was always cold, and he never stayed longer than he must. With a wheezy sigh, he slouched towards the great iron strongbox that stood in the corner opposite the door. Esther watched his movements carefully, taking note of the pocket to which he returned one key before drawing out another.
“You might oblige me by looking away, Miss Tull.”
Esther turned her back, since it humoured him to have her do so. She knew by now what was kept in the safe. Mr. Carew had fond notions of his own shrewdness. Perhaps his master did, too, since he was entrusted with so much, but in truth he was often inattentive. She had taken those opportunities that came. She had seen enough.
She stood in silence as he brought the pieces of the gown to the workbench, taking care to give no sign of unsteadiness in her posture. She heard him return to the strongbox, his tread ponderous and shuffling. It would take him three trips, or even four. It was not only the dress that was locked away, but the box of cards on which the measurements were marked. Esther did not know how these measurements had been procured, and did not wish to.
She listened carefully when he returned to lock the safe. The hinges were apt to creak, but she had greased them with oil from the Singer sewing machine, applying only a little at a time. There was a dull clang as he shouldered the door closed, but that could be avoided with gentleness. The hinges themselves made no sound at all.
She turned, hearing him approach the bench again.
“There you are now, Miss Tull.” Mr. Carew said this with a small flourish, as if to emphasise some act of benevolence. “You have all you need, I believe.”
Esther waited. Nothing must be rushed. There must be no appearance of urgency.
“Thank you, Mr. Carew.” Her tone was not curt, exactly, but neither was it courteous. She had repeated the words before her looking glass, adjusting the set of her jaw by degrees, until she was sure of the effect they would have. Mr. Carew was accustomed to her deference, and when he found it lacking he favoured only one form of correction.
He approached her, standing so close that his knees pressed faintly against her outer skirts. His breathing had slowed now, but it was laboured still. She felt it against her cheek. He smelled of plum cake, of must and snuff.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, Miss Tull?”
“Yes, Mr. Carew.” She did not soften her voice. Not yet.
“Are you quite sure?” He leaned closer. “Is there something you would like me to put right?”
“Nothing, Mr. Carew.”
He raised his hand, and she felt his fingers curl about her nape. “You know you may come to me, Miss Tull, if you want for anything. I will be glad to see to your needs.”
Esther raised her face to his, and as she did so she made a small show of distress and contrition. This was all that was required. As Mr. Carew studied her with satisfaction, Esther made a movement he did not detect.
“Forgive me, Mr. Carew,” she said. “It is only that I am tired. My sister is unwell, as you know, and I sat with her for much of the night.”
“There now, Miss Tull.” He turned away, his attention already elsewhere. “We have each our cross to bear. I will leave you to your work. The door must be locked, as always, but you need only knock. I will be at my little station outside the door. Now, that reminds me. Where did I put down my newspaper?”
He had left it on the workbench, almost at his elbow, where he could not have failed to notice it. He waited until Esther picked it up and handed it to him, a small act of reparation that completed her penance. He unfolded it as he crossed to the door, peering at the ghoulish illustration that took up the greater part of the front page.
“Heaven help us, Miss Tull. It seems a resident of Southwark was found devoured by his own cats. What has the world come to, that such things can happen not three miles from us?”
He continued tutting and clucking as he let himself out, and when at last he locked the door behind him Esther released a long quiet breath. She allowed herself to slump a little, now that she was no longer observed, and to loosen her clothing where it pressed against the injured place. She had imagined this moment many times, fearing always that her courage would fail at the last. She had prayed, though she knew the wickedness of doing so. The Lord could not be called upon by those who had chosen her course.
Yet the strength had come. It held now even as her posture slackened, like a wire that had been drawn taut at her core. She had saved the drug until the last possible moment, being unused to its effects. She had done the stitching without it, fearing it would leave her insensible, only binding her jaw with a leather strap to keep herself from screaming. The relief, when it came, had made her weep. The opium had done its work, but she had endured the worst without it. Whatever strength she had found had some other source.
When it was done, she had swabbed the stitches with a solution of carbolic acid, then examined her work in the looking glass. The words had appeared backwards, and she was not confident in her letters on the best of days. But she had taken her time over it, meaning to be sure. There was a small satisfaction in that, and in preserving the neatness of her work even at the height of her agony. She had taken a fleeting pride in her efforts, but had seen that in the next moment for the sin that it was. She had turned away from the glass to dress, lest she make herself late.
Esther roused herself. She had much to do still, and the danger had not passed. From a pocket sewn to the inner part of her petticoat—this was the first of the alterations she had made—she drew out a wad of ragged gauze that she had soaked in spirits. Reaching beneath her clothing, she dabbed at the skin around the stitches. She did so without looking, since she could not risk unclothing herself further, and kept one hand clamped to her mouth in case a sound should escape her. She withdrew the swab at intervals to examine it, refolding it and readying a clean patch once a portion was saturated. It was not that she feared for the cleanliness of the wounds—with that, at least, she need not trouble herself—but she was anxious that the stitches might be too much obscured by blood. They must be plainly visible, or nearly so, or her efforts would be wasted. It was a small part of her plan, and might have been done without if she had only one purpose, but it was not only a matter of saving those who could still be saved. She had made a promise and meant to keep it. For a little longer she must conceal her purpose, then the moment would come. She would bear witness, in the end, whatever might become of her soul.