The Cedar Cutter (17 page)

Roisin traced her shaking finger over the signature and snapped her mouth closed to contain the yelp of joy trying to escape. Her heart lifted for the first time since she'd waved goodbye to Carrick. Mrs Grace Winchester, wife of the magistrate, had made an appointment to see her.

Mrs Blackmore patted her arm. ‘The opportunity presented itself and I felt it was the least I could do after all your hard work.'

‘I … I … I don't know how to thank you.'

‘No thanks are needed, just make the most of the occasion. That will be ample reward.' Mrs Blackmore picked up her package and gave it a squeeze. ‘You've turned this turkey into a swan. Wish me luck as I sail forth.'

‘You won't need any luck, Mrs Blackmore. You'll look absolutely lovely.'

Two weeks later Roisin bundled Ruan out of the door into the early-morning chill, wrapping a scarf tight around his neck. ‘Now take care. Go straight to school. Don't stop and talk to anyone on the way. I don't have time to take you this morning.'

‘Why not? Is Carrick coming?'

‘No, he's not. I'm expecting a very important client. She wants to talk to me about a new dress.'

‘Mrs Blackmore.'

‘No, not Mrs Blackmore.' She held Ruan's new jacket out behind him so he could find the sleeves, then lifted it across his shoulders. He had grown so much in the past couple of months, she ought to make him a new one. Maybe today would solve all her problems. Roisin would never be able to thank Mrs Blackmore enough. As much as she appreciated the business her advertisements had brought, a call from Mrs Winchester was an enormous step up. ‘Off you go. Be a good boy and come straight home at dinnertime.'

He slammed the front door behind him and she stood at the window watching him race up the street. So much energy and enthusiasm. Such a far cry from the pale, fractious child of Sydney. If nothing else she'd made the right decision for Ruan's future.

Turning to the parlour, she cast her gaze around. Everything was in place, the fire lit and the cushions plumped. The mirror now hung over the trunk and the curtained corner sported a hat stand. Lifting the lid of the trunk, she removed the sheaf of papers. All the drawings and designs she'd worked on. Perhaps one of those would interest Grace Winchester.
Oh!
She lifted her hand to still the pitter-pattering of her heart. Whatever was the matter with her? Just wait and see. Stop trying to second-guess.

She squinted in the mirror and ran her hand over her hair to ensure it was still controlled, then took off her apron and adjusted the collar of her dress. She had to look her best. It was such an important day. Although the wealthy property owners rarely came to town other than to attend church or, in Mr Winchester's situation, the courthouse, there were many on the outlying properties who might use her services if Mrs Winchester deemed her suitable.

On the dot of nine-thirty there was a knock, and with one last glance around the room she opened the door.

‘Good morning, Mrs Winchester. Welcome.'

‘Good morning.' Dressed in an eggshell-blue walking-out costume, fastened with large buttons, over a skirt of cream trimmed with black ribbon at the hem, Mrs Grace Winchester presented a very elegant picture. She marched in as though she owned the place. She might as well have done. Her husband had been magistrate of the town and surrounding areas since the early days of Wollombi. Her success, the success of her business, rested as firmly in this woman's hands as the immaculate cream leather gloves she so carefully removed.

‘Please sit down.' She gestured to the chair by the fire. ‘How may I help you?'

‘Before we get to that I'd like to see some samples of your work. I believe Mrs Blackmore is very impressed with your efforts on her behalf. What can you show me?'

From the trunk, Roisin extracted the nightgown that had so confounded Elsie, and her drawings, and placed them on the table.

Mrs Winchester ignored the nightgown, and instead inspected each page of her drawings, before placing the paper upside down on the table and turning her attention to the next. After an interminable time she looked up, her blue eyes piercing. ‘And these are all your own designs.'

Roisin nodded and a spark flared in the woman's eyes. ‘Do you have any ready-made articles you can show me?'

‘The nightgown.'

‘And what about outer clothing?'

‘Only my own.' Mrs Blackmore had taken her dress two weeks ago and the only remaining makeover was a mass of unpicked panels and dangling sleeves. She reached behind the door and took down her green velvet jacket, the one she'd worn when she'd first arrived in town. It was a little out of the ordinary, based upon a riding jacket with a long basque and peplum.

Mrs Winchester took it and ran her hand down the frogging at the front, over the soft velvet, examining each and every stitch in the lining, even turning it inside out. Beads of sweat gathered on Roisin's upper lip and beneath her arms as her stomach churned the remains of her breakfast.

‘And what about this?' Mrs Winchester reached out and ran her fingers down the sleeve of Roisin's cream voile blouse. It was tucked and embroidered, adorned with tiny pearl buttons and bottle-green ribbon.

‘It's my own work.'

Mrs Winchester turned to the window. ‘I've seen enough.'

Disappointment curdling in her stomach, Roisin moved to the door. If she could have interested Mrs Winchester the other women in the district would have flocked to her. Such dreams, but it was not to be. She closed her eyes for a moment and composed her face while she reached for the door handle.

‘If you have time now I'd like you to take my measurements.'

Roisin's heart stuttered to a halt and she spun around. The first lady of Wollombi stood smiling and nodding her head. ‘Did you think I was unimpressed? On the contrary, I'm thrilled you have decided to bring your business to us. Such a wonderful addition to our small community. The town is on the up and up and we need people with your skills to entice the settlers from Sydney. How else will the town thrive?'

The laugh caught in Roisin's throat and she coughed. ‘It would be my pleasure.' She reached for her tape measure from around her neck, resisting the temptation to crow aloud. ‘If you'd be so kind as to remove your pelisse, the measurements will be more accurate.'

Oh how she wanted to ask what Mrs Winchester would like made. A blouse, a nightgown? Surely not a corset! She hung the eggshell-blue pelisse on the hat stand, then stretched the tape across Mrs Winchester's shoulders and down to her waist, jotting the measurements onto the back of one of her designs.

Mrs Winchester turned her head. ‘I have some broadsheets from Sydney depicting the latest French designs. I'd like you to cast your eye over them and tell me what you think would be suitable and if you would be able to replicate them.'

This was most certainly not a dismissal. The lady had something specific in mind. Roisin gulped back a spark of elation and schooled her voice just as Aunt Lil would have expected. ‘I'm able to source most materials in Sydney. I have some contacts, if you tell me what colours and weights you're interested in.' How she'd pay she'd no idea. Perhaps Aunt Lil would arrange for them to be shipped to Morpeth and then maybe Carrick would be coming through and could collect the packages. Alternatively, she could arrange to collect them herself. Her mind galloped while her fingers toyed with the tape measure. Ruan would love a day out. It had been so long since they had taken a trip anywhere. ‘Mrs Winchester, I'm so grateful for your custom. I won't let you down.'

‘Well that's to be seen. Now, tell me, when is a suitable time to call again?'

‘Whenever suits you.' The middle of the night. Now. Tomorrow. As soon as possible.

‘In that case we will make it next week. At the same time?'

So long to wait. ‘It would be my pleasure.'

Roisin held out the blue woollen pelisse, barely able to suppress the emotion billowing in her chest, as Mrs Winchester slipped her arms into her coat and buttoned it.

‘Until next week, Mrs Ogilvie.'

‘Indeed. Thank you.' Waiting while Mrs Winchester negotiated the narrow alley, she clutched her skirt tightly in her fingers. Then she shut the door with a firm click and rested her back against the timber.

It took a few long moments for her breathing to calm and then she peered out of the window just to make sure she'd truly not been dreaming, before letting out a huge whoop.

‘Ruan!'
Oh!
He was at school.
Elsie!
She'd go and tell Elsie. She had to tell someone. She bolted down the alley, around the corner and skittered to a halt.

Elsie stood waiting in the front of the General Store. ‘Well, what happened?' She grabbed Roisin's arm and dragged her inside, then patted the stool next to the malodorous basket of onions.

‘She's coming back.'

‘Coming back? What for? Didn't she like what she saw?'

‘She's coming back because she
did
like what she saw. She's bringing some pictures, fashion papers. She wants to know if I can copy them.'

‘Copy them? Why would she want that? Isn't your own work good enough?'

Roisin laughed. Elsie had become such a staunch supporter; however, she didn't understand the fickle nature of ladies and their needs. ‘Elsie, everything is wonderful. That's exactly what I wanted her to do.' She rubbed at her temples before pulling the pins from her hair and letting her long, loose curls tumble down. ‘The only headache I'm going to have is sourcing the materials. I can write to my aunt and she'll buy them and send them to Morpeth, but the problem is—how am I going to get them from there?'

‘If that's your only problem then that's easy fixed. My Alfie goes to Morpeth twice a week to collect the mail and stores for the shop. You know he does, he brought your letter, remember? We'll tie it in.'

‘I could ask Carrick next time he's in town.'

‘No need for you to be doing that. My Alfie can do it.' Elsie huffed and pursed her lips. ‘And he's a darn sight more reliable and quicker. You wouldn't want to be trusting anything to those damn cutters and their filthy bullock dray.'

‘He helped me with my trunks and that didn't cause a problem.'

‘That was before. You're in business now and you've got patronage. A reputation to keep up. You can't be seen with the likes of cedar cutters.' She waggled a grubby onion-flavoured finger under Roisin's nose. ‘Now Mrs Winchester's called, you're going to have all the high and mighties flooding in. They won't want to be left out. You mark my words.'

With a jingle of the shop bell and a flurry of cold air, the door flew open. Elsie jumped to her feet, guilt written all over her face, then subsided onto the stool when Maisie closed the door behind her.

‘It's all right. The lady and her carriage has left town. Now, tell me what happened. Mr Winchester was down at the courthouse and I overheard Mrs W telling him about her wonderful find and how lucky Wollombi was. You're putting us on the map, Roisin. Make them toffee-nosed la-di-dah Sydney folks stand up and take notice. Why, Mrs Winchester even took a cup of tea at the inn. I had to dust off me best china. Good job those ne'er-do-well cutters weren't in town lowering the tone.' She gasped a breath and collapsed onto a stool. ‘So tell me all about it.'

‘There's not a lot to tell that you don't already know.' A giggle slipped from Roisin's lips. It was simply too good to be true. ‘Mrs Winchester's coming back next week with some pictures. She wants to know if I can copy them and make suggestions for colours and styles I think will suit her.' She clasped her hands to her chest, her heart almost ready to explode.