The Stitch That Held

The commission arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in oilcloth that smelled of Manchester rain.

Eleanor Whitmore stood at her dressmaking table in Leeds, her needle hovering over a half-finished bodice, and listened to the silk merchant describe Lady Catherine Finch's wedding gown. He used words like most exquisite, most important, most lucrative. Eleanor heard only the name: Finch. Henry's betrothed.

She did not look up when he finished speaking. She picked up her needle, threaded it with silk the colour of dawn, and continued sewing.

"I will need three months," she said.

He smiled as if she had already agreed, which perhaps she had. Thomas Blackwood always arranged things this way — presenting decisions as if they had already been made, the way a man presents a glass of wine to a guest he intends to keep until midnight.

Author Note & Copyright: