The Sweethearts Collection. Pam Jenoff

      ‘So presumably you have help from one,’ he cut in. ‘And presumably that person is employed here at the works?’ He turned his penetrating gaze upon Colenso but determined not to give anything away, she didn’t reply.

      ‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Well, Miss Carne, you should be aware that as manager, I will make it my business to find out everything about the people employed here. In the meantime, perhaps you’d tell me what you do with these, er, trinkets,’ Fenton asked.

      ‘Sell them to the tourists,’ she murmured.

      ‘Indeed. And do these tourists pay well?’ he asked, sitting back in his chair and eyeing her speculatively.

      ‘Quite well, sir,’ Colenso replied, not sure where this new line of questioning was leading.

      ‘And tell me, Miss Carne, how much of the sale price you receive do you give back to the works?’

      ‘Give back?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Well, it stands to reason that if you sell property belonging to Poltesco then any profit should be given back, should it not?’

      ‘But they are only odd cuttings you would otherwise dispose of,’ she sputtered, her nails biting into her hand as she strove to keep calm.

      ‘Cut offs, cuttings, edges, edgings, what’s in a word?’ he shrugged. Then he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. ‘The fact remains that you have been taking materials that belong to the works here. Works that I am now managing, Miss Carne.’

      ‘But I was given permission to take them,’ she protested, rising to her feet.

      ‘Not by me, you weren’t. As far as I’m concerned, you have taken property that doesn’t belong to you. Worse, you have been profiteering from it. The question is, what am I to do about it?’ he asked. There was something about the way he was studying her, almost as if he was assessing her, that made her feel increasingly uneasy.

      ‘I don’t like the word profiteering, sir,’ she protested, endeavouring to keep her voice steady.

      ‘Nor do I, Miss Carne, and I shall have to give serious thought to the matter. Be on your way. You’ll hear from me further when I have decided what action to take.’

      ‘Action?’ she cried.

      ‘Indeed,’ he agreed, that gleam sparking in his eyes as he once again addressed her chest. Angrily she began to collect up the cuttings and trinkets, only for him to shake his head.

      ‘Leave those here where they belong,’ he added, before waving her away. Remembering the long hours she’d toiled polishing the rock until it gleamed with colour, she opened her mouth to protest, but he’d already turned back to the papers on his desk.

      Feeling sick to the stomach, Colenso left the office, instinctively heading for the workshop. Then fearful that Ferret Fenton might be watching, she veered sharply towards the track. It wouldn’t do to get Kitto into trouble. Besides, it was Monday, the day she helped Emily Tucker with her sewing and she couldn’t let the old lady down. At least the work would be indoors, she thought. Like most women in the village, she was adept at juggling different jobs to earn a few extra pence, only knowing what day of the week it was by where she was meant to be.

      As experienced dressmakers, Emily and Clara had built up a thriving business visiting ladies in their houses and measuring them for their new clothes. Sadly, Clara had recently succumbed to influenza, leaving Emily snowed under with unfinished orders. Knowing Colenso to be a dab hand with the needle, her mamm had offered her services in return for a few shillings and offcuts of material. Offcuts, the word kept sounding in her head as she sped down the lanes of Ruan. How dare that horrid man Fenton accuse her of stealing.

      By the time she let herself into Emily’s stone cottage with its thatched roof badly in need of repair, Colenso was red with rage. The front room that best got the light had been turned into a sewing room, and Emily, silver tendrils escaping her bun, and customary tape around her neck, was already about her work, a roll of crêpe cloth on the stool beside her. She looked up from a swathe of black serge spread out on the table in front of her.

      ‘Ah, there yer are, Colenso. I thought yer weren’t coming,’ she muttered through a mouthful of pins.

      ‘I’m sorry but I had to …’ Colenso began.

      ‘Tell me later, lover. Got a new order, as if I haven’t enough already,’ she moaned good-naturedly. ‘Lady Carwell’s mother died at the weekend and I’ve been commissioned to make her mourning outfits. Her driver is calling for them later today so if yer can sew a veil to the back of that whilst I finish here that would be grand,’ she said, waving her hand towards a fur hat on the dresser that was somehow squeezed into the corner of the room.

      ‘Everyone wants things yesterday,’ Colenso grumbled, still out of sorts after her visit with Fenton.

      ‘Well, the poor woman didn’t ask to die,’ Emily replied with a reproving look.

      ‘No, of course not,’ Colenso murmured and, feeling chastened, settled down to her task. She began stitching, her needle stabbing in and out of the fabric as if she was poking that horrid Ferret in the eyes. She didn’t know what was worse, his creepy staring at her chest or being accused of theft. After a while, her nerves began to settle and she found herself sewing in time to the ticking of the little ormolu clock on the shelf above her.

      ‘Ther’s done,’ Emily said some time later, shaking out the folds of the mourning dress and eyeing it critically. ‘Her Ladyship’s going to wear her black fur over it for the funeral tomorrow. If yer’ve finished that, yer can add some tulle to the neck and wrists,’ she said, passing over the folded garment while casting a critical eye over Colenso’s work. ‘Now, I’ll makes us a hot drink and then yer can tell me why yer were fuming like a chimney when yer arrived.’ Colenso watched as the woman got awkwardly to her feet. Judging by her red-rimmed eyes and stiff back, she’d been up working for hours.

      ‘Would you like me to do it?’ she asked, feeling guilty for bringing her earlier bad mood into the room.

      ‘No, ta, me lover. It’ll do me good to stretch me old bones. Besides I need the privy,’ she added with a girlish grin.

      As Emily shuffled stiffly towards the door, Colenso unfolded the tulle and began pinning it onto the dress. Even plain black serge could look attractive when it was good quality and nicely trimmed, she mused. Her thoughts turned to what she was going to wear for her handfasting ceremony. A deep red would be in keeping and complement her dark looks, or perhaps purple with flowing sleeves. The ties that would bind her and Kitto together could be made in matching material. Perhaps Emily would advise her, though of course she wouldn’t say anything until she’d spoken to her mamm. With any luck her father would spend the evening in the hostelry and they could begin making plans in peace. Although it would be some time before Kitto finished his apprenticeship and his siblings were settled, it was exciting to think that one day she would become his wife.

      ‘Here we are, lover, chamomile tea to soothe your mood, though yer looking brighter now,’ Emily said, eyeing her shrewdly as she set the tray carefully on the shelf. ‘Best put yer sewing down, don’t want Her Ladyship’s dress getting stained. ‘Made us a bit of luncheon while I was at it.’

      ‘Thanks, Emily,’ Colenso said, pushing the dress carefully to one side. ‘I’m famished.’

      ‘Yer always is,’ Emily laughed. ‘Come on, eat up then yer can tell me what’s wrong. Looked like a dog who’d had his bone took earlier, yer did.’

      They ate their bread and cheese in peace, each lost in their own thoughts. From the way Emily kept glancing at the empty chair beside her, Colenso knew she was thinking of her sister. She was sipping her tea when Emily got to her feet again.

      ‘By the way, yer can have these offcuts, if they’re any use,’ she said, passing over some squares of material.

      ‘Oh,’ Colenso muttered, her eyes