Nora's mother laid the mended coat aside. "You have kept the truth together with pins and thread for months," she said. "Do not let anyone persuade you it is less valuable because it came from your hands." From an old trunk she drew a length of faded blue muslin, once part of her own wedding dress, and spread it across the table. There was scarcely enough fabric for a simple gown, and it had been folded so long that the creases resembled pale lines on water. "If they insist on judging you by what you wear," she added, "we shall give them something to look at."
For three evenings they worked beside the fire. Nora cut a plain empire-waisted gown and her mother stitched the bodice, leaving enough room for Nora to breathe freely and move her shoulders. They used no jewels and no expensive trimming. Instead, Nora embroidered a small branch of hawthorn around the hem, each blossom worked in ivory thread. It was the design taught to the youngest pupils at Bellwick, who called it the winter flower because it reminded them that bare branches would not remain bare forever. Her mother fastened the final seam and smiled. "There. It has cost us very little, and it belongs to you."
The morning of the assembly, Nora walked to the school with her evidence wrapped in brown paper. In the yard, little Bess Turner stood under the eaves, her hands red from the cold. Bess was thirteen and had sewn sixty pairs of cuffs for a Brighton workroom, yet had been told she owed the workroom money for thread. Her younger sister had stopped attending lessons to help their mother take in washing. Bess watched Nora secure the parcel with string and asked the question Nora had been avoiding all week. "Will the great people listen?"
"Some may not," Nora answered. "But I am going to make it difficult for them to say they never knew." Bess reached into her pocket and produced a tiny square of embroidered linen. The letters N.F. were crooked but carefully formed. "So you'll remember who sent you," she said. Nora tucked it into her reticule, alongside the copies of the work tickets. She could have endured a room full of laughter for her own sake. Bess's quiet trust made the prospect both harder and more necessary.
Westridge House stood on a rise above the valley, with tall windows glowing against a sky the color of pewter. Carriages rolled along the gravel drive, and footmen opened doors for women dressed in pearls and ribbons. Nora arrived in a hired gig whose wheels had