Part One

London, England, 1915

Life had never been so dull. So boring. Always the same thing, nothing ever different. Working as a seamstress for the city's aristocracy had its benefits, free material and some of the finest used dresses you had ever seen, but it also had its downsides. Aching fingers, needle jabs, long hours.

What I need is a rich husband, and a seamstress of my own, Lucy thought. She had a dream where a man with a large salary came into the shop to order a gown for his wealthy, ageing mother, and caught sight of the beautiful Lucy, slaving away. Of course, he immediately whisked her away and made her his wife, and they lived happily ever after in two houses, one in the city and the other in the country, surrounded by acres and acres of land.

Lucy sighed and was jerked out of her daydream when her needle slipped and drew blood. "Damn," she swore, dropping the veil she was working on and putting her finger into her mouth. The other girls in the shop stared at her, and she stared back. She didn't know how they managed, keeping a low profile every day, not opening their mouths, yes sir no sir, whatever you say sir. She frowned and picked up her work, rethreading the needle.

Boring.

"Lucy, can I see you please?" The voice of Lucy's supervisor boomed out of her office.

Lucy put down the veil and entered the office. Her supervisor, Mrs Hawthorne, and the manager of the business, Mr Moor, were sat looking at her with stony faces. She held back a scowl as she greeted them and sat down, silently raving at why she had to call them mister and missus when they could call her by her first name. Just because she worked for them didn't mean she was beneath their station. It didn't give them the right to treat her like dirt.

"Lucy, we've noticed that the standard of your work has been going down recently," Mrs Hawthorne said. "We've had a number of complaints regarding the garments that you have been working on."

Lucy's scowl broke out onto her face. She might hate working in this place, like this, but she loved the work that she did. She loved being able to mend things and make things using just a needle and thread and some material. She always took the utmost care in her work. "But, Mrs Hawthorne, I've been working hard all this past month! All my dresses passed the inspections."

"Not according to the people who you've been working for," Mr Moor said. He stood and paced the room. "We have no room here for people like you who don't take their jobs seriously, Lucy, you know that."

"I do, sir, but…"

Lucy's eyes widened when her supervisor took out a dress that she had been working on just last week. She peered at it, and it was a mess. The handiwork was crooked and was not the piece of any trained seamstress, let alone anything that she would do!

"I didn't do that…"

"You're denying that you worked on this dress?" Mrs Hawthorne's voice was sharp and not impressed. Lucy sat upright in her chair.

"No, I worked on it. I just didn't work on it like that!" she protested. "I would never do anything as…as…unprofessional as that!"

"Well, it was yours, and I must say we have suffered badly because of this. Our clients have been questioning the calibre of our girls, and the company cannot tolerate this sort of effort. We're going to have to let you go Lucy. We'd like you to leave as soon as possible." Mr Moor glared down at her.

"You must be bloody joking!" Lucy exclaimed. The other woman gasped, and Lucy put herself in check. "I'm sorry, but I did not do that! Wait, just sit there! I'll show you!" She ran out into the work area and picked up the veil she had been working on. Disbelief ran through her body, making her shake with anger. Her careful stitching had been undone, replaced by hurried, scruffy stitches. She ripped it apart in her hands and threw it onto the floor.

Hush descended as Lucy raged. "Who did this? You bitches! The lot of you!" A few concealed giggles spread around the room, and one of them stood up, pointing a finger at Lucy. Lucy recognised her as Molly, one of the newer girls.

"You come in 'ere, and you lord it over the lot of us, you snobby cow. We'll be glad to see you go," Molly growled at her.

Lucy's anger boiled over. OK, so her family had once had a lot of money- once. So maybe she had a better accent than they had, maybe she'd known the luxuries of life when she was a girl. But not anymore, not since Lucy's father had gambled it all away then put a gun in his mouth.

"How dare you speak to me like that!" she yelled, and swung for the other girl. Her clenched fist connected with Molly's chin, and she staggered backwards. "Anyone else want a go?" she cried into the crowd. No one volunteered, but she felt a strong hand on her arm. She whirled around to be greeted by Mr Moor.

"I think you should collect your things and leave, right now Lucy," he said through clenched teeth.

"Fine, I will!" Lucy grabbed her bag from under her table, and out of sight of the others, shoved in a dress she'd been working on earlier. Mr Moor tugged on her sleeve and dragged her out of the building, throwing her out onto the streets.

"I don't want to see you back here!"

"I wouldn't come back here for any sum of money, you bastard," Lucy spat. She picked herself up off the ground, brushed down her skirts and turned away, bag swinging in the late afternoon breeze. "The lot of you! Bastards!" she shouted, at no one in particular.