That evening, the street outside was eerily dark. There was no gas to be had to light the streetlamps and they surmised the river must have damaged the pipes. Dorothy tried to distract Lillian from her grief by handing her a needle threaded with lemon-coloured cotton and a square of linen. Her hand shook as she made the first stitch. What was the point of such a meaningless activity when her world had turned so grey?
‘Keep going,’ Dorothy coaxed, until Lillian’s fingers began to fly into a steady rhythm. Before long, with the rescued baby in mind, she had fashioned a tiny pair of baby booties in one corner.
‘That’s sweet. Next time pull your stitch a little tighter,’ said Dorothy. ‘It’ll come along soon enough. We’ll have you adding embroidery to the gowns in no time.’
Florence joined t
