Black lace underbust tattoo

The pattern came back from Mrs Carew's on Tuesday with a note pinned to it, and I have not slept properly since. She wants the veil bordered in the old scallops, the arches we always called church windows, and below them the long hanging loops with a little bead of bobbin-work at the foot of each, like drops that have decided not to fall. Her daughter is marrying the curate in March. Seven weeks, and she wants it finished by the Sunday before.

I sat with the pricking board until the lamp smoked. Every pin has to go in exactly where the drawing says or the whole border drifts, and the mesh of the ground is so fine that one crossed pair of bobbins shows like a bruise. Mother used to say a lace-maker counts in her sleep. I did not believe her until this week, when I caught myself counting the loops of the chain at the kitchen sink.

Yesterday I finished the first arch and laid it on the table in the good light. It looked less like a veil edge and more like something that had grown there, a frost on a window that had found its own pattern. The curate's mother came in for her thread and stood over it a long while without speaking, then asked if I could make the drops a shade longer. I said I could. I have not decided yet whether to tell her the drops are already as long as the pattern allows.

Anyway, I will post the veil to you once it is off the pillow, so you can see the scallops before the church does. Keep the kettle on for me.

Love, Edie