by Liz Trenow
She snorted. ‘And you think he would be safer in the middle of that stinking, disease-ridden city? We don’t even know yet what Mr Chapman is suffering from, but if we discover the worst I will absolutely ensure that Peter stays away from company, from school and church and out of danger until the crisis is over.’
I ignored the insults about my city. ‘But I love him so much, Louisa.’
Now she turned fully towards me, a saucepan lid in one hand and an empty pot in another. Pink spots of anger stained her cheeks. ‘And you think we do not love him? That’s the trouble with you, Agnes. You seem to assume that you have the prerogative of love for the boy, that no one else could possibly feel for him as much as you do.’
I should have backed off but instead found myself saying those forbidden words. ‘I am his mother, after all.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ The lid flew across the kitchen, narrowly missing my head and landing with a clatter in the corner by the stove, where the cat was sleeping. The animal yowled and disappeared in a blur of fur. ‘You have not nursed him, rocked him to sleep, fed and cared for him all day and every night, for ten years. I have.’ With each phrase Louisa hammered the pot on the table, like knocking nails into my heart.
She drew breath, waving the pot in my direction and I ducked instinctively as she dashed it to the floor. ‘You would do well to remember our agreement, Agnes.’ She stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The unspoken words ‘Or else . . .’ hung in the air. Or else what? Or else she would refuse to let me see him?
There was no time for wondering, for I heard a voice at the back porch and just had time to wipe my eyes before the door opened and Peter entered.
His cheeks were rosy from the fresh air, his face lit with the sweetest smile. ‘Guess what, Auntie Aggie? Gabriel is back. They were only away for Christmas. He’s coming tomorrow to play chess, so you can meet him.’
How I wished to stay, to be with him, to witness for myself the happiness he clearly felt at the return of his friend, to watch the boys at their game, their minds developing and learning as they worked out the complexities of their moves.
‘Alas, I must take the coach tomorrow back to London.’
His features clouded. ‘I don’t want you to go, not yet. Stay a bit longer. Stay for my birthday.’ I buried my face in his hair and wished that this moment could last forever.
The kettle began to whistle and Louisa came back into the room. ‘We’d better get on with luncheon or we won’t have time to walk before it gets dark,’ she said, briskly.
The journey the following day provided ample time for musing upon our spat. It was uncharacteristic for my sister to be so tetchy with me, and my heart quailed as I recalled the noises I’d heard in the night. Why hadn’t I kept my silly mouth shut? By raising the topic of the silk what should have been a joyful family celebration had turned into a horrible coldness between us, and caused an ill-tempered argument between Louisa and Ambrose.
She and I are so alike, but there has always been an undercurrent in my relationship with my sister, something that I cannot define. Anna and I have differences of opinion like most friends, but neither of us seems to take it personally and any irritation disappears in an instant. But Louisa and I seem to be touchy with each other quite often, unable fully to explain our feelings in a calm, measured manner. Perhaps that is what it is like, being sisters, especially for sisters who had such difficult beginnings, who never knew each other as children?
Her memories were of being an unwanted, unpaid servant in a family that considered her a burden, just another mouth to feed. Mine were of the Foundling Hospital where, well-meaning as they might be, the staff considered us empty vessels to be instructed, little souls to be saved. There was never anyone to make me feel special. So while I have never doubted the love that Louisa and I feel for each other, and the fact that both of us adore Peter, this business of being a family is something we are still, even now, learning to master.
There was little more to be done. On reaching home I forced myself to focus on the week’s work ahead, putting my sister’s words to the back of my mind and trying not to worry about the typhus. The days after Christmas are often like this, I told myself: disappointment that the festivities are passed, saying goodbye to our families, facing a long January with all its gloomy weather. I would write to thank her for their hospitality, and she would return my letters with news of their lives.
It was the day after Boxing Day, and tomorrow the seamstresses would return, ready for work. There would be customers to see, suppliers to contact. I was pleased to be back, ready to get on with normal life.
Throwing off my cloak and shoes, I began to wander through the rooms, as though reacquainting myself with the place I know so well. It is always a source of delight to be reminded that this is my very own shop, my own business. I have my own loyal customers and make enough profit to pay the wages of three seamstresses as well as supporting myself. I live modestly, but want for little.
Louisa wrote the following day to tell me that the old man had died that very evening. The typhus was never confirmed because the doctor failed to return to his patient.
Ambrose, whose faith renders him more selfless than a saint, continued visiting to the last but happily has shown no ill effects whatsoever, thus far. So fear not, dear Agnes, all is well here in Westford Abbots. Even though the weather is harsh Peter is bursting with energy. School begins again shortly and his arithmetic is improving by the day. He sends his love, as do all of us. We hope business is going well?
Thus reassured, I turned my attention to the shop. For the truth was that business was not going well. Not well at all.
12
Muffs: worn for keeping hands warm. May be cylindrical, or boxy, compact or (increasingly fashionable) long and draped, made of padded, embroidered silk decorated with lace, or (for more practical use) made of fur such as coney, lined with silk.
In some ways a lull in trade just after Christmas is to be expected. After the hectic period of preparation for the festivities, the months of January and February are usually quieter, and this can be a blessing, for the hours of daylight are short and thus, usually, the working hours of my seamstresses.
In previous years we seemed to manage: sometimes the cold weather brings in orders by the dozen for new cloaks, muffs and gloves as well as old winter garments for repair, all required, of course, for ‘tomorrow’. I might then, as dusk drew in, have found myself pleading with the seamstresses to continue their work, even though they disliked sewing by candlelight and I was fully aware that any profits would be sadly diminished by the additional costs of candles and overtime wages.
But this year the orders seemed to dwindle and then, for whole weeks at a time, cease altogether. I longed to hear the tinkle of our front door bell heralding the arrival of a new customer with orders for new gowns, petticoats, cloaks or muffs, but it remained painfully silent. The seamstresses worked more slowly to eke out our existing orders, but it was only so long before I would have to restrict their hours – something I hated to do, for I knew that none of them had menfolk at home bringing in the wages. They and their children were utterly dependent upon the money they earned from me. If I could not pay, they would starve.
Ever since the very first days I have never taken our continuing trade for granted. Thankfully I pay a peppercorn rent thanks to the generosity of a man to whom my brother-in-law once provided succour at a difficult time in his life. Draper’s Lane, nestled between the wealthy City of London and the concentration of silk weavers in Spitalfields and Bethnal Green, is perfectly situated for a costumière needing to attract ladies of the best pedigree.
That evening I wandered about my premises, racking my brain for ways of generating more trade. It would break my heart to give it all up, after working so hard to make a viable business. This place is my little empire, created by my own hand, and my home besides. It is all I have ever wanted. On the ground floor is the showroom, the shopf
ront, with its shelves of beautiful silks and displays of hats, sashes, muffs, shoes and other accessories. A couple of mannequins wearing the latest designs for men and women stand in the bow window.
At the rear is the fitting room, which doubles as a parlour. Over the years I have gathered items of second-hand furniture to furnish it with what I like to think of as modest elegance: an old but serviceable Persian carpet, a few inoffensive prints to relieve the eye, a small table for serving tea and four blue velvet-upholstered chairs set either side of the fireplace. This is where I bring customers for more detailed discussions of their needs and then, for measurements or fittings, I can draw the white calico curtains across the far side of the room to preserve their modesty.
Up the narrow staircase are two further rooms decorated simply in white with cream-painted floors, which I insist must be always swept perfectly clean. One, lined with shelves of fabric, rolls of squared and tracing paper, shears, chalks, pencils and rulers, has just two wide counters on either side. This is the cutting room.
The other is the sewing room, the true heart of the business. At its wide windows, south-west-facing to catch the longest hours of daylight, are set chairs for the seamstresses and small tables holding baskets of necessities personalised according to the task in hand: scissors, needle books, pincushions, thimbles and threads of the required colours. All around the walls are shelves and drawers containing yarns in cotton, linen, wool and silk of every imaginable colour, beads and buttons of every size and design, embroidery silks, hooks, thimbles, clamps, reels of lace and ribbons.
Sometimes of an evening after the seamstresses have left I like to spend time in this room. Hung on wooden pegs are part-constructed garments of every kind, gowns, sleeves, petticoats, bonnets, waistcoats and breeches. It is tempting to examine the progress of the day’s work and the quality of the workmanship, but I try to resist: this is the responsibility of my chief seamstress, Mrs Taylor. A widow in her middle years with a name that surely made certain of her career, she has worked with me from the beginning and I rely on her entirely.
Sometimes, when the day’s work is done, I will sit quietly for a few moments at one of the chairs, breathing in the musky aroma of silk, the lavender oil that Mrs T. applies to ease the pain in her finger joints and, especially in hot weather, the lingering smell of perspiration. I imagine echoes of the day’s companionable industry resonating around the walls, the seamstresses’ cheerful banter, their laughter and shared secrets, their exclamations of frustration or triumph.
I treat them well, counting myself fortunate to have such reliable workers, for I depend on them entirely. Whatever else is happening, while I deal with awkward or demanding customers or attempt to keep my patience with the excuses of weavers for whatever it is that has caused the tardiness of their delivery, work in this room must continue, for it is the fulcrum around which all else revolves.
But usually, when six o’clock comes, I turn the notice on the front door to ‘Closed’ and retire to my two private rooms high in the attic. Only here can I take off my mob cap, loosen my stays and relax.
Did I say ‘relax’? The truth is that running one’s own business allows for precious little relaxation. There is always a mountain of paperwork: chasing up unpaid bills, issuing new invoices, stock-taking, ordering, ensuring that there is enough cash to pay the wages. One room is my chamber, the other a private sitting room that doubles as a work space. At one end is a large table beneath the eaves, which is my designing space, where I do my drawing. This is the most special place of all, the place where I can exercise my imagination.
Pinned above the table on the sloping rafters are my designs for gowns, sleeves, petticoats, waistcoats, bonnets, cloaks, hats, gloves and even shoes. Fashion changes so rapidly these days – from simplicity to extreme elaboration within a few years. Should it be sackback or simple, buttoned or hooked, lace or ruffles, hoops or pads, wide skirts or trains? The trick is in knowing which way it will swing next year.
My friend the printer and stationer over the road shows me the plates produced for the frontispieces of ladies’ pocket books, illustrating what purport to be the latest dress trends. ‘We could put these all together in a magazine entirely dedicated to fashion, Miss C.,’ he tells me. ‘With all your lovely designs and drawings. I would set and print it. It’d sell like hot cakes. We’d make our fortunes.’
Since the early days of my apprenticeship with Ann Hogarth I have, for my own instruction, kept a notebook containing a glossary of styles to accompany the folder in which I keep all my sketches. Of late I have considered that it might one day be useful as a booklet for the instruction of apprentice seamstresses.
But what my friend does not seem to appreciate is that fashions change so quickly that any such publication would fall out of date within just a few months. Besides, I am not entirely convinced that my customers would appreciate being thus directed. While all ladies quite naturally aspire to be à la mode, what they dread above all else is meeting someone wearing precisely the same dress. It is this concern upon which all bespoke fashion businesses depend. Customers describe in the minutest of detail the gown, petticoats, sleeves or capes they have seen in Bath or wherever, and then ask me to design subtle amendments to render the garments uniquely their own.
‘At the Inns of Court ball Mrs So-and-so was wearing those square-shaped hoops, my dear, but frankly they gave her the look of a box. Shall we go for something a little more au naturel?’ I amend my drawing to show a gentler curve to the line of the skirt.
‘Comme ça?’ I will ask. (Speaking French when talking about fashion lends a certain air of mystique. When Ann Hogarth changed her shop sign from ‘milliner’ to ‘costumière’ the customers flooded in.)
They nod enthusiastically, and before long we will have gained another profitable commission.
But now business had never been so slow, and something had to be done. Next day I went over the road to ask my friend if he would print some advertising flyers at cost price. I have done him many favours in the past, keeping an eye on his shop when he needed to pop out, or taking in parcels when he is away. I enjoy his company very much and over a cup of tea we had a most interesting discussion about the best ways of pulling in business.
He suggested offering discounts for new customers; I felt that offering our services more cheaply might look too desperate and perhaps diminish our reputation for top-quality work, and annoy our existing clients.
‘Well, why don’t you make it for all customers, but only for a limited period, say two months?’ In the end I came round to his thinking, and we composed the wording:
HURRY NOW WHILE SPECIAL
NEW YEAR OFFER LASTS!
Miss Charlotte, high-class costumière
of quality gowns, petticoats, capes,
muffs & gentlemen’s wear
offers 10% discount on all orders on production of this Flyer
at 38 Draper’s Lane, East London
OFFER ENDS 28th FEBRUARY
He set the heavy metal lettering onto a form and clamped it shut, spreading the ink using a soft leather pad tied to the end of a stick and covering it with a sheet of turquoise paper – ‘you want it to be eye-catching, or you’ll be wasting your money’ – before passing it through a roller. The result was better than I’d imagined. Two hundred blue flyers were delivered the following day.
I took them upstairs to show Mrs T., Elsie and Sarah. ‘You will all be aware how slow orders have been?’ They nodded, glancing nervously between themselves. ‘But I want to avoid putting you on short time if at all possible, so for the rest of this week and next you will work in the shop every morning – if we have no orders we will sew muffs and gloves to sell as ready-made. In the afternoons, if you are agreed, I will pay you to deliver these leaflets anywhere they will reach the eyes of new customers.’
‘This is very forward-thinking, Miss C.,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘We’ve been asking among ourselves why trade is so slow.’
‘I ca
n only assume that there is more competition from shops offering goods more cheaply than we would wish to,’ I said. ‘But perhaps this will attract more people to sample the quality of our services and our design. Are you all agreed?’
They murmured assent. Of course no one wants to leave a warm sewing room in late January to tread the streets, but they could see there was no alternative. That afternoon I went to our leather supplier and requested four square yards of soft glove leather on credit, and three square yards of coney fur for muffs. Their linings would be made of scraps we had left over from previous orders. This way, I hoped we could muddle through until the warmer weather arrived.
That Sunday, Anna called in to tell me that her father’s visit from Suffolk had been postponed because he and her sister were both suffering from heavy colds. She was disappointed but sanguine. ‘It is best they do not travel until they are both returned to full health.’
‘You look a little pale yourself,’ I remarked. ‘Are you quite well, dear friend?’
‘Do you have a few moments?’ she whispered. ‘I have something to tell you.’
We climbed the stairs to my attic room, where I had made a fire. For some reason I feared bad tidings, but my friend was smiling.
‘So what is it you have to tell me?’
‘Jean is to have a new brother or sister.’
‘Oh my dear, this really is the best news.’ We embraced, and wept a few tears of happiness together. Some time ago she had confided that after the difficult birth of her first-born she feared that she might not be able to bear another child. As the months passed, it began to seem as though her anxieties may have been justified.
‘When?’
‘Early July, we think.’
I made a quick calculation. ‘So it is already well established?’
‘We pray so,’ she said.
