by Liz Trenow
Lady S. was once a client of Ann Hogarth, and had transferred her custom to me when Ann’s shop closed. She was wealthy as Croesus and terribly well connected, bringing the custom of several equally well-heeled friends. In no small part had their patronage and valuable orders helped to boost and sustain our turnover in the early years. But she was, to put it mildly, a little difficult to please.
‘I demand a refund,’ she bellowed, so loudly I feared all my neighbours would hear.
‘Do come into the fitting room, Madam,’ I said, closing the door behind her as quickly as possible, and trying to keep my tone calm and low. ‘So you can explain what the problem is. Can I bring you a cup of my best Pekoe?’
‘I don’t want tea,’ she said. ‘I just want my money back on this shoddy piece of work. I wore it only the once and it simply fell apart. I was so embarrassed that I’ve half a mind to sue you for loss of reputation as well.’
‘I am so sorry to hear this,’ I murmured in as obsequious a tone as I could muster. ‘Please come through into the parlour and show me what it is that has displeased you.’
‘I am not displeased. I am furious.’ She tore open the parcel and threw the gown – a corsage en fourreau involving much work and many yards of expensive silk satin – onto the floor like a bundle of rags. As lifted it up, I spied a two-inch rip in the bodice, beneath the sleeve. Unlike many gown-makers, we always insist on sewing double seams along the bodice but, despite our care, these rips can happen from time to time, especially if the wearer gains a little weight. The dress had been completed some months previously, and Lady S. certainly looked puffier around the jowls than I remembered.
‘Oh dear, I am most dreadfully sorry,’ I said. ‘This certainly should not have happened, as all the seams are double-stitched’ – I tried to show it to her, but she turned her face away – ‘but as it is just along the seam, it can be easily remedied. We will reinforce it with an extra strip of calico to ensure that such a thing does not happen again.’ She glared at me as I ploughed on. ‘Of course there will be no charge at all. Perhaps you might consider trying on the gown once more to reassure us that the fit is still correct . . .?’
The words were barely out of my mouth when she began to shout once more. ‘No charge? No charge? Did you not hear me first time, madam? Of course there will be no charge. I want my money back.’
I was not prepared to relent so easily, for the silk alone had cost a small fortune – thirty pounds or more – not to mention the lacework and beading and the many hours of work my seamstresses had devoted to it. The total invoice had approached sixty guineas, if I remembered it correctly. To refund it would gobble up my profits for a couple of months, which we could ill afford right now.
‘Madam, it is a beautiful dress and flatters you so. It would be a shame to give up on it now.’
‘No, I will not take it back,’ she pronounced firmly. ‘The very sight of it distresses me. Since I am determined never to enter this shop again, I shall send my secretary for a refund early next week, Monday or Tuesday. If you refuse me, I will ensure that the reputation of Miss Charlotte, costumière’ – she spat out the word with disdain – ‘is as so much dirt among my circle. And that would see you finished, if I am not mistaken?’
She was right. If her circle of friends were to withdraw their custom we would struggle to survive. She left me with little choice. Much as I disliked the woman, I could not risk losing even more custom.
It upset me, I’ll grant that. Although I have learned over the years not to allow the complaints of dissatisfied customers to get under my skin, sometimes it is impossible to remain sanguine. That sort of cash was not easy to lay hands on, but I would have to find it from somewhere.
Next morning I invited Mrs Taylor to join me for tea in the parlour.
Although we carried a great deal of mutual respect, she and I, we did not normally socialise, and I believe she liked it this way. Taking my cue from Ann Hogarth, I try to be friendly towards all of my staff but never let that stray into friendship, in case there should arise a circumstance in which one must be stern.
‘Let me guess. It’s that dreaded Lady S., if I’m not mistaken,’ she said. ‘I saw that gown in the parlour, the satin number that took hours of work. What was it this time?’
‘She called in yesterday when the shop was closed, of course, barged in and threw the gown on the floor in a temper. The bodice has a split, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh Miss Charlotte, I am most dreadfully sorry. Was it not double-seamed? Sarah can be a little slapdash at times.’
‘I could find no fault with the needlework, Mrs T.,’ I said. ‘I think the rip was the consequence of too much strain – she has certainly gained some weight since taking delivery of the gown. However, that is not relevant now. The problem is that she will not accept a mend. She’s asked for her money back, and if not she’ll tell her friends to blacklist us.’
‘She’s the very devil, that one,’ Mrs T. observed, unhelpfully.
‘The problem is that I need to raise sixty pounds by next week, but I’ve been raiding our savings over the past few weeks trying to keep everyone at work. Have you got any suggestions?’
‘It’s certainly a tidy sum.’ She frowned, biting the tip of a finger. ‘But now I think of it, I can recall a similar kind of crisis befell us at Ann Hogarth’s. She visited all her creditors in person and explained her predicament, and most of them paid up at once. Then she went to all the merchants from whom she’d bought silks and other fabrics over the years – the larger suppliers, you understand – and asked for credit against future orders. Some of them went for it, as I recall. She had an excellent reputation, of course.’ She peered at me over her teacup. ‘But then people talk well of you too, Miss Charlotte, even though you’re a relative newcomer.’
Newcomer? I’d been trading for ten years. Even so, her backwards compliment cheered me, and the no-nonsense advice gave me heart. I spent the rest of the morning checking the books and listing all our major creditors, and then set out to visit each one, in person.
When I’d first met Ann Hogarth at her shop, she’d invited us into her private rooms and I’d asked her what she most enjoyed about the work. Although she loved to work in silk, she told me, creating fashionable ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s waistcoats, the ‘bread and butter’ income came from more mundane garments: workwear such as men’s trousers and jackets and uniforms in worsteds, cambrics and linens. ‘Fashion is so fickle. Gown styles go in and out of favour among the society set but workwear is constant, so long as you deliver good quality at a good price, and on time.’
How did she manage in business as a single woman, I wanted to know? How did she gain respect from suppliers, merchants and the rest, most of whom are men? Her reply has stayed with me, all these years.
‘I never take no for an answer,’ she said, smiling demurely. ‘I’m always charming, of course, but clear and persistent about what I want. And if it is not forthcoming I simply remind them that I can take my business elsewhere. Feminine wiles may ease the path but I never overuse them, for men are vain creatures and apt to make foolish assumptions.’
Now, as I knocked at the office door of a workwear supplier who still owed us after six months for an order of fifty aprons that we had rushed through on account of the great urgency he’d insisted upon, Ann’s words resounded in my ears. His debt of eight pounds was the largest owing to us, but despite several reminders he had failed to pay up. This time I would not take no for an answer.
I recalled Mr Da Silva as an imposing character, a tall burly man of swarthy complexion with a heavy untrimmed beard, and was not looking forward to this meeting. But as he answered the door he seemed quite diminished, shorter than I recalled, thinner and rather washed out. Perhaps he had taken unwell, I thought, pasting on my sweetest smile. But I would not let pity deter me.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Da Silva. I hope I find you well?’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said curtly. ‘I can’t see yo
u today. Too busy.’ He made to close the door but I pushed my foot forward to prevent it. Be clear and persistent about what you want.
‘Sir, you know full well that you owe me the sum of eight pounds, and despite our reminders this has not been forthcoming for six months.’
‘Yes, yes. I’ll get it to you next week,’ he said, looking at the floor. We were so close that I could smell the foulness of his breath, but still I did not remove my foot.
‘Mr Da Silva, I am afraid that I must insist. At your insistence we delivered that order with the greatest of rapidity but you have not seen fit to reward our good service with a timely payment. Now I cannot wait any longer, which is why I have undertaken to visit you in person today, and will not leave without the money that is due to me.’
He sighed and let go of the door, turning into the room behind. I followed him into a dimly lit storehouse with boxes piled high on every wall and, at its centre, a high clerk’s desk. He hauled himself with some difficulty onto the bench, pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the desk and lifted the lid. Standing as close as I could bear given the stench of the man, I could see that the interior was filled with bags of coins and tied bundles of paper money.
He took out a sheaf and peeled off eight grubby, tattered bank notes. For a few uncomfortable moments he held the notes close to his chest, looking me up and down. We were alone in this gloomy room, the door having swung shut behind me, and I found myself suddenly afraid. But then, to my relief, he held the notes out towards me and I took them from him.
‘Satisfied now, madam?’ he grunted.
‘I thank you, sir, and I wish you good day,’ I said, turning to retrace my steps towards the door. I felt him following close behind and hastened my step, but he caught me by the arm. He leaned his face close, whispering his foul breath onto my cheek.
‘There’s more where that came from, Missy. One good turn deserves another, if you get my meaning?’
‘How dare you, sir,’ I shouted, ripping my arm away and running for the door. Happily it opened easily and I dashed out into the street, breathing the sweet fresh air as I stuffed the notes into my bodice for safety. It was only after I got back to the shop and sat down that I found myself trembling. Men are vain creatures and apt to make foolish assumptions. I had learned the veracity of Ann’s advice the hard way.
Thereafter, I asked Mrs T. to accompany me on my rounds of creditors. It took up valuable work time, of course, but it was reassuring to have her with me, and we soon collected nearly thirty pounds, halfway to our goal.
There were three major suppliers with whom we had built up a relationship over the years, merchants whom I trusted to source and deliver good-quality fabrics, in good time. Poring over the books, I totted up the total value of the supplies we had purchased from them over the past ten years: they amounted to many hundreds of pounds. Then I worked out the value, as an average for each year of trading, and calculated that if I asked each of them to advance credit against potential orders for the coming quarter-year, and if each of them agreed, we would have almost reached our target for the reimbursement of Lady S.
I set out once more on my rounds, alone this time. I was confident of the good character of each of these men, and each time I was rewarded with a warm welcome. On presentation of my figures each one of them readily agreed to my request, and the sum was soon raised. On Tuesday Lady S.’s secretary arrived and appeared surprised to be handed an envelope containing the cash that she had demanded.
‘I shall make sure that my lady understands that you have paid up promptly and in full,’ he said, bowing deeply. I felt sorry for the man, having to work for such a harridan, and was glad to see the back of him. That night I poured myself a glass of port to wash away the bitter taste of the whole affair. I doubted Lady S. would come near the shop again – and perhaps that was a relief – but I felt proud of myself for averting disaster, and felt reasonably confident that she would not spread disagreeable rumours to her friends.
No letter arrived from Mr Boyson, and I began to believe that it had just been an empty threat, prompted by Ambrose. And there was further good news too, in the form of a brief note from my sister.
Dearest Agnes,
Do not fear. We are all still well, and there have been no further cases of the typhus in the village, thank the Lord. But Ambrose feels it is wise to wait a few more weeks before allowing us to travel once more, or to receive visitors. Perhaps all will be clear for me to visit once Easter is passed?
Best of all, there was a note from Peter folded into the letter:
Dearest Auntie,
I am so bored, not being allowed to go to school or see my friends. Come soon and cheer me up.
Your loving Peter
There was no mention of Ambrose’s missive; perhaps he had never told her of it. But at last I could breathe more easily.
16
Brocade: a silk fabric with a pattern of raised figures, creating the effect of embroidery by the introduction of many-coloured weft yarns, sometimes metallic.
Amid all my concerns the pagoda silk had lain forgotten, but Anna arrived with news that Monsieur Lavalle had persuaded the auctioneer – an old acquaintance – to divulge the identity and address of the merchant who had put his silks up for auction.
‘He might remember who commissioned that Chinoiserie brocade,’ she said.
‘It probably won’t solve the mystery of how my mother got hold of it, but let’s go and ask him anyway,’ I said. ‘Nothing ventured, and all that.’
Thus it was on a bright spring day she and I set out for Spital Square. This is the smarter part of Spitalfields, where the wealthier silk masters live and, by coincidence, is where Anna had stayed with her uncle and aunt on her arrival in London.
‘It holds many memories, not all of them good,’ she said. ‘I was very lonely when I first arrived, and then things went terribly wrong for my poor uncle, thanks to that idiot William.’ Joseph Sadler had been ostracised by the Mercer’s Company because his son, Anna’s cousin, had been illegally selling French silks to cover his gambling debts. But happily his problems were now resolved, and their business fortunes revived sufficiently to achieve his wife’s dream of a new house in Ludgate Hill, alongside other prosperous mercers.
‘But there are happier recollections, surely,’ I said. ‘It’s where we first met, after all, when I came to discuss your new gowns.’
‘I was in such a daze, those first few days,’ she mused. ‘You terrified me, because you seemed so confident, you knew so much.’
‘Me, terrifying? I find that hard to credit.’
‘Once I got to know you and began to admire you, I hoped you might become a friend.’
‘And what good fortune we found in meeting each other,’ I said.
As we entered the square she pointed to a low wall under the shade of a large tree. ‘Just over there is where I first learned Henri’s name. He was sitting there with Guy . . .’
‘Poor Guy.’ That winter, Henri’s friend had become caught up with the Bold Defiance in a raid on the house of a silk master suspected of paying below the Book of Prices rates. Along with two others, he’d been arrested, tried and hanged.
‘It broke Henri’s heart, what happened to him. He didn’t stand a chance, poor boy, after falling in with that crowd.’
‘But what were they doing here?’
‘Just loitering about, so I thought at the time, although later he admitted he’d been making a delivery in the area and delayed his return, hoping to catch a glimpse of me. There was something special about him, even then.’
‘And so it proved, dearest Anna. You discovered the love of your life, just sitting on that wall. Someone should put up a plaque.’
Our conversation had left me light of heart but now, as Anna pulled out a scrap of paper to check the address, my sense of foreboding returned. The merchant’s house was an imposing four-storey building in red brick with a grand white stone portico.
‘How can he still
afford to live here if he’s bankrupt?’ I whispered as we waited for a response to our knock.
‘From the results of the sale, I suppose. No doubt we’ll find out,’ she said.
A tiny old lady answered the door, her back so stooped that she had to twist her neck to look up into our faces. ‘Oui?’ she croaked.
‘My name is Anna Vendome, and this is my friend Charlotte Amesbury. I understand that Monsieur Girardieu lives here?’
‘Peut-être. He might.’ Mistrust etched the lines on her face. ‘What you want with him?’
‘We have a simple question about a piece of silk,’ Anna said. ‘That is all. It should not take more than a few moments of his time.’
‘I ask,’ the old lady said, and closed the door in our faces. We glanced at each other, wondering whether she would ever return. It took a while, but she did come back, and to our slight surprise we were invited in through a dark hallway and into the front room of what must have been the merchant’s business quarters.
‘Take a seat, mesdames,’ she said. ‘Monsieur Girardieu will join you shortly.’
Although it was nearly midday the shutters were still closed and we struggled, in the gloom, to find our way across the room. As our eyes adjusted, it became plain that there was in fact nowhere to sit because every chair and table was entirely covered with piles of books, files and paperwork.
Eventually we heard noises in the hallway, the door opened and a tall man entered. ‘Why have you left our visitors in the dark?’ he barked. ‘Open the shutters, if you please.’ The hinges squealed in protest as the old lady struggled to haul them open, but before long daylight beamed through dusty windows onto a scene of dusty disorder.
‘Monsieur Girardieu?’
‘I am he,’ he said in lightly accented English, giving a small formal bow. Now that we could see him more plainly, it was clear that he must once have been a very handsome fellow. Despite his age and the stick on which he leaned, he still presented a fine figure of a man unbowed by recent misfortunes. His wig was freshly powdered and his jacket and waistcoat, although old-fashioned in style, were of the very finest brocade. His shirt and cravat were smartly laundered and his boots shiny with polish. He looked somehow familiar, so I assumed that we must have met through business in the past.
