The Dressmaker of Draper's Lane

by Liz Trenow

  Henri fell to his knees, clasping her hand. ‘Thank the good Lord. You are back with us.’

  ‘Henri?’ Her words were slurred and so faint that everyone in the room held their breath. ‘My darling. Where have you been?’

  ‘I have been at your side. You have been unwell for days.’ Mariette took my arm and squeezed it. Anna tried to push herself up, but Henri stayed her with a gentle hand.

  ‘Lie still, sweetheart. You are very weak and must take some of cook’s delicious broth to gain strength.’

  She frowned. ‘I have been dreaming of a kitten,’ she murmured. ‘I could hear it mewing, poor thing. I hope it is all right.’ The wet nurse came forward with the baby, handing her to Henri who held her up for Anna to see. ‘My baby? It’s alive?’

  The midwife had given the chances of survival beyond a week as ‘less than one in four’ and yet now, two weeks later, that scrap of flesh looked like a proper baby. She was still tiny as a doll but her cheeks had filled out, and her skin was a normal colour. Her appetite grew stronger by the day and with it her cry, which echoed throughout the house at all hours.

  ‘Look at our lovely daughter, dearest wife. She is still small but her hold on life is strong. We have named her after you.’

  Anna tried to reach out to the child, but she had no strength. I leaned forward and made a crook of her arm, indicating to Henri that he should place Baby there. ‘My beautiful girl,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Henri, what a miracle.’

  She lifted her gaze. ‘Goodness, why are you all here in my chamber?’

  ‘We have been here all the time,’ I said. ‘It is just you who went away, dearest. We feared that we might lose you.’

  ‘Went away?’

  ‘You have been asleep for many days,’ Henri said gently. ‘But thank the Lord you have woken and come back to us.’

  ‘Where is Jean?’

  Moments later cook arrived with the boy, who immediately ran to the bedside, reaching out his fat little arms and crying, ‘Maman!’ Henri lifted him onto his knee and held him forward so that he could kiss his mother’s cheek. The little family was reunited again, complete.

  Descending the stairs, my footsteps felt light as air.

  When I got home, on my table was a letter from Louisa, enclosing a very competent drawing of the church and the yew trees signed by Peter, and wishing me a happy birthday. It was today, and I had completely forgotten it. But now when it comes around each year, I remember that it is also the day when my best friend returned to life.

  24

  Mantua: a gown only for the most formal occasions; open-fronted with a train looped up to reveal a petticoat of contrasting silk or lawn, worn with a hooped underskirt (not recommended for younger ladies).

  My own life returned to normal, although not entirely. In subtle ways that only became apparent over the coming weeks, Anna’s trials had left me altered. Not so much in my body, although it felt so weary much of the time, but in my spirit.

  I continued to visit her daily, marvelling at how she had survived two such terrible assaults: the horrific birth and the ravaging fever. Within two days she was sitting up and taking small meals, and by the end of the week she managed to take a few small steps unaided. The good news about her father’s recovery cheered her, made her determined to gain strength for him. Her face, although still pale as paper, lit with smiles for every visitor and in time the hint of a bloom returned to her cheeks.

  The weather remained calm and bright. We opened the windows of her chamber and placed a comfortable chair so that it would catch the sun. She spent many hours there cradling the baby and sometimes with Jean on her lap, too. Her own milk returned slowly, but the wet nurse remained a constant figure in the house for several weeks and the baby seemed to thrive on this double diet. At just under four weeks old, although still tiny, she no longer felt like a china doll that might break at any moment.

  For much of the time she was either feeding or sleeping but sometimes she would open her deep, dark blue eyes for several minutes, gazing at me with a little frown as though trying to work out who I was. I smiled, and her mouth moved almost as though she was trying to mimic my expression. ‘Look, she’s smiling,’ I said. ‘Or is it just indigestion?’

  Anna leaned over to look. ‘She’s saying she knows you from somewhere.’

  ‘But she’s not entirely sure how I fit into this big confusing world.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you. Henri and I have agreed that we would like to change her name. I know that it is traditional, but I think it might be confusing to have a daughter called the same as her mother.’ She paused, looking directly into my eyes. ‘So we are going to call her Charlotte.’

  ‘After me?’

  ‘Who else, you dolt?’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Oh my dearest, I’m speechless. Thank you. So much.’

  ‘Thank you, Auntie Charlotte. Henri told me what a steadfast support you were throughout my illness. He said you were the first to hold her when she was just a little scrap clinging onto life, and in some curious way I feel that makes her partly your child too. I know you are not a churchgoer but we hope you will also agree to be her godmother, and be a big part of her life in years to come.’

  ‘Of course, I would be greatly flattered,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘I haven’t told you this, but the day you opened your eyes for the first time after your illness, I had just come from Christ Church.’

  ‘You went to church?’

  ‘To pray for your life. A priest said he would add his prayers to mine.’

  She laughed. ‘You are full of surprises, Charlotte. I thought you disliked churches.’

  ‘I do, usually. But something drew me in, that day. I felt so helpless, desperate about the thought of losing you.’

  ‘So it’s Him up there I have to thank for my recovery, is it?’

  ‘And for the little lady, I suppose,’ I said, returning my eyes to the baby’s still quizzical gaze. ‘Hello, baby Charlotte. We’re going to have some fun together, you and me.’

  ‘More than that, my dear friend, I want her to be a strong, independent woman just like you,’ Anna said. ‘Someone who is confident in herself, and her place in the world.’

  Henri came in then, with Jean, and the conversation moved on. Only later, in my own room, did I remember her words. Confident, sure of my place? I must be a better actor than Mr Garrick to have the world so well and truly fooled.

  But was that such a bad thing? I recalled what he had recited at Jane Hogarth’s Easter supper: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Perhaps I had learned my part so well that it had become the real me. We are all trying to become the people we would like to be, or what is expected of us. We are all of us, in some small way, acting. My part in this play is costumière. I make costumes: clothes worn by people to make them look like the person they want to be. I have gained the confidence, now, to create the clothes that I know people will enjoy wearing, clothing that will make them feel good about themselves.

  One afternoon when I arrived back from Wood Street, Mrs T. told me of a new customer who had visited the shop in my absence. ‘A right pretentious little madam,’ she said. ‘Wanted this and that and t’other and all by tomorrow. I told her she’d have to come back another day to see you but if she don’t it’ll be a fortunate escape. I reckon she’d be more trouble than she’s worth.’

  ‘Did you get her name?’

  ‘Lady Margaret Montagu. Posh enough name, don’t you think. But her manners were from the gutter,’ she scoffed.

  A few days later the lady returned to the shop and within moments I found myself sympathising with Mrs Taylor. Lady Margaret, a young married woman of no more than twenty-five years in age, had very fixed ideas: she wanted a day dress in this silk and that design, an evening gown in that brocaded satin and that design. And yet, as we took tea and talked a little more, I began to sense that hiding beneath the haughty veneer was a young woman who did not really know herself at
all.

  She was not blessed with great beauty: a little too tall, her face too long, her curves what are referred to in the trade as ‘understated’. Her complexion was fine, though, and her hands elegant. She had potential. But her ideas were hopelessly old-fashioned: probably those that her mother, an elder sister, or mother-in-law had instilled or even insisted upon. None of the mantua designs she had chosen would do her any favours: they would render her the look of a maiden aunt, overly grand and far too ostentatious for her youth.

  I showed her a magazine of the latest fashions that my friend the printer had recently lent me – yes, just as he’d prophesied, these publications had become all the rage. ‘A young lady would not be expected to wear hoops or rumps these days, my dear,’ I said. ‘But look at the elegant shape these fourreaux pleats can provide, balanced at the front of the bodice by this charming bow. From the side view it creates such an elegant curve, just as Mr Hogarth described as the essence of beauty.’

  An hour went by as I sketched new designs for her to consider. Each time she demurred, deferring to her original ideas. At length I relented, consenting to make up what she had asked for. I took her measurements and she left, satisfied for the moment. But I knew in my heart that she would not be so pleased when she saw herself transformed into a shapeless, charmless version of her maiden aunt. Most likely many hours of further work would then be required, for no extra payment, making the alterations she would undoubtedly demand. Worst of all, she would be disinclined to recommend us to her friends.

  We could not ignore what our customer had asked for, but we changed it subtly in every way: in the shape and length of the skirt, the neckline, the lace ruffles at the sleeves. We added boning to the bodice to give her a shapelier upper line than could ever be achieved with stays, and bold gatherings of the petticoat to emphasise her waistline. Most daring of all, we chose silks of a delicate design and colourway, floral on a plain pale ground, perfect for a lively young woman of her class.

  All was completed just a day before the first fitting and I could sense among the seamstresses a collective holding of breath when she arrived. She tried on the evening gown first. It fitted beautifully and already I could see the transformation. But would she like it? There is usually a small frisson of nerves when you turn the looking glass and a lady sees herself for the first time in a new gown, but this time my heart was in my mouth. Lady Montagu moved in influential circles and although she did not appreciate it herself, her opinion was important.

  ‘My goodness,’ she breathed. ‘Is that really me?’

  Indeed it was: a shapely young woman whose face, lit up as it was with a mixture of astonishment and delight, could almost be called beautiful. She posed and twirled before the glass for several minutes, before planting a kiss on my cheek. ‘Miss Charlotte, you are a miracle worker,’ she proclaimed.

  That evening, after a modest meal of bread and cheese with a cup of hot broth, I climbed the stairs to my room, intending to immerse myself in a new novel, a gift from Louisa the previous Christmas that had lain neglected for months. Now I had some time for myself to enjoy it.

  When I pushed aside a pile of papers from the table to make space for my tray, a small package slipped to the floor and fell open, its contents glittering in the candlelight. In the dramatic events of the past few weeks, I had forgotten all about it. The terror of nearly losing my best friend had become my uppermost concern and the pagoda silk meant nothing to me now. The birds and trees of the design looked plain and ordinary to my eyes, the scent of lavender barely detectable.

  The desperation to find my mother that had gripped me like a kind of madness had gone. Poor thing, she lived in such poverty that she’d been forced to give up two daughters and had probably died young. Who cared how she’d come by the silk? I would probably never find out, but it barely mattered any more.

  I am what I am, defined by what I do each day, the people I count as friends, and the ways in which I can help people, I said to myself. I am good at my job, I run a successful business on my own account, and have no need of a husband. My past is far behind me, and is really of no consequence to me today. I must put aside my search for my mother. What matters now is the future, and that is in the hands of children: Peter, Jean and little Charlotte. They must be my focus now. It sounds so simple recounting it now but it felt like an important revelation, a major shift in my life. I felt free, at last.

  But life has a habit of changing everything. The following morning I received an unexpected visit.

  25

  Lawn: a very fine linen in plain weave using a fine high thread count resulting in a silky feel.

  It was mid-morning, and we were all busy in the sewing room when I heard the bell on the shop door tinkle. I was ankle-deep in gauze and sequins, working on a dress for Amelia Arbuthnot’s first ball at the Assembly Rooms in Bath just six weeks hence.

  ‘Let me go, Miss C.,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s probably just the post boy.’

  I gladly accepted her offer, but it was just moments before she came puffing upstairs, wide-eyed. ‘You have some, erm, interesting visitors, Miss Charlotte,’ she said. ‘They’ve asked specifically for you. A personal matter, they said.’

  ‘Interesting? Whatever do you mean, Sarah?’

  ‘They’re . . .’

  She blushed, and Mrs T. chimed in. ‘Spit it out, girl.’

  Sarah studied her feet and said, quietly, ‘They’re dark people, ma’am. Of the skin, I mean. Exotic-looking. But not slaves or beggars, like you usually see those types.’ She looked up now, smiling. ‘These ones are well dressed and polite. They seemed ever so nice. And they’re most keen to see you, Miss Charlotte.’

  ‘A couple? A man and a woman?’

  ‘With a baby, ma’am.’

  There was no one among my acquaintance as she had described, but I hastened downstairs anyway, my curiosity burning, thinking that perhaps it was some friends recommended by the Garricks, or the Hogarths. As I entered the room I saw a handsome young couple, plainly dressed but both with a fine, proud bearing. The man was in the uniform of a sailor, the lady in a calico gown with just a touch of lace, and a lawn shawl drawn modestly across her shoulders. In her arms was a large bundle.

  I did not recognise them at all, until the young woman said: ‘Miss Charlotte? Do you remember me? I am Pearl Matembe.’ Her face lit up with the sweetest, most beautiful smile I had ever seen. The young man said, ‘My name is Femi. I am pleased to meet you.’

  She went on: ‘You were so kind to me in the street that day, and I have never forgotten you, Miss Charlotte. And look, here is my baby.’ She peeled back the swaddling to reveal the face of a chubby-cheeked cupid, sleeping peacefully.

  Surely it could not be? That desperate beggar, clad in rags, who begged me to take her baby? The girl who had left her child on the steps of the Hospital, according to Jane, with my note tucked into its blanket? But yes, now that I looked again, it was that same girl.

  ‘Goodness gracious. Forgive me for not recognising you at first, Miss Matembe, or is it Mrs?’ I said, glancing at the boy beside her.

  She blushed. ‘Oh no, this is my brother.’

  ‘She found me,’ he said, simply.

  ‘And it seems your fortunes have turned since we last met,’ I said. ‘And may I ask, is this that same . . .’

  ‘He is alive because of you, Miss Charlotte. I went to get him back. We just came to thank you.’

  ‘You reclaimed him from the Hospital?’

  She nodded, looking down at the baby with an expression of such adoration that my heart overflowed just to witness it. For a few long seconds we all watched the child, mesmerised by his angelic face.

  ‘Well, we don’t want to keep you,’ the boy said, at last. ‘I know you must be very busy.’ He gestured around the room, towards the dressed dummies in the window, the rolls of fabric on the counter. ‘You have a fine place here.’

  I could not let them go so soon. ‘I am not so busy that I cannot spare half
an hour,’ I said. ‘Please, will you stay a while? I would so like to learn more about how you came to be reunited.’

  We went through to the parlour, and I invited them to sit while I retrieved the jug of lemonade that I had freshly made that morning. They asked polite questions about the gowns hanging from the rails, and I answered as fully as I could. At last the moment felt right.

  ‘Miss Matembe . . .’

  ‘Please, you must call me Pearl.’

  ‘Forgive me, Pearl, but I hope you don’t mind me asking. How did you come by this good fortune since we met, being reunited with both your baby and your brother?’

  ‘We do not mind one bit, do we, Femi?’ Had I been in any doubt that they were brother and sister, their smiles would have proved it: their grins were such unselfconscious expressions of joy that you could not help but smile with them.

  ‘And since you are the reason why we are here, you most certainly deserve an explanation,’ he said.

  ‘When you met me that day I was on the point of giving up, Miss Charlotte, but the food and drink you bought for me gave me the strength to carry on. It is the truth – I had been thrown out of the household where I was working as a maid, and although I searched and searched for Femi, I could find no trace of him.’

  ‘You probably gathered that I am in the navy,’ he said. Was he the sailor I’d seen marching with his fellows at Tower Hill docks with my sister that day, I wondered. ‘My ship had to sail two weeks earlier than expected but my message must have arrived after she left.’

  ‘I was at my wits’ end, living on scraps and sleeping in doorways,’ she went on. ‘I suppose it is my colour, but no one would take me in. Then the baby came, and I stopped caring about myself; all I wanted was for him to live. I know of some girls who have just thrown them into the river, but it goes against my faith to do such a thing. And that is when I met you.’

  ‘You were such a sorry sight, my dear,’ I said. ‘It pained me much to leave you.’