The Dressmaker of Draper's Lane

by Liz Trenow

  Exhausted by weeping, I sat up and relit the candle. A distant church tolled three o’clock: still three hours to wait, but I could not bear to stay in this room any longer. I rose and dressed in readiness for the journey, packing my case with fresh garments, then went downstairs. I wrote a note for Mrs T., apologising for my continued absence and explaining why I’d had to leave once more. Then I sat by the front door with case and cape at the ready, until dawn finally began to lighten the sky.

  It was a relief to get under way after those long, dread-filled hours, treading the route to the coach stop, but as it pulled up I could see to my dismay that the first coach was already brimful with women and children. I would have to wait a full four hours for the next.

  ‘Please sir,’ I pleaded. ‘It’s my son, he is dangerously ill. I must get to him. Let me ride, somewhere, I don’t mind where.’ On seeing my wretched state he eventually took pity on me. ‘You can come up here, miss, if yous don’t mind the weather,’ he called down, indicating the seat beside him.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Thank you so much, sir,’ I gasped, climbing the ladder up to his box on top of the coach. The seat was narrow, and perilously high above the ground.

  ‘We doesn’t usually let the ladies up here, so just make sure you hang on tight, miss.’

  With that he flicked his whip and the horses set off at what felt like a furious pace. Although it was probably no faster than the usual speed for a coach, out in the open with the wind dragging the bonnet from my head, it felt quite terrifying.

  Before long it began to drizzle, and I was soon soaked to the skin. But I barely noticed the discomfort, nor even cared. Every step of those hard-working horses, every mile covered by those wheels, was bringing me closer. In my desperate, distracted state I began to believe that if I could only get to Westford Abbots my presence would magically restore Peter to good health, and all would be well.

  The reality was, of course, very different.

  On our arrival, the village felt a dismal and unwelcoming place. Usually there would be a gaggle of villagers waiting to greet their visitors, but this time I was the only person to alight and as I’d had no time to give notice there was no one to greet me. Chilled, bedraggled and soaked to the skin, but so grateful to be here at last, I hurried along the street, itching to run but holding myself in check, not wanting to appear undignified or to fuel further gossip. Fortunately, few people were about in this disagreeable weather, but those hardy souls sheltering under the market cross or huddled in doorways regarded me with suspicion.

  When at last I arrived at the vicarage and rang the bell its familiar, usually cheerful clang resounded throughout the empty hallway like a funeral toll. No one answered, and fear clutched at my throat. Where were they? I rang again, and in the silence that followed the yew trees seemed to creak even more sorrowfully than usual.

  Suddenly the locks turned with a crack and a crunch, and a stranger opened the door: a dumpy middle-aged woman I’d never met before.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, with an impatient sigh.

  ‘I am Agnes, Mrs Fairchild’s sister. She wrote to me, about Peter.’

  ‘She be expecting you?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I said. ‘Please, madam, I beg you, let me in out of the rain.’

  Reluctantly, she opened the door wide enough for me to squeeze past and I made immediately for the stairs, but her arm came out quick as lightning.

  ‘Yous must wait in the drawing room, miss, till I get the Mrs,’ she said.

  ‘But I must see Peter, at once,’ I shouted, exasperated. ‘I have come all the way from . . .’

  Louisa appeared, flying down the stairs into my arms. Her face was gaunt and grey-tinged; she appeared thinner than I had ever seen her, as though she had not eaten for days.

  ‘Agnes. Oh Agnes. My dearest, I am so pleased that you have come. Whatever kept you so long? I wrote over a week ago.’

  ‘Is he . . .?’ I hardly dared say it.

  ‘He is still very poorly,’ she said, leading me into the drawing room. ‘The fever has been with him for eight days now. He has not eaten anything in all that time and barely opens his eyes nor speaks to us.’ Then, in a whisper, ‘Dearest sister, I am sorry to have to tell you this.’

  I sucked in a breath, for courage. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The doctor believes it to be the typhus.’

  Again that word, striking terror into my soul. A disease from which few ever recovered. The blood seemed to drain from my heart. ‘But I thought that had left the village several months ago?’

  ‘So did we, my darling. But his symptoms are the same. Headache, fever, vomiting and a rash, just as Ambrose witnessed in the victims before.’

  I shivered. ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘You poor dear, forgive me. You are soaked through and must be starving after your journey. Will you change first, and take a hot drink? We must look after ourselves too, you know, we need all our strength.’

  ‘Who is the new maid?’ I asked, lowering my voice. ‘She seemed most suspicious.’

  ‘Maggie. She’s the widow of old Chapman, who’s come in to help. As soon as word got out, both cook and the maid handed in their notice. You can hardly blame them, I suppose. This disease terrifies everyone. Then Maggie turned up. Says she’s not afraid of it because she nursed her husband and suffered no personal ill effects, and wants to return the support Ambrose gave them in their own dark times.’

  ‘I trust your husband is well?’

  ‘Indeed. He is out visiting, where else?’ There was an unfamiliar note of bitterness in her tone. ‘I wish he wouldn’t but there’s no stopping the man when he’s set his mind to something.’ She shrugged. ‘But I am so pleased to see you, dearest, at last. What kept you?’

  ‘I was in Suffolk, and only returned yesterday. I came at once.’

  ‘No matter, you are here now.’ She took my hand and led me upstairs. ‘Come, and let us get you changed into something dry and warm. I will get Maggie to bring you something to keep you going until luncheon.’

  Peter’s chamber was dark as a tomb, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the light, and so stiflingly hot that I struggled for breath. Someone had strewn herbs on the floor, but even they could not mask the stench of sickness.

  Having so recently witnessed Anna struggling to survive the gravest loss of blood in childbirth and the fever that followed, I might have been inured to the spectacle of severe illness, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight before me. The handsome boy I had last seen brimming with life and vitality was now diminished to a near skeleton, his skin wrinkled like an old man’s, pale as the sheet that covered him. His eyes were closed, his hair matted. The skin of his skull seemed stretched tight over his dear face and his arms, like sticks, lay unmoving by his side. It was hard to imagine how this frail form could sustain life. The vision of a corpse lay before me.

  I felt Louisa’s hand steadying me, leading me to a chair at the bedside.

  ‘Is he . . .?’

  ‘Look at his chest.’ It was possible to detect just the slightest movement. ‘See, he is breathing.’

  ‘I suppose that is all that matters, for the moment.’

  ‘Talk to him, Agnes. I feel sure he can still hear us. I’ll leave you together for a few moments, shall I?’

  As I took my son’s lifeless hand in my own, the bleakness of this small movement brought me to tears and the words stuck in my throat. Even from a young age he would have snatched it away. I’m a big boy now, Auntie. But for now I was content just to feel the pulse in his wrist. Where there is life, there is hope, I said to myself, stroking his hair and caressing his cheek with the back of my fingers. His skin was hot and clammy, his forehead beaded with sweat.

  ‘Dearest boy,’ I finally managed to croak. ‘All is well. Your mother is here now.’ Mother. It slipped out without my even thinking about it, but I barely cared. How could I maintain the pretence when his life lay in the balance? ‘I love you so much, and I am sure you wil
l soon be well again, but you must summon all your strength to fight it. Promise me you will?’

  Was that a murmur coming from his lips? I certainly heard something, but there was no further response. Perhaps it was just a noise from somewhere else in the house, or outside. It was impossible to tell.

  After a while the smell and sultry heat of the room became overwhelming. ‘Oh, I cannot bear this darkness, Peter,’ I declared. ‘Shall we draw the curtains, just for a few moments?’

  I recalled the advice of Anna’s French doctor: Keep the patient warm at all times, but give her plenty of fresh air and sunshine to cleanse the room of feverish vapours. Pulling the heavy woollen drapes apart, I unlocked the casement latch and threw open the window. The rain had cleared now and sweet fresh air laden with the perfume of flowers in the beds below the window flooded into the room.

  ‘Listen to that birdsong, my darling. The world is beautiful. We shall soon be out there together, enjoying it once more.’

  The chamber door burst open. It was Ambrose, with a face like a thundercloud.

  ‘Whatever are you thinking?’ he roared. ‘Are you trying to kill the boy?’

  He strode to the window and slammed it shut then pulled the curtains across, plunging the room into darkness. Bringing his face within a few inches of mine, so that I could smell his sour breath, he shouted: ‘Don’t you know that in this perilous state he must be protected from the evils from without?’

  I said nothing, knowing little about the ‘evils without’, though I suspected they were unlikely to be backed by any medical fact.

  ‘Furthermore, that he must be kept in close warm air at all times to purge the fevers?’

  Fever was something I certainly knew about. ‘I understand that the top physicians recommend fresh air and cool bathing these days, sir,’ I ventured.

  ‘You understand,’ he bellowed again, with no regard for the poor suffering boy prostrated on the bed between us. ‘And pray, what is the great learning that leads you to this understanding of yours, may I inquire?’

  I was about to tell him about Anna’s safe recovery but realised just in time that any response, however sensible, would only infuriate him even further.

  ‘Listen carefully, Agnes.’ He lowered his voice now. ‘As Louisa’s sister, you are welcome in my house, as always. But Peter is being treated in full accordance with the recommendations of our trusted village physician, who has ensured the successful recovery of many a patient. You will not – I repeat will not – interfere, do you hear me? If you disobey my instructions I may find myself in the position of asking you to leave.’

  28

  Running stitch: a simple stitch, quick to execute, often to hem or outline an embroidery design.

  Laced running stitch: threads laced through the loops of running stitch to give a decorative effect.

  Ambrose insisted that the three of us must eat together in the dining room that evening, as though everything was normal.

  ‘God has provided us with the fruits of the land so that we may be fit to serve him to the best of our abilities, and who are we to refuse his bounty? Come downstairs at once, both of you,’ he commanded. ‘For I have a great appetite upon me. The boy will take no harm left alone for an hour.’

  The thought of eating anything at all made me queasy, but his orders must be obeyed. He said grace and we ate in silence. Maggie had produced a meal of decent, plain fare: a strong broth soup along with cold meats, pickled walnuts, heavy dark bread and butter. This good wholesome food should have been a blessing, but each mouthful tasted like ashes.

  Ambrose seemed determined to draw out the agony for as long as possible, piling his plate high and chewing with such deliberation that I began to wish he might choke. Sitting there under his baleful eye felt like a punishment, and I could think of nothing but Peter alone upstairs, struggling for breath.

  At last it was over, and he rose from the table. ‘I’m going out,’ he said.

  That night, Peter was overtaken with a high fever and each time he cried out the blood seemed to freeze in my veins. Louisa and I worked together: talking in soft, calming tones, holding him in our arms, trying to make him take sips of water containing the herbal infusion the doctor had provided. We made a good team, doing all we could to keep alive the boy whom we both loved more than ourselves.

  He began to babble, unintelligibly at first, but then I heard a name that I recognised. ‘He’s talking about angels, Louisa,’ I said, panic-stricken. ‘He’s not leaving us, is he?’

  She frowned at me, confused.

  ‘He must be at the gates of heaven,’ I said, close to tears. ‘He can see the Angel Gabriel.’

  ‘Oh dearest, don’t worry. It’s his friend he’s calling for. He’s done that before.’ She turned to Peter. ‘Gabriel’s not here at the moment, darling. But we are here, your mother and your Auntie Agnes. We’ll look after you, don’t you worry.’

  After about two hours, his rigours calmed, the heat dissipated. Louisa held a feather to his mouth, where it fluttered slightly. ‘His breathing is more regular. He will sleep for a few hours now.’ She leaned across and stroked my cheek, tenderly as a mother. ‘Go to your bed, my dearest, you have had a very long day.’

  I was too exhausted to protest, and it was already past midnight. I fell onto the bed fully clothed and slept soundly until the morning.

  Shortly after breakfast, Doctor Willingshaw arrived. A tall, imposing man with a powdered wig and extravagant grey whiskers, he strode into the house as though he owned the place.

  ‘Ambrose, my good fellow,’ he boomed. ‘How is the boy today?’

  My brother-in-law spoke with such authority that you would believe he had watched over Peter’s bedside all night. ‘He suffered the high fever again last evening, and we feared for his life once more, I’m afraid, but he is calm again this morning.’

  The doctor pursed his lips. ‘In my long experience, there is only so much fever a small frame can survive,’ he said, gloomily. ‘We shall have to administer further purging, I’m afraid. I have them here.’ He patted the large leather case beneath his arm.

  ‘No!’ Louisa leapt forward, taking her husband’s arm. ‘Not again. Please, Ambrose.’

  He batted her away like an irritating fly. ‘Do you want the boy to live?’

  I had to admire her courage. Once again she took his arm, pleading. This time he pushed her harder so that she tumbled back against me and I had to grab her shoulder to save her from falling.

  ‘You will obey me, wife,’ he said in a fierce whisper. ‘The doctor knows best. If it causes you to be squeamish then I suggest you stay away. Take your sister out for a walk or something, for goodness’ sake.’ He turned on his heel and followed the doctor upstairs.

  As we left the house, there were tears in Louisa’s eyes. Even the power of her compassion for the boy whom we both loved so much was no match for her husband’s merciless desire for control. We trudged the orchards side by side without speaking, in the mutual acknowledgement that any subject other than Peter was simply too trivial to discuss. Beyond our shared anxiety for his welfare and longing for his safe recovery, there was nothing to say.

  The clouds had disappeared overnight and the damp grass steamed in the warmth of the sun. The birds were celebrating loud enough to raise the dead, butterflies flittered on a light breeze and the hedges buzzed with bees hunting for nectar. At one point we spied a small deer and even in the brief moment before it slipped away into the undergrowth I caught a glimpse of its beautiful brown pelt, the bright eyes, the tall ears rimmed with black, the flash of its white tail.

  In normal times I would have been cheered by this display of nature’s vibrancy and abundance, its complexity and beauty, but today it seemed illusory and unreal, even cruel. Did the world not know that just a few hundred yards away our boy was hovering between life and death? The incongruity was too painful to contemplate.

  We had been walking just fifteen minutes and had reached the corner of the orchar
d when Louisa spoke. ‘It’s no good. I cannot bear to be away. Even watching him suffer is better than not being there at all.’ Without further words, we turned and set off in the direction from which we had just come.

  As we climbed the stairs my heart quailed. What was this treatment Louisa feared so much? The bedroom door was ajar; she hesitated a second before gently easing it open. The sight before us could not have been more shocking; my boy was being subjected to what looked like a barbaric form of torture. Over his pale, naked torso writhed a legion of great black worms as fat as a man’s fingers and rivers of red blood streaked from his body, like those paintings of Christ on the cross.

  In an instant, Ambrose was looming over us. ‘I thought I told you to stay away? How dare you disobey me?’ He slammed the door in our faces, and Louisa fell into my arms.

  ‘Oh Agnes, I cannot endure it,’ she cried.

  I remembered how Aunt Sarah had recommended leeching for Anna. The French doctor had dismissed the idea as outdated and ineffective, but we were powerless to save Peter from his fate.

  Any words of comfort would be gratuitous.

  That afternoon, after the doctor had left and Ambrose had gone out on his rounds once more, Louisa and I returned to Peter’s bedside. We washed away the blood with warm water and I went to lift him so that she could replace the soiled undersheet. How light he was. Even as I held him he did not waken, and I feared that he might have left us. But his heart continued to beat and his chest to draw breath, if only slightly, then enough to sustain life.

  Afterwards, as we rested, sitting each side of him, Louisa’s eyes began to close. ‘Go to your bed, sister,’ I said. ‘I will call you if there is any change.’