The Dressmaker of Draper's Lane

by Liz Trenow

  Once I was alone, I took out the book of Shakespeare sonnets that Jane had lent to me after our dinner with Mr Garrick, intending to read some of them aloud to Peter. They were rhythmic enough, their subjects not too controversial or distressing. The sound of my voice might reassure him, or even encourage him to open his eyes, I thought.

  But it was too dark to make out the words so I drew back the curtains just a few inches so that if Ambrose returned I could quickly pull them closed once more.

  It was then I saw, in a slim shaft of sunlight slipping between the drapes, the glass bowl set on the dresser, covered with a beaded muslin cloth. I lifted the cloth and instantly regretted it, for squirming around in the water were those huge black leeches, fattened from their feast on Peter’s precious blood. The very sight of them made my stomach churn. I quickly replaced the muslin cover, sat down and took up my book, trying to erase what I had seen, but their malign presence was already branded into my mind’s eye.

  It didn’t take me long to decide what to do, even knowing that it would incur Ambrose’s inevitable wrath. I opened the casement, took up the bowl and threw its contents into the flowerbed below. Those disgusting creatures would make a fine meal for the birds. Then I refilled the bowl from the ewer and replaced it onto the dresser, covering it carefully with the beaded cloth once more, as though it had never been disturbed.

  The reckoning arrived sooner than expected. After supper that evening there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Dr Willingshaw, what an unexpected pleasure,’ Ambrose said. ‘How kind of you to drop by again.’ As I said, he always plays the perfect gentleman.

  ‘How is the patient?’

  This time, he deferred to Louisa. ‘Tell him, wife.’

  ‘Much the same,’ she whispered.

  ‘Depending on how he fares overnight, we can administer the treatment again in the morning if necessary,’ the doctor said, as he and Ambrose left the room and headed upstairs.

  Louisa and I crept upstairs and waited outside the chamber door, listening with ears peeled. I prayed that he would not look under the beaded cloth, but this time my plea fell on deaf ears.

  ‘What is this?’ the doctor said. ‘Where have they gone?’

  I imagined the two men scanning the floor and peering under the bed and the dresser, foolishly searching for the missing leeches.

  ‘They must have escaped somehow.’

  ‘Do you take me for an idiot? They must have been stolen, sir.’

  ‘That is impossible, for there has been no one in the house except ourselves, doctor.’ Ambrose sounded surprisingly calm. ‘But please do not be concerned. Of course if they cannot be found, we will recompense you in full.’

  ‘What on earth . . .?’ my sister mouthed. I grabbed her hand and drew her along the landing into my chamber.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.

  ‘What? You took the leeches?’

  I nodded. ‘I threw them out of the window into the flowerbed. I couldn’t bear to let him suffer a second time.’

  To my great surprise, she gave a little laugh. ‘Good girl,’ she said.

  ‘But Ambrose . . .?’

  ‘Do not worry, dearest. I will deal with him.’ She squeezed my hand briefly, and we waited until we heard the two men descending the stairs and saying their farewells, followed by Ambrose’s footsteps along the corridor to his study, and the door closing.

  All the while a powerful knot of fear twisted in my stomach; I was expecting him to storm back upstairs at any moment. But he was too cunning to display his rage so openly.

  That night I persuaded Louisa to take some rest, and resumed my vigil at Peter’s bedside.

  At around midnight I heard the door of Ambrose’s study open and held my breath as his footsteps ascended the stairs, expecting him to confront me. But he passed by and went to his own chamber, or so I thought. All was quiet.

  And then I heard it. ‘What is this, wife? You have turned thief?’

  There was an inaudible reply, followed by heavy footsteps and a kind of deep animal growl. ‘Do you know what happens when you disobey me?’

  A horrible, heavy silence filled the house.

  ‘You must be punished, wife. To cleanse you of your sin.’

  ‘No, Ambrose, wait. I can explain.’

  ‘It is only because I love you.’

  ‘No, please, no.’ Her anguished pleading brought me to my feet, running along the corridor. I flung open the door to see a terrifying tableau set before me: Louisa standing defiant as Ambrose loomed over her with his arm raised and fist clenched.

  ‘No!’ I shouted, rushing between them.

  His fist hit my face with a blow that seemed to lift me right off my feet and I felt my cheekbone crack. The force of it threw me backwards onto Louisa, and we both fell to the floor.

  ‘It was not Louisa,’ I managed to gasp. ‘It was me. Do what you will, Ambrose, but spare my sister. She’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You!’ His eyes were alight, red embers in the darkened room. ‘You?’ he bellowed. ‘So this is how you repay our generosity, is it, you little bastard?’

  As he raised his fist once more I covered my head with my arms, waiting for the pain, but it never came. Beside me, Louisa began so sob.

  ‘Stop your whining, woman,’ he said, pacing the floor like a caged bear. And then, in a low snarl: ‘Whatever am I going to do with the pair of you?’ The footsteps ceased right beside us and my heart seemed to stop. The menace was almost more petrifying than the reality.

  ‘I suppose you know what the Bible says about thieves?’

  Silence.

  ‘Speak, girl.’

  The pain in my cheek was blinding. ‘No, sir,’ I managed to mutter. ‘I do not.’

  ‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. Think on this, Agnes, and pray for your salvation.’

  He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

  After a few moments Louisa raised herself and went to the dresser, dunking a towel into the jug.

  ‘Here, hold this to your eye.’ Every dab felt like the jabbing of a thousand needles. She poured water into a cup and handed it to me. Even though my throat burned with each swallow the coldness felt good. My body began to shake uncontrollably, and I burst into tears.

  ‘I am so sorry to have caused this, Louisa.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, it will soon pass. Here, dry your eyes.’ She passed me her kerchief and put her arms around me until the sobs subsided. ‘Now, let us go downstairs and I will warm some milk.’

  ‘He should not be allowed to treat you like this,’ I said, hauling myself unsteadily to my feet. She did not respond. How she found the strength to remain so composed under these circumstances I will never fathom. I could only assume that she had become accustomed to it.

  Passing along the hallway, I caught a glimpse in the mirror. My cheek and eye socket were already starting to swell. Tomorrow I would have a black eye and a face like a pumpkin.

  We rekindled the range, and as we waited for the milk to warm Louisa’s courage seemed to ebb away and she began to shiver. A ragged shawl hung from the back of the door – perhaps it had once belonged to their old cook – and I wrapped it around her.

  ‘As soon as Peter is well enough we’ll get you both away from here.’

  ‘Get away? Where on earth would we go?’

  ‘To London, perhaps?’

  She shook her head. ‘I will never leave him, Agnes. I owe him everything, and would be nothing without him.’

  The man was a violent monster. ‘He may hurt you really badly, one day. It is too dangerous to stay.’

  ‘It is only when I annoy him,’ she whispered.

  Annoy? ‘Can’t you see that it is not your fault, Louisa? You did nothing wrong.’

  She turned away to retrieve the pan as it began to boil, and I could feel my anger and frustration rising as she went to pour it, needing two hands to control her shaking. But now was not the right time to press my point. We
would talk again once Peter was recovered.

  It was approaching dawn and I had fallen into a light doze when he became delirious once more. This time was even more acute than the previous night. He writhed so much that I had to hold him in my arms to prevent him falling from the bed, but his limbs were so thin and fragile that it felt like trying to contain a bird desperate for freedom.

  ‘They’re calling for me,’ he shouted, over and over again. ‘I must go, I must go.’

  Who was calling him and where? Was he hearing the angels after all, inviting him to follow them to heaven?

  Talking in a low monotone, I tried to reassure him that no one was coming and that he was safe here, I would allow nothing to harm him. But he didn’t seem to hear me – at least he showed no sign of it – thrashing and twisting the sheets with his fists, wrenching his head from side to side with such ferocity that I feared he might cause himself an injury. His body burned hot as a fire: if he continued like this for much longer he would surely die.

  This time I did not hesitate. Ambrose would tell me to leave in the morning, so I had nothing to lose.

  I threw open the curtains and opened both windows as wide as possible to let in the cool night air. Then I took a towel and, wetting it in the ewer, bathed his face, arms, chest and legs just as we had done with Anna. If it had brought my friend out of her fever, surely it must be the right thing to do? I repeated the bathing over and over again, talking to him all the while. After nearly an hour my ministrations seemed to take effect: the moans quietened, the spasms of pain were less frequent. His body felt cooler too, although I could not be sure that this was not simply the effect of the bathing and the chill air.

  Now he fell deathly still and I began fear that he was drifting away. But the feather fluttered when I held it above his mouth and when I felt his wrist the pulse was still there, faint, but more regular than before. I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to rest in the chair for a few brief moments. The next thing I knew was the sound of his voice, a barely audible croak: ‘Mother, mother?’

  He spoke. What joy! The sickness had muted him ever since I arrived.

  ‘I’m here, my darling boy,’ I whispered, squeezing his hand. But his eyes stayed closed and he said nothing more, remaining still and lifeless as before. Had I dreamed it? I closed my eyes and fell back into sleep. Sometime later, I know not how long, it came again.

  ‘Mother, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here, darling. I’m here, right beside you.’

  This time my touch was rewarded by the faintest response of his fingers, squeezing mine. His eyelids moved and then, miracle of miracles, his eyes opened wide in their dark sockets. In the dim light of the rising dawn I watched his gaze ranging around the room before coming to rest in my direction.

  I beamed at him, giddy with gladness. ‘Hello, my darling.’

  ‘Mother?’

  Why would I deny it now? ‘I am here, dearest.’

  ‘Water,’ he murmured. I lifted his head, oh so gently, and brought the cup to his lips. He took the smallest of sips before resting his head back again and closing his eyes once more.

  ‘I love you, Peter,’ I said.

  ‘I love you too.’ And then my beloved boy gave me the sweetest of smiles before slipping back into a peaceful, healing sleep.

  29

  Alamode: a thin, plain tabby-weave lustered silk, usually black. Used mainly for mourning and for the linings of expensive garments, as well as the outer fabric, especially for outerwear such as hoods and mantuas.

  I was woken by the slam of the chamber window closing shut. The sun was already shining brightly – it must be morning.

  ‘Whatever are you doing? Do you want him to catch a chill?’ Louisa said, wrenching the curtains across once more. ‘Ambrose will be furious.’

  As I raised my head the swollen cheek, almost forgotten in the height of last night’s emotions, pulsed with pain once more. ‘He’s furious with me anyway, what difference will it make?’

  ‘My goodness, that’s quite a bruise you’ve got,’ she said more tenderly. ‘He won’t be happy about you going out looking like that.’ Of course. The doctor’s leeches go missing and the vicar’s sister-in-law appears with a black eye. Such gossip would be the very thing Ambrose feared most.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked, placing her palm on Peter’s forehead. ‘He seems much cooler today.’

  ‘Bathing him with water seemed to break the fever. He even recognised me.’

  ‘He spoke?’

  ‘Just a few words.’

  ‘Do you think . . .?’ At that moment his eyes opened. ‘Hello, my darling boy. Are you feeling better?’

  He nodded. ‘Thirsty.’

  She lifted his head and brought the cup to his lips. Before long we were both weeping with joy. Peter had returned to us.

  At breakfast Ambrose barely acknowledged me, averting his eyes from my disfigured, discoloured face. Soon after, the doctor arrived once more.

  ‘He seemed pleased with Peter’s progress,’ Louisa told me, once he’d left. ‘But he warned the disease is unpredictable and can relapse at any moment. He advised warmth, darkness and further purging should he show any more signs of fever.’

  Over my dead body, I thought to myself. ‘No mention of the leeches?’

  ‘No more leeches.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that.’

  Ambrose called us all to Peter’s bedside and led us in an overlong series of prayers, praising God and the good services of the doctor for his son’s recovery. Still he would not meet my eye. I bowed my head and spoke the words along with everyone else, thinking to myself that while God might have played his part, the ministrations of the doctor had been worse than useless. What had really helped to ease the fever at the critical moment was fresh air and water bathing; of this I was utterly convinced.

  During the rest of the day Peter made numerous small steps towards recovery, each more encouraging than the last. He slept and woke again, every time a little more responsive than before. We read to him and he seemed to enjoy listening for just a few moments before falling asleep again, but the next time he stayed awake longer, and then longer.

  Maggie glanced at my bruised face and turned away without remark before closeting herself in the kitchen, soon producing a nourishing broth of which Peter took a few sips, proclaiming it to be delicious. She beamed with delight: it was the first time he had taken anything but water for nearly a fortnight. Later in the day he took several more sips, and a small square of bread.

  He began to ask questions: what had happened to him, why did he feel so weak, why did we have to keep the curtains drawn and why hadn’t his friend been to visit him? We tried to answer as honestly as possible without causing alarm.

  ‘But I want to see Gabriel. When can I get up?’ he asked.

  ‘Not for a while yet, my darling,’ Louisa said. ‘You have been very unwell, you know.’

  His face fell. ‘Then if I’ve been so ill, why do you both keep smiling?’ How could we explain our delight at the return of his youthful impatience? Our boy was back with us, once more.

  I dreaded Ambrose’s return that evening. Each sight of myself in the glass or window pane was a reminder of that terrifying fist, the shock of that blow. Further punishment would surely come soon enough. Would he threaten me once more, or just send me away under the cover of darkness? I tried to share my fears with Louisa, but she brushed them aside.

  ‘It’s done with now,’ she said. ‘He forgives and forgets easily. It’ll be fine.’

  I did not feel so reassured, so it was some relief when he begged to be excused from supper. ‘I’m all in, wife,’ he said. ‘It’s been an arduous day and I have no appetite. I need an early night.’ She fussed over him for a while, taking a tray to his room, but he sent her away.

  ‘He’ll be better in the morning,’ she said.

  Instead we took our own meals to Peter’s chamber and ate at his bedside, to keep him company. He even took a couple o
f spoonfuls himself. We told stories and teased him about his vanity when he asked for a looking glass. The sound of his laughter was like music to my ears.

  He slept, soundly and peacefully, throughout the night.

  The next day was Sunday. Maggie offered to stay with Peter while Louisa and I went to church.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to thank Him for the boy’s recovery,’ she said, a little pointedly, I thought. ‘And the Reverend would be pleased to see you there.’

  ‘But how can I venture out in public looking like this?’ I asked Louisa, hoping that my bruises would provide a legitimate reason for avoiding another of Ambrose’s rants. But she insisted that we should go together and produced a jar of mercury paste and some cinnabar rouge which she applied with such gentleness and practised ease I realised she must have developed the skill of covering up her own bruises many times in the past. Blended smoothly onto my skin, these ointments concealed the discolouration so effectively that it was barely detectable except from very close quarters. Finally she brought out a hat with a broad, netted brim under which the swelling could hardly be seen.

  Ambrose seemed to have recovered from the previous night’s exhaustion. Though still pale-faced, he seemed uplifted by the passion of his faith, preaching with great enthusiasm about the power of God’s mercy. What about your own mercy, towards your own family, I felt like asking.

  He was about fifteen minutes into the sermon, really getting into his stride, when it happened. Without warning, his face contorted and he folded at the waist, grabbing the sides of the pulpit to steady himself. I watched him gulping for breath, trying to force the words from his mouth.

  It was a pitiful sight, even though I could feel no sympathy for the man. From our vantage point in the pew below we could see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, gathering into a trickle running down either cheek. He made no move to wipe them away as he struggled to continue, but after just a few more minutes his legs crumpled completely and he slid slowly down into the pulpit, out of view. The congregation of some fifty people or more seemed to gasp, as one.