by Liz Trenow
‘It was you who asked, remember? You who found the sampler. Besides, now that Ambrose . . .’
‘Is dead?’
She nodded. ‘There will be no more lies. I promise. Now we can be entirely honest with each other for the rest of our lives.’
‘And what about Peter? Are we going to go on deceiving him, just as you have with me?’
She blanched and sat back on her heels. ‘I knew this would arise, and have given it much thought. But how do you think he would feel if we told him you are really his mother, and I his grandmother? I know that we have promised there will be no more lies, but is that the right thing to do, just now, after all that has happened and all the upheavals we’re facing?’
Her words gave me pause; of course she was right. He would feel betrayed just as I was, upset and angry at having been deceived all these years, his world turned topsy-turvy even as he was still grieving for Ambrose and facing the loss of his childhood home.
‘Perhaps we can explain it to him one day in the future, when he is a grown man and better able to understand,’ I said.
She wiped her eyes with the corner of a sleeve and managed a watery smile. ‘I know it will take time for you to accept what I have told you. All I can say is that I have always loved you and you will always mean everything in the world to me. You are my only, precious daughter. I pray that you will in time find it in your heart to forgive me.’
Slowly my anger began to dissipate, and I found myself able to think more clearly and calmly. We took more wine and talked on and on, late into the night, exploring the many avenues that had hitherto been closed on account of Ambrose’s insistence. She described the intensity of her joy on discovering that I was still alive and had been found and then, even more overwhelming, our first meeting here in Westford Abbots.
When it was discovered that I was expecting, she had been forced to accede to Ambrose’s insistence that they should adopt the child, and even further layers of deceit had to be woven. The alternative he presented her with was to send me away, never allowing her to see me again.
‘He so wanted a son, and I’d always felt it was somehow my fault for failing to provide him with one,’ she said. ‘I knew only too well what kind of life you would have faced without our support, and besides, I could not bear to lose you again. But I promise we shall have no more lies between us now.’
Like small, slow drops of a gentle balm, her words began to melt my heart.
‘I had never been happier,’ she went on. ‘I would wake each morning and pinch myself. I had a perfect sister and a beautiful son, but even this bliss was tainted by the pain of knowing that I could never tell either of you the truth. Ambrose made me swear that I must never, ever let slip anything that might undermine his reputation, which is why it came as such a shock when you showed me that silk, dearest. I was terrified that if you persisted in pressing for the truth, he might throw you out and I would lose you forever.’
‘I was so sure the silk would lead me to my mother,’ I said. ‘When I discovered that it had been woven for the king’s mistress I even allowed myself to believe that I had royal blood in my veins.’
She laughed. ‘The truth is much duller, I’m afraid. My mother – your grandmother Agnes – really was the lost soul I told you of. She lived in squalor and drowned her sorrows in gin. I never knew my father – and I suspect that neither did she. My aunt was harsh towards me, but the truth is I would probably have died in that hovel had she not taken me in.’
‘I went looking for her, you know.’
‘Looking for who?’
‘The woman you told me was our mother. I went to Stepney Green and searched the graveyard. I even met the vicar and he let me look at the birth, marriage and death records. But I couldn’t find any Pottons.’
‘That is because my aunt insisted I take their family name, so Potton is my uncle’s surname.’
‘Then what was your mother’s name?’
‘Cooper,’ she said. ‘I was born Louisa Cooper. In Stepney Green, though I doubt my mother ever took the trouble to register me.’
‘But her death might be in the records, and she may have been buried there?’ It was a common name and I might have read it on a gravestone, but I had no memory of it.
‘Perhaps we could go back one day,’ she said. ‘It could have been a pauper’s grave and even unmarked, but her death might be in the records, somewhere.’
‘Of course, if you wish,’ I said. ‘At least we would know what we were looking for.’
‘Forgive me, dearest, for sending you on such a wild goose chase.’
I glanced over at the table where the sampler still lay exactly as she’d left it what felt like a lifetime ago.
‘No, it was the silk Anna bought at the auction that sent me on the chase,’ I said. ‘I felt sure I had seen it before, and now I know why.’
‘I was so shocked when you showed me,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Just seeing it again brought everything back, and I was terrified you would uncover my deception.’
‘So wherever did you get hold of it?’
‘From the customer I told you about, the merchant. He’d boasted of confidential royal commissions and even showed some of them to me, so I knew where they were stored. When he sent me away, I managed to stuff a few samples beneath my petticoat before I left. My plan was to blackmail him with them somehow or at least sell them for the silver in the thread.’
Louisa . . . the merchant . . . that silk . . . the royal commission. The connections were bewildering. A sudden shocking thought flashed into my mind. ‘Was his name Girardieu?’ I stuttered. ‘The one who threw you out?’
She glanced at me, sharply. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He’s the merchant who dealt with the commission for Henrietta Howard, whose silk was sold at auction. Anna and I went to visit him in Spital Square. But he’s gone now – I went back to check and the house was all dark and closed up.’
‘Ha! Gone bankrupt. He deserves it.’
The realisation crept into my head only slowly, a small whispery voice growing louder and louder until it became a shout. ‘Monsieur Girardieu was the man you were with when you . . .’ I faltered. ‘When you got pregnant? He was the father of your child?’
She nodded.
‘You are sure?’ Nausea swilled in my stomach.
‘He was my only client.’
Nothing was real any more. It felt as though I was standing apart from myself, looking at another person, a daughter who had not only discovered her mother – although it would take some time to think of Louisa in that way – but also a father?
That day, when Anna and I had visited Monsieur Girardieu, I’d felt a curious sense of recognition, even affiliation. Now I knew why. I’d found my father. Even met him, shaken his hand. In any other circumstances I might have been ecstatic, but in that moment felt only a sense of revulsion at the way he had so cruelly discarded Louisa and their unborn child.
‘Did you ever see him again?’
‘Of course not. He disowned me, remember? Told me never to darken his door again. Left me destitute and back on the streets, with child.’ She paused a moment. ‘Although I do sometimes wonder whether you have inherited from him your interest in fabrics, your flair for design and colour.’
‘I hope to be more fortunate in business than he was,’ I said, finding a smile at last.
‘You know how proud I am of your success, Agnes, I always have been. You are such a talented young woman, running a successful business on your own account.’
‘I could never have achieved any of it without your help, you know.’
‘All I’ve ever achieved is being a housewife, a supporter of my husband’s good works.’
‘And a mother,’ I added. ‘You have been a very good mother to Peter.’
She flushed. ‘It means a lot to hear you say that. I have always been conscious of you looking over my shoulder, making sure that I raised your son as you would have done, had thing
s been different.’
‘Of course you have. You have done a marvellous job.’
‘I want to be a good mother for you too, my darling, if you will let me.’
On an impulse, I blurted it out. ‘Come and live with me, Louisa, so we can be a proper family, the three of us. It makes such sense. Peter would love London, once he got used to the idea. In time, we could find him a good apprenticeship.’
‘He still wants to become a sea captain, thanks to you,’ she said, smiling. ‘Perhaps we could find him something less dangerous?’
‘My place is small but maybe with your money from Ambrose we could afford to rent somewhere bigger. At least, we could ask old Boyson, see what he has to offer? And right now my business is going really well. It has grown so much I could really do with some extra help. What do you think?’
‘How can I be of any help? I am no seamstress, Agnes, as well you know.’
‘I urgently need someone to keep my finances in order. I’ve seen your household accounts and they are neater than any I’ve ever managed even in years of trying.’
‘But I am so ignorant of that world. You would need to teach me the ways of business, dearest.’
‘Of course I would. It would be fun.’
‘Then, if you are sure, I cannot imagine anything better than the three of us, living together as a proper family.’
As we embraced it began to dawn on me that despite her revelations, nothing had really changed. If anything, the bonds between us had become even more powerful, more all-consuming. I had always held my sister in such high regard, felt the need to please her, to comply with unspoken expectations. But now there was no sibling competition. Her love for me was as unbounded and unconditional as that I felt for Peter. Whatever our mistakes or misdemeanours we would always put each other first, for the rest of our lives.
There was more, although it took some days afterwards to appreciate fully. That familiar, silent ache of feeling that something was missing, that deep knot of anxiety that had persisted for so many years, had melted away. I had found my mother.
Perhaps now, after all, I could really know myself.
A note on the history that inspired
The Dressmaker of Draper’s Lane
Miss Charlotte first appeared as a minor character in my 2017 novel The Silk Weaver, and came to play a far more important part than I had initially imagined for her. Many readers have since remarked on what an interesting individual she was: an unmarried independent woman running her own business in the days when this was most unusual.
Before long I knew that Miss Charlotte’s story was asking to be told. Anna and Henri, protagonists in The Silk Weaver, would play an important part in her life just as she had in theirs. I needed no encouragement to return to the setting of eighteenth-century Spitalfields, in East London, not least because it is where my own family’s silk weaving business began in the early 1700s.
In those days, to run a business and employ others it was necessary to undertake an apprenticeship and become a member of a company such as the Haberdashers or Mercers or Drapers, and to gain the Freedom of the City. This avenue was rarely open to women, and certainly not those from poorer classes, because of the cost. But there was a real-life precedent: Ann and Mary Hogarth (sisters of the great artist William) ran their own millinery shop, which in those days meant providing not just hats but the full range of men’s and women’s clothing. It has been suggested that the sisters were apprenticed to their mother, another Anne, who inherited the business from her own mother and father.
This turned out to be a neat coincidence: William Hogarth was one of the first governors of the Foundling Hospital in London and his wife Jane was a volunteer, helping to monitor the work of the foster parents with whom the foundlings were lodged until they turned five years old. Jane appears in The Silk Weaver and returns to play an important role in this book, too.
Perhaps the most poignant of the exhibits at the Foundling Museum are the tokens left by mothers as proof of identity in case they were able, at some point in the future, to reclaim their child. Many of these tokens are pieces of fabric, among which are a few examples of silks. This, of course, appealed greatly to my own interest in silk, and the fact that – as readers of The Silk Weaver will know – the character of Miss Charlotte’s friend Anna was inspired by the life of the famous eighteenth-century silk designer Anna Maria Garthwaite.
Another neat link became apparent when I visited Hogarth’s House in Chiswick – what William Hogarth called his ‘country cottage’ – and realised that it was only a few miles from Marble Hill House, the Palladian jewel built on the Thames at Twickenham for Henrietta Howard after her ‘retirement’ as the king’s mistress. Henrietta was a great fan and collector of Chinoiserie, the exotic designs introduced into England through imported Chinese porcelain. In the dining parlour at Marble Hill House today – now run by English Heritage – is a reproduction of the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper that hung there in her day. Also displayed in the house is the portrait of the young Henrietta that so struck Miss Charlotte when she visited.
A further fascinating connection followed: the Hogarth house is neighbour to Chiswick House, another wonderful Palladian mansion built by Lord and Lady Burlington. They were instrumental in introducing David Garrick, the actor, theatrical manager and great Shakespeare proponent, to his wife, the Viennese dancer Eva-Maria Veigel. Hogarth painted a charming portrait of the couple, who were part of Henrietta Howard’s circle of intellectual and artistic friends, and so would have been perfectly placed to organise a visit for Miss Charlotte to Marble Hill House. They were also great fun to write!
If you are interested in following up any of these links, here is a list of the key websites and sources:
The Foundling Museum, London: www.foundlingmuseum.org.uk
Marble Hill House, Twickenham: www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/marble-hill-house
Hogarth’s House, Chiswick: www.williamhogarthtrust.org.uk
The Fashion Museum, Bath: www.fashionmuseum.co.uk
Dennis Severs’ House at 18 Folgate Street, Spitalfields: www.dennissevershouse.co.uk
John Styles, Threads of Feeling, The London Foundling Hospital’s Textile Tokens 1740–1770 (The Foundling Museum, 2010)
Janette Bright and Gillian Clark, An Introduction to the Tokens at the Foundling Museum (The Foundling Museum, 2014)
Cecil Willett Cunnington, Handbook of English Costume in the Eighteenth Century (Faber & Faber, 1964)
Gillian Pugh, London’s Forgotten Children: Thomas Coram and the Foundling Hospital (Tempus, 2007)
Tracy Borman, King’s Mistress, Queen’s Servant (Vintage, 2010)
David Bindman, Hogarth (Thames and Hudson, 1981)
Kirstin Olsen, Daily Life in 18th-Century England (Greenwood Publishing Group, 1999)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am indebted to my editors at Pan Macmillan, Caroline Hogg and Alex Saunders, and my agent Caroline Hardman of Hardman & Swainson, for their clear-eyed advice and support in helping The Dressmaker of Draper’s Lane make its way into the world.
I’d also like to thank all those readers of my previous novel, The Silk Weaver, for their kind comments and encouraging me to return to my characters and their life in eighteenth-century Spitalfields. Your wish is granted!
As ever, my family, David, Becky and Polly Trenow, have been amazingly supportive, as have my wonderful friends. Finally, I’d like to give a special mention to Pete and Sarah Donaldson and their staff at Red Lion Books in Colchester, the much-deserved Independent Bookshop of the Year regional award-winner in 2018.
If you want to find out more about how I wrote The Dressmaker of Draper’s Lane, please go to www.liztrenow.com. You can also follow me on Facebook (www.facebook.com/liztrenow) and on Twitter @liztrenow.
The Silk Weaver
Read on now for an extract . . .
PROLOGUE
Anna rests her head on the cushion and traces her finger along the st
ems of daisies and the nodding heads of bluebells embroidered onto its calico cover. The silken threads, though worn and coming loose in places, still hold their colours and gleam in the sunshine.
‘Bluebells and daisies,’ she sings to a familiar nursery rhyme tune. ‘Bluebells and daisies. They all grow here, they all grow here.’
They are seated together on the old chaise longue in the window of the vicarage sitting room. This is where her mother likes to work at her embroidery, although she has to hold the frame further away than normal because her belly is so huge and round these days. She says that it is because she is growing a new brother or sister but Anna cannot believe it possible that there could really be a child inside her mother’s body.
She is bored. Because of this baby bump they cannot go for their usual walks together across the heath or down to the marshes to collect wild flowers for pressing, as her mother says it gives her backache. Neither can they do much gardening, which Anna also adores. She loves getting her hands dirty making soft beds in the black earth into which they scatter tiny seeds. She cannot believe that these little specks will grow into beautiful flowers next year, but her mother promises they will, just like she’s promised about the baby.
‘Wait and see, my little one,’ she says. ‘Have patience and you will find my words are true.’
Although she is only five, Anna has already learned to name many wild flowers and some garden varieties, too. The ones she finds easiest to remember are those which perfectly describe the flowers themselves and seem to roll off the tongue: love-in-a-mist, snapdragon, foxglove, harebell, forget-me-not, wallflower, ox-eye daisy. Others she finds more difficult to pronounce and has to say over and over again before they come out right: delphinium, convolvulus, asphodel, hellebore.
She returns her attention to the cushion. How different these two flowers are: the perky little daisy with its open face of tiny white petals around a yellow nose; the closed heads of the bluebells – more purple than blue, she thinks – hanging from a stem that seems barely able to carry their weight.
