The Forgotten Seamstress

by Liz Trenow

  This was not the usual time – it was the middle of the afternoon – and as I stood outside his door pinching my cheeks and biting my lips to give them a little colour, my heart was like cannon fire in my chest and my nerves jangled so much I was afraid I might faint before I could step over the threshold. The only thing keeping me on my feet was sheer bloody-mindedness. I refused to have him open the door and find me passed out in a heap on the ground.

  Nearly two years had gone by since we last met, but he never even batted an eyelid.

  ‘Dear Maria, my favourite seamstress,’ he shouted. ‘What a splendid sight. Come in, come in, I am so pleased to see you.’ He was handsomer even than before, less boyish and more manly. The fuzz round his chin had thickened into a bristly afternoon shadow.

  As I tried to curtsey, my legs went to jelly.

  ‘What can I do for you, Your Majesty?’ I kept my eyes lowered, afraid to meet his. I knew that if I did, I would be lost again.

  ‘Drop the formality, please, little one.’ He took my hand and led me to the chaise. ‘I do have a small task for you, but for the moment, come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself.’

  ‘Not so very much, sir, as you know,’ I said, as primly as possible. ‘Apart from being promoted in my work, my life is very unexciting compared with that of a prince. We servants do not go to many parties and balls, as you do, sir.’

  He heard the edge in my voice, I suppose, and mimicked a sad face. ‘Ah, my little one, you have been listening to gossip, have you not?’

  I nodded, a little shamefaced now, for my cheek.

  ‘Then you must know that I am not the master of my own destiny. It is expected of me to attend these functions, but it does not mean that I enjoy them. The women – ah the women – they are very beautiful, but they are so vacuous.’ He paused while I wondered what this could mean. ‘They do fawn so. Yes, that’s the problem, because of who I am, they cling to me, simpering and giggling. It makes me want to run away to sea again, back with all my sailor mates. They couldn’t care a bugger who I am.’ His great guffaw got me giggling and broke the ice.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ He was suddenly serious again, turning my face to his and giving me both barrels of that gaze. ‘They are not real people like you, my pretty girl. Those society girls are like little actresses, being just what their mamas want them to be, so they can snare themselves a wealthy husband.’

  For a moment I thought he might kiss me, but he gave a little sigh before letting go of my hand. ‘Alas, much as I would wish to, I cannot dally today. I have a rather urgent sewing task for you.’ He went to his closet and returned with three pairs of khaki trousers.

  ‘It’s the problem with short legs,’ he said, passing them to me. ‘Not that you care, my dearest, but it’s a matter of pride for us chaps and I could never admit it to the official tailor. All these need shortening, by two inches. It must be invisible, impossible to tell that any alteration has been made. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ I tried to keep my voice business-like even though I was sick with disappointment inside. ‘That is a perfectly straightforward task. I will get onto it straight away. When do you need it by, sir?’

  ‘This evening, is that possible? After dinner? Ten o’clock, say?’

  ‘Consider it done, sir,’ I said, making hasty calculations in my head.

  ‘And will you deliver the work in person, please, as I would like to check that it is correct?’ Though his voice was formal, there was that little smile at the corner of his eyes that I recognised of old, and it raised my foolish hopes once again.

  ‘Indeed I will if that is your wish, sir.’ I bent my face to hide the blush burning my cheeks.

  ‘And we shall have a little talk like the old times, shall we?’ he said, with a wink. Two long years had passed without word and now he seemed to believe that we could fall into our old ways. No, I would remain cool and distant, I told myself, not allow any further intimacies which would only break my heart once more. Even so, I nearly skipped down the corridors on my way back downstairs.

  When I entered the sewing room Nora gave me a long, fierce look, pointing at the trousers. ‘Whose are those?’

  I said nothing and started hunting for my tape measure.

  ‘You’re flushed,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?’

  Again I held my tongue, but of course she knew.

  ‘There’s only one person upstairs who’s going off to war.’ She glared at me. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  Then I realised: of course, these were army trousers. Why hadn’t I made the connection? The panic rose in my throat; he was going off to fight.

  ‘For goodness sake, don’t let it happen again,’ she snapped.

  ‘Let what happen again?’ I asked, trying to stop myself blushing.

  ‘You bloody well know what. Let me take the bloody trousers back.’ She made a grab for them, trying to pull them from my hands.

  ‘No, Nora, he asked for me. I have to go.’ I hung onto the trousers for grim death. What would he think if Nora turned up instead of me? It would be an unforgiveable snub, and he would never ask for me again.

  ‘Then be it on your own head. Don’t expect my sympathy ever again, you stupid, stupid girl,’ Nora shouted into my face, before stomping out and slamming the door.

  At ten o’clock sharp I knocked on his door and even before I could show him my careful stitching on the hems, which was so much neater than the army tailor’s coarse work, he pulled me to him and kissed me, long and hard. All my good intentions to resist him evaporated in an instant. He’d been practising on his beautiful women, I could tell, but I wasn’t complaining. I was like putty in his hands; the kissing was delicious and I wanted it never to stop.

  I was a reckless, foolish girl to let it happen again, but I can’t say I regret it. I won’t go into details to save your blushes, dearie, but all I can say is I know quite well why that Wallis woman wouldn’t let him go, why she fought so hard for him and made him give up the crown. By golly, he’d learned a trick or two since those early trysts of ours.

  She breaks into an asthmatic giggle, and has to clear her throat before continuing.

  But then of course, off he went, to war. He told me they wouldn’t let him fight in the trenches but he was going to do all he could to get to the front line anyway, and he promised to write every day. What a fool I was, to believe it. Every day passed with me barely able to breathe as Mrs Hardy or one of her minions handed around the post to us servants after breakfast and, of course, nothing arrived for me.

  But one day, after six long weeks, she finally handed me a letter and I blushed scarlet as everyone around the table turned their faces towards me, hoping for a clue. Not bloody likely. I rushed away to the toilets and opened it in there, heart pounding, and sure enough it was from him, though his handwriting was heavily disguised.

  It was short and gave little away, but it did say that he thought of me every night and called me ‘my love’ – it was enough to keep up my hopes and dreams for many a month. My quilt panel was complete, and I finished a beautiful border of pieced lozenge-shaped hexagons, in silks and satins, that would hold the secret of my love, hidden for ever.

  But there was no further word from him and slowly, day by day, crack by crack, piece by piece, my heart was broken all over again. Nora’s beau Charlie came home for leave at Christmas and told such tales about what life was like in the trenches as you would struggle to believe. I feared for my love but took comfort in the thought that they would surely look after the future King of England. As the war ground on into its third year, my despair reached rock bottom.

  Then, around Christmas 1917, the talk was that the prince would be returning to England in the New Year for a tour of defence plants, and might be in London for a few days. It was a bitter cold night in February, the night Nora received the news about Charlie. He’d been injured weeks ago at Cambrai, they said, but had finally succumbed. She was inconsolable, taking to her
bed and refusing to eat or drink, weeping fit to burst for hours on end, till I worried for her health.

  When the knock came I thought it would be one of her housemaid friends or even Mrs Hardy the housekeeper, coming to check how she was, so I was very surprised to see Finch, standing stiffly outside the door. ‘His Majesty wishes to see you, Miss Romano,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  I was reluctant to leave Nora, but knew I could not refuse the prince.

  She lights a cigarette and sighs deeply.

  Do excuse me, dearie, but the memory makes me feel a bit wobbly. I’ve sometimes thought to myself, if only I’d never gone, stayed to comfort Nora like a best friend should have done, my life would have been so different. But I was young and stupid, and of course I went. I knew what would happen, and that it was foolish, but I didn’t care.

  Another deep sigh.

  I will never forget that night. When I first sat down, he placed a small box into my hands and told me to open it.

  ‘It’s a gift for you,’ he said, with that melting look in his eyes.

  My hands were shaking as I opened the box, and inside was a small round flat bottle, the shape of a pocket watch, with a medallion label with the figure 4711 and some words in a language I did not understand.

  ‘It’s a French perfume, called eau de cologne, smells a bit like lavender. Dab a little behind each ear – go on.’ This idea was so unfamiliar to me that he took it from my hands, unscrewed the little gold lid and dabbed it onto his fingers, then onto my neck. Then he brought his face close to mine, and drew in a long breath.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I knew it would suit you. Lavender always reminds me of a sunny summer’s day.’ Well you can imagine that put a smile on my face and I blushed like a beetroot but somehow that didn’t seem to matter, we was so comfortable with each other. We drank sherry while he talked about his war experiences, how he enjoyed being with what he called ‘real people’, his pleasure in being recognised for his skills and hard work and not just for being a prince, his frustration at not being allowed to go to the front line. Now it looked like the Americans would join the war the tide would soon turn our way, he felt sure, and it would be won within the year.

  We kissed and then he asked me, would I like to? And, foolish girl, I nodded. Look at what happened to poor Charlie, I thought to myself, we have to take our fun while we can, and hang the consequences. Devil-may-care – that just about sums up what I felt that evening. In the back of my head I’m thinking that, when the war is over, he will have to marry his royal princess. So why not make hay while the sun shines?

  This time we did it properly, in his bed, with our clothes off and all. It was as though the months and years had never passed and, though I was already approaching my twenty-first birthday, we were like young lovers again. He was kind and gentle, affectionate and attentive, and took me to another world where our differences did not exist. It felt like standing on a cliff edge ready to jump, to enjoy the thrill of falling, not even considering what might happen when I reached the bottom. I never wanted it to end, but of course I knew that it had to.

  I’ve thought and thought about that night. After all that time when he was away and not even taking the trouble to write, why did I do it? Why hadn’t I learned my lesson? Why didn’t I face the facts? I wasn’t the loose type of girl but I’d never known life outside of the orphanage and the palace, and I was just naïve. Self-destructive, the docs round here would call it, though the idea would never have entered my head at the time. The truth is that he was the only boy who had ever shown me any affection, which is what I craved more than anything, like a drug. And like a drug addict, I couldn’t say no.

  I never saw him again because soon afterwards he returned to France. The days slipped by in a fog of misery and Nora was too concerned with her own loss to pay much notice of me.

  A few weeks later, I realised that my luck truly had run out. Me monthlies failed to come. Hot baths and gin wouldn’t shift it, and I even tried throwing myself downstairs but this only left me with a sprained shoulder, a black eye and a three-day headache. I prayed hard, too, but by three months I knew that I had, if you’ll excuse the expression, cooked my goose.

  There’s a long silence, then a gentle voice: ‘Are you all right, Maria? Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?’

  Just give me a moment, dear. Can we turn that thing off while I catch me breath?

  Patsy Morton research diary

  Spent the day interviewing M. What a dear old thing! She’s so convincing and her story even brought a tear to my eye once or twice, but how am I meant to believe she had an affair with the Prince of Wales? Why in heaven’s name would a man who had the cream of London society falling at his feet want to seduce a servant girl?

  But she’s such a sweetie and very entertaining, and I’m enjoying letting her ramble on. Might even use her as a character in a story some day. Have already decided to include her in my research, whatever Dr Watts says. Already on second cassette – need to buy more.

  Transcribed some of the tapes – a long old job – and befriended technician in the university labs to get my photos developed. Had to pretend I fancied him, and even ended up having to kiss him, just for a set of photos! Still it was worth it – I didn’t want to have to go to Boots.

  Here’s the entry from the first page of her medical notes, that I photographed:

  ‘Miss R. was admitted to Helena Hall three weeks ago, and was certified as suffering from paranoid delusional mania. Apparently she was in service (as a seamstress) at a large house but, since it appeared that she had no members of her family still alive, her employer had no option but to request certification. Upon admission, Miss R. exhibited patterns of extreme behaviour, making fantastical claims, including attempts at suicide, putting not only herself but other patients and staff in danger, requiring physical restraint and treatment with paraldehyde which has proved initially successful.’

  Am def. going to carry on with M.

  Chapter Eight

  London, 2008

  After the fruitless meeting with Pearl I decided to give up on finding out about the quilt, and concentrate on setting up my new interior design business. But Jo was still determined to prove her theory about the silks and had fixed up a meeting with her boss, Annabel Smythe-Dalziel, Senior Curator of Costumes, Royal Palaces.

  The old leather case was too heavy to carry on the tube, so I hauled down my wheelie bag from the top of the wardrobe, lined it with an old cotton sheet and then carefully folded the quilt, patchwork side inwards, before zipping up the case. It fitted perfectly.

  It was a bright, cold day and Kensington Palace seemed to glimmer in the low January sun. I waited nervously in the entrance hall, surrounded by crowds of over-excited schoolchildren and harassed teachers, until Jo arrived. She opened a door hidden in the panelling into the back-stairs area, and led the way along several dark corridors and into a white, well-lit room with a large table in its centre.

  Miss S-D turned out to be every bit as imperious as her name suggested. I guessed she was in her mid-fifties, tall and rangy, with a long face framed by stiffly lacquered hair held firmly in place with the kind of velvet hairband you only ever see in Tatler magazine. Her handshake was like a vice, her voice clipped, and I understood immediately why everyone was in awe of the woman.

  Jo passed me a pair of white cotton gloves and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her stifling a fit of the giggles as I nervously put them on back to front, with my little fingers in the thumb side. Then I had to take them off and start all over again as the two of them stood waiting, ready gloved.

  ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, then,’ Miss S-D said briskly.

  As we unfolded it across the table the quilt looked dull and shabby in the harsh glare of the artificial lighting, out of place in this pristine environment. I muttered apologies about the state of it as she leaned forward, peering through her magnifying glass.

  ‘Hmm. Medallion design,
central square on point, nothing unusual.’ Jo and I waited, suspended in anticipation as she scrutinised the embroidered central triangle and feather designs and the minutes ticked past on the wall clock above our heads.

  Eventually, she stood up and stretched her back. ‘This really is exceptionally interesting. Tell me, Miss Meadows,’ she pointed at the embroidery, ‘what do you see?’

  ‘A lover’s knot?’

  ‘Most handsomely embroidered it is, too,’ she said approvingly, handing me the magnifying glass. ‘But, as I think you know, it is the cream damask background fabric that deserves closer attention. Take a look for yourself.’

  I leaned over the quilt and put my eye to the glass.

  ‘Do you see the rose, and thistle, and then at the corner, the curved edge of what would have been a garland of shamrocks?’ A self-satisfied smile glinted across her horsey face. Across the table, Jo made a silent ‘told you so’ smirk, then hastily resumed a normal expression as her boss turned to her.

  ‘What is of particular interest, as you have already noticed, Joanna, is that these sections of background tissue, so beautifully made up of smaller pieces, are very reminiscent of the fabrics woven by Warner & Sons to designs created by the Silver Studio for the Duchess of Teck, for the wedding dress and trousseau of her daughter Princess May. Some of the fabrics were woven with silver threads and this certainly looks like a metallic weft although it is very tarnished.’ Miss S-D turned her gimlet eyes to me again. ‘Tell me, have you any provenance for this quilt, Miss Meadows? Joanna tells me it was left to you by your grandmother.’

  ‘That’s right. But we don’t think it was actually made by her. We think it might have been a woman she met, who had been a patient in a mental hospital, and was apparently an excellent seamstress.’

  Miss S-D’s face resumed its default expression of haughty scepticism. ‘It seems extremely unlikely that whoever it was could have got hold of royal silks in a mental hospital,’ she said. ‘Those designs were extremely closely guarded and I have never seen any trace of them outside our own collections, the V&A and the Warner Archive.’