Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  Sylvie’s brow furrowed, thinking back to the poky terrace Nick had driven her to after their visit to Lady Tarlington. She’d felt awful after seeing it. The new development in the centre of town was clean and smartly built, but it had all the character of a cardboard box. It didn’t seem much wider than one, either.

  ‘I tried to talk to Wendy but she froze me out, told me not to worry. You were right, though – I don’t think she’s looking forward to the move. But I don’t know what to say to her. Mum’s always so sure of herself, so capable. I think she’s got her heart set on this sale.’

  ‘You know,’ said Nick slowly, ‘I’m not sure about that. Maybe you should talk to her about it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sylvie, unconvinced. Since when was she able to talk – really talk – to her mother? She changed the subject. ‘Hey, did I tell you about that documentary, and what Tabs and I were working on when you came into the café the other day?’ She sat up, her hands on the grass behind her.

  ‘You said something about research – I was meaning to ask you but I got caught up in the whole grant thing.’

  ‘That’s okay. You know, I’ve been assuming that my ancestors are beyond reproach, but I actually found out something really interesting about Rose. Rufus told me that he thought she ran away, rather than died, sometime in the twenties. He thinks Rose changed her identity. I’ve been thinking about Lady Tarlington and her comments about Archibald being violent, and Mum trawled through all of Birdie’s diaries and letters and found a mention of her being furious with Archie after seeing bruises on Rose’s arm. It’s all starting to seem like a case of domestic abuse.’

  ‘Really? That’s awful. It sounds like her life was more complicated than you thought.’

  Sylvie nodded. That whole family mythology, about the Dearloves and who they were, felt like it was changing before her eyes. Maybe it was the same as Nick’s story, and her own lies about what had happened in New York . . . Nothing was ever quite as it seemed.

  ‘Sylvie, do you remember that evening we spent together, all those years ago, just before you left for the States?’ Nick coughed into his left hand.

  ‘Do you think I lost my memory while I was over there as well?’

  He let out a small laugh. ‘No. I just . . . wondered how you remembered it.’

  Sylvie flushed and looked away. Six years ago, when she’d been visiting Somerset, she’d run into Nick. It was the first time she’d seen him since college and they’d spent an afternoon catching up in the pub, demolishing the better part of two bottles of wine between them and continuing on into the evening without eating anything more than a pack of crisps. Finally Sylvie had wound things up and called herself a cab home, but as she’d unsteadily leaned over to kiss him goodbye on the cheek, she’d lurched further than she intended and their lips met and lingered for a moment before Sylvie came to her senses and pulled away. That was just before she’d left for New York, and since then so much had happened that she’d barely thought about that night, but now, remembering the encounter, her stomach clenched and she couldn’t help the warmth rising to her cheeks.

  ‘I take it you’re referring to me getting so drunk I almost kissed you?’ Sylvie asked, trying for a light, airy tone.

  ‘You did kiss me. But no. I mean the message I left on your phone afterwards.’

  Sylvie laughed. ‘That was funny. You were singing, I remember. I listened to it the next morning, but it cut out halfway through.’

  Nick covered his face with his hand. ‘That’s probably for the best.’

  ‘Don’t worry! We were smashed. You were being hilarious.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Glad I amused you.’

  She poked him in the ribs.

  ‘I’m fine, you just wounded my masculine pride . . . It’s not every girl I serenade, you know.’

  ‘Haha. I bet you say that to all the women.’

  He poked her right back, in her tickle spot, and Sylvie rolled around on the grass. ‘Stop it, you goon!’

  ‘What, this? You don’t like it?’ Nick grinned, tickling her harder.

  Sylvie let out peals of laughter, wriggling away. Suddenly her phone, which was on the ground beside them, pinged with a message.

  Nick glanced at the screen, before rolling away. ‘It’s from Ben,’ he said tonelessly.

  Sylvie propped herself up on her elbows and looked at her phone. ‘Sorry, Nick. I’d better reply to this.’ She started texting a quick reply. She’d left him a message about her things, which she was trying to arrange to get sent back home.

  At the thought of finally setting her relationship to rest, Sylvie felt an overwhelming wave of relief. There was still that familiar stone of shame sitting in the pit of her belly, making her feel awkward and wrong, but something else had shifted. It wasn’t all her fault, what had happened with Josh. There was chemistry, and many drinks involved. The new feeling of lightness was exhilarating. She wondered whether she should mention the break-up to Nick, but suddenly he glanced at his watch and jumped to his feet, towering over her, casting her into shadow.

  ‘Sorry, I just realised the time. I’d better head off.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Sylvie asked, her face falling.

  ‘I’ve just got something to take care of,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you soon, yeah?’ Dusting himself off, Nick gave her a crooked smile and strode away purposefully.

  ‘Oh, okay . . . bye then.’ Sylvie sunk back against her elbows.

  Weird, she thought, pulling out a blade of grass and twirling it between her fingertips, watching as he disappeared around the corner and behind a copse of trees. She missed him already.

  As she lay there on the lush grass in the dappled sunlight, Sylvie suddenly realised she felt calmer and happier than she had in ages. Half-asleep, listening to the deep, green quiet, broken only by the occasional birdcall, she felt something creeping up on her . . . a dawning realisation that she actually cared – really cared – about this place, the place that until recently she’d thought of as a millstone around her neck. Sylvie swallowed abruptly. She loved Bledesford, it was her home – her parents’ home. What had she been thinking, wanting to sell it? But, she sat up abruptly, had she left it too late to change her mind?

  Diary entry: Victoria Rose Dearlove

  12 May 1938; Paris, France

  Arrived this morning. Paris! I’m actually in Paris! Can hardly believe it – and so much else besides. Weather muggy, sky clear. Birdie & I shared the sweetest little overnight cabin. I found a new dress, simple & elegant. Birdie says I can embellish it myself, with haberdashery items found here – she knows all the shops to visit. Dear Birdie, she spoils me rotten. Finds the perfect gift, always. She gave L a very smart valise before we left, with special compartments for boots and books. Promised to take her to Morocco on her next trip – not that I think L would want to go. Birdie doesn’t play favourites, but we have a special bond. L & Birdie are too similar to get along most of the time, I think.

  Late breakfast at the hotel – pastries & jam. Walking around Les Tuileries gardens together, we stopped at a bench to overlook the Seine. Waited, waited, not sure why or what for.

  Birdie tight-lipped. Tense. Then, the most shocking thing, dear diary. Still can hardly believe it myself. R arrived. So beautiful, so sad. We shed many tears between us. A full decade – lost. It’s breathtaking. So full of questions, pushed down over all these years. Whatever must have happened to make her leave? But after the pain, it was marvellous to see her – could not stop embracing.

  R was with Lady C, her closest friend. Such a kind woman, I am very fond of her. She’s looking after R well. BT visits too, when possible. Has coterie around her, keeping her company. Feel better about that – R has friends.

  Birdie filled me in. She told me about Farve finding her and H in Paris. About his attacking her and H knocking him down. About his fury and telling her she was dead to the family and could never return or use her name. That was the condition under which he would let her go
. I saw R’s wrist. Lump still there from when broken. Other aches & pains, bad back. Scars from her ‘fall’. So many tears. I hate to think of it. Thoughts all awhirl. Father is a wretched, wretched creature!

  Secrecy, dear diary. L doesn’t know. Birdie says we must only break news at the opportune moment. Not sure when. L always too close to Father – what if she tells? Not sure if I can look him in the eye when I return.

  One blissful week ahead, catching up with R. H is in England for some special project. Not taking too many commissions at the moment as he hates to be separated from R.

  One week, then what? R promises she will write, and Birdie will pass along to me. I’ll respond vice versa.

  Lunch & afternoon with R & C & Birdie. Dinner just R & Birdie & me. In bed now. Exhausted. Emotional day. Happy sad. Mostly happy. Wondering what tomorrow will bring.

  29

  Sylvie took the rose Nick had given her and popped it in a single-stem vase, before splashing her face and hands with cold water and drinking from cupped palms. She stared at her reflection in the glass window above the sink, her eyes bright and the colour high in her cheeks from too much sun. She heard the back door slam and realised Tabs was back from town.

  Tabs walked into the kitchen, followed by Nick’s friend, Sam. Sam was tanned, with bulging bicep muscles from working so many hours with a shovel, and his eyes were hooded and a lovely, pale hazel colour. His face was split from ear to ear with a smile.

  ‘Hello! Sam gave me a lift home. The bike got a flat so he popped it in the back of his truck. Treasure, isn’t he?’ Tabs grinned, reaching up to pat Sam’s cheek a little condescendingly. Sylvie saw Sam stiffen.

  ‘I guess I’ll see you later then,’ he said, awkwardly backing out. ‘Bye, Sylvie.’

  ‘Bye, Sam!’ Sylvie raised an enquiring eye at Tabs. ‘Got what you needed then?’

  ‘Shut up. Look what I found, Sylv – this delicious bolt of grey silk, and some gorgeous beads. Don’t you think it’d look great if we made a camisole out of them, based on that beautiful beaded dress of Victoria’s – what do you think?’

  ‘Stunning, yes!’ Sylvie fingered the silky fabric. ‘We could just kind of slash it at the hip; that way you could wear it with jeans, or any way you want, really. Mmm, an asymmetric hem, don’t you think? Perfect for layering with a thin white tee. Think nineties supermodels in slips and denim meets thirties screen goddess . . . with a bit of seventies punk attitude thrown in for good measure.’ Sylvie felt herself getting excited. ‘It’d be much more versatile that way, and we can always make the longer frock in a short run.’

  ‘I love it, you clever thing!’ Tabs gave Sylvie a hug. ‘We work so well together, don’t we? You know, I was thinking that we could really expand on the idea of key pieces, season after season, and doing smaller runs overall . . . We’ve both always said there’s way too much throwaway fashion in the market, haven’t we? And that we hate how the majority of high-end labels only cater to women of a certain body type – like a size 8.’ She snorted. ‘Which is crazy, because we paid for some research recently and apparently natural size 8s or less make up something like five percent of the population. The rest are starving themselves. Look at me, for example, or even you. You’re tiny, but you’re usually a size 10. Actually, are you still a 10?’

  Sylvie swatted her on the shoulder. ‘Cheeky . . . I have actually put on a bit. But I don’t mind, for a change. With all the exercise I’ve been doing lately, I’m feeling good. Strong. But keep talking – what’s your idea?’

  ‘See, that’s exactly my point: you should feel good about yourself. You look great, feel good and are perfect the way you are. I was thinking, what if we were to set up a business model where we make only sample sizes that fit real women. I’m talking size 8 to 18 – fair enough, really, when you consider that the average Englishwoman is actually a size 14 to 16 – and our customers could come in and try on the clothes before they purchase, just to make sure they fit, and that they like them? Then when we have all their orders, we could go into production.’

  ‘You mean we’d alter them if they didn’t fit? Like couture?’

  ‘Not exactly. That would be too expensive for the customer we’re talking about. Women like us: fashion conscious but confident with their own style. In their thirties or forties, or funky fifty year olds. Not rich, but comfortable – ha ha, not us, then. But we’d take their orders straight up and make them locally. We’d have an ethical bent too, because there’d be zero waste at the end of it. No leftover stock and returns from shops. No faffing about with agents or boutiques. And we’d be bound to get lots of publicity – no one’s really doing this at the moment. No one with our fashion background. And the beauty of it is, we could stay small and run it by ourselves.’

  Sylvie was thinking, the cogs turning quickly in her brain . . . They could work on their collections down here, if they were to stay on at Bledesford, where they’d be in close proximity to all the vintage clothes in the attic. But they could take a trunk show up to London every season, twice a year. Post the finished product to the customers directly. And those who knew their size well enough could simply order them online. It would be easy enough to hire a small space to show their collection up in London – hell, both of them knew enough people they could ask to loan them studios or warehouses for a few days – and take it from there. Tabs wouldn’t even need to quit her day job. No large runs, no major fuss – especially if they stayed small. And they both had big enough networks and media contacts to promote it without advertising spend. It was a bloody brilliant idea.

  ‘So?’ Tabs asked, watching her. She was biting her lip expectantly.

  ‘I. Love. It.’ Sylvie felt her breath quicken. ‘We could call it Tabitha Rose – what do you think? Cos it’d be a little bit upmarket, a little bit bohemian – but all based on original vintage designs. Oh, Tabs, it’s genius.’

  ‘Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ Tabs jumped up and down, grabbing Sylvie’s hands excitedly, almost pulling her arms out of their sockets. ‘We’re gonna be part-ners, we’re gonna be part-ners . . . Tabs and Sy-lv, Tabs and Sy-lv . . .’ Tabs did a little happy dance, pulling Sylvie along with her.

  Sylvie laughed, caught up Tabs’s enthusiasm, chanting along with her as they danced around the room.

  ‘Ouch!’ she cried as she bumped her hip against the Aga – they’d been whirling around like kids.

  Tabs collapsed over her knees, breathing heavily and laughing. They grinned at each other like idiots. Tabs cocked her head to one side, clearly wondering whether to say something.

  Sylvie could tell what was coming straight away.

  ‘Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Syl – how are you feeling . . . about what happened?’

  ‘Ben, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Actually, I’m feeling pretty good. I think I was feeling so shit about myself, about what a horrible person I was, that it was actually kind of a relief when he chucked me. The truth is, I don’t much mind that he’s hooked up with someone else. In fact, I’m happy for him. He deserves to meet the right person. And that’s not me.’

  She tried to summon up Ben’s brown hair and lovely white teeth in her mind, but somehow he kept slipping away from her. All she could see was Nick’s face instead, grinning down at her as she lay on the grass.

  ‘So now that Ben’s out of the picture and we’re starting this label,’ Tabs poked Sylvie, ‘you’re going to stay in the UK, aren’t you?’

  Sylvie nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Tabs reached over and held her hand firmly. ‘I’m so glad. I’ve missed you.’

  Sylvie’s eyes misted over. ‘Thanks, Tabs, I’ve missed you too.’ She hesitated. ‘But Tabs . . . I think we’ve made a terrible mistake, trying to sell Bledesford. I just don’t know how to start speaking about it with Mum and Dad – they were so clear that selling was what they want to do, and I was so for the idea too, and now that ghastly Mark Rutherford is hounding us to close the deal.�
��

  ‘Maybe you should scope things out with Lizzie first,’ suggested Tabs. ‘Surely you can convince her about that idea of applying for an estate grant? If she’s on board, wouldn’t she help convince your parents to stay?’

  Sylvie pulled at her lip, thinking. She wasn’t sure, but it was worth a shot.

  Sylvie tapped softly on the ballroom doors before putting her head around the corner.

  ‘Grandmama . . . are you awake?’

  Lizzie’s eyelids fluttered open, and she held out her hand towards Sylvie. ‘Hello, darling. Yes, just resting. What have you been up to? Must be nice having Tabs down again.’

  ‘It’s a hoot. I missed her when I was living in the States . . . Hey, I have something to show you. Do you remember how I was asking you about this dress,’ Sylvie said, holding up the grey silk dress on its hanger, ‘and you said it belonged to your sister, Victoria?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Well, Tabs and I have been talking about setting up a new label, here in the UK. We’re thinking about redesigning classic pieces from the attic collection together, for modern women . . . Actually, will you give me a minute just to show you?’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘A new label? How . . . interesting.’

  Sylvie tried to ignore the hesitation in Lizzie’s voice and slipped behind the wooden screen with their first sample, which she and Tabs had knocked up in a couple of hours upstairs using the grey silk and beads that Tabs had bought. She flung off her sandals, Current/Elliott jeans and frilly white singlet, and pulled the long beaded sheath over her head. ‘Ready?’ she called, waiting for Lizzie’s response.

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ came the croak.

  ‘Ta-daaaa!’ As Sylvie stepped out from behind the screen with a little flourish, she saw a strange look flash across her great-grandmother’s face as she let out a thin, piercing scream of horror.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, I couldn’t!’ Lizzie babbled, her hands over her eyes. ‘I always did what I thought was right—’