A Second Chance

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘It’s… ahh… well, yes,’ Sarah said uncertainly. ‘Yes, I’m sure it was very nice in its day.’ Her attention shifted to the top shelf of the wardrobe. ‘And what do you have in there?’ she asked, pointing to the hat box.

  Amy replaced the dress in the wardrobe and lifted down the box she had borrowed from Maudie. She would not have dared bring the hat at all without the protection the box gave it. ‘This is my special hat.’ She held her breath as she opened the box and lifted the hat out, relieved to see that it had survived the journey unscathed. She held it out for Sarah’s inspection, the blue feather bobbing jauntily at the movement. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’

  Sarah gazed at the hat in silence. Her shoulders gave a small, jerking movement, and Amy realised that she was trying hard not to laugh. ‘It’s…’ Sarah stopped, gave a little cough to hide the awkwardness, then let herself smile. ‘Yes, I suppose it is lovely, in its way. I’m sure it was the talk of Ruatane once. It’s surely contemporary with the dress?’

  Amy stroked her precious hat. ‘It’s the same age you are. Just the same age.’

  Sarah looked at her quizzically. ‘Now, why does that sound so momentous?’ she murmured, more to herself than to Amy. ‘May I?’ she asked, reaching out for the hat.

  She handled it with almost as much care as Amy had, turning it round in her hands and studying it. ‘You’ve a story in you, haven’t you?’ she said, addressing the hat. She turned her attention back to Amy. ‘But it’s you who’ll have to tell it to me, Amy.’

  Could it really have been twenty-one years ago? Amy remembered it so clearly: the dragging weakness and the dull ache of loss that had made her dissolve into tears at the sight of another woman’s baby in the park; the wonderful treasure trove of a store that her father had taken her into, the beautiful hat that seemed made for a fairy-tale princess, and her father’s insistence on buying it for her.

  ‘Amy?’ Sarah’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘Are you all right, dear? Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind. I was just remembering old things.’ Amy managed a smile with difficulty. ‘Pa bought me that hat. It was just after you were born. He came to fetch me—he came up from Ruatane on one of the sailing boats, he had to sleep down in the hold with the cargo, I think. And he took me home on the steamer that same day. Poor Pa, he must have been worn out.’

  ‘It’s not a journey I’d relish,’ Sarah remarked.

  ‘He didn’t complain or anything. He was so kind to me. That’s why he bought me the hat—he thought it would cheer me up. I was… upset. They’d taken you away. I woke up and you weren’t there any more. Then the nurse took the cradle away.’ Her shoulders heaved with the effort of holding back a sob. ‘I wanted to go home. Pa came all that way to fetch me. We saw that lovely hat in Milne and Choyce—it cost an awful lot of money, but Pa bought it for me. It was to make up for not having you any more. He thought it would make me happy, you see. Pa only wanted me to be happy. That’s all he wanted.’

  Sarah put the hat down on Amy’s dressing table, slipped an arm around her and drew her close. ‘I see,’ she said softly. ‘Well, I think I do, anyway. Sit down, sweetheart, you’ve overreached yourself today.’ She guided Amy to the bed and they sat down on its edge, Sarah still keeping one arm firmly around her.

  ‘I know what I’ll do with you tomorrow, at any rate,’ Sarah said, her voice determinedly light. ‘I’m going to take you to my dressmaker—she has a milliner working for her, too, we’ll need the services of both. I should have thought of it before you came, but never mind. Mrs Stevenson can produce dresses remarkably quickly when there’s a need. But no plays tonight, I don’t think. Your wardrobe’s not quite up to it.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Amy bit her lip to hold back treacherous tears, annoyed at the childishness of her reaction, but feeling too weak to fight it. ‘Yes, you’re quite right, Sarah.’

  She tried to stare fixedly at the floor, but Sarah put a finger under her chin and lifted it to look into her face.

  Sarah sighed, and released her. ‘Well, perhaps we could. Yes, I suppose the black dress will do—there won’t be many people there in any case, with it being so early in the week. Very well, Amy, we’ll go out tonight.’ She smiled at the look on Amy’s face. ‘You’re easily pleased, aren’t you?

  ‘But first thing tomorrow, we’re going to the dressmaker,’ Sarah announced. ‘It’s a good thing I made sure I wouldn’t be caught up in meetings the first few days you’re here, we’ll need the time to set your wardrobe in order. Goodness me, Amy, my maids on their days off dress better than you’re able to, and not just when I give them my cast-offs. However, we’ll see to all that tomorrow. Tonight you’re to enjoy yourself.’

  *

  And enjoy herself she did, though the word was too feeble for the delight Amy felt at her first ever visit to the theatre. She sat perched on the edge of her seat through most of the performance, only vaguely aware of the beautifully dressed people all around her. It’s like a dream, she caught herself thinking. But whenever the play released its hold on her attention for a moment, the warmth of Sarah’s hand resting lightly on her arm made the evening more full of joy than any dream could be.

  She was still bursting with the excitement of it all when they were back at Sarah’s house. ‘And the actors—it was as if they really were those people, wasn’t it? I mean, they must be ordinary people in real life—just people like you’d see on the street—but you’d really believe they were dukes and soldiers and things. They put such feeling into it. “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” ’

  Sarah smiled indulgently. ‘Yes, it was a good performance,’ she allowed. ‘Don’t let your milk get cold.’

  Amy looked at the mug in front of her in mild surprise; she had forgotten its existence for the moment. She took a sip, and cradled the mug in her hands. ‘It’s still quite warm,’ she assured Sarah. ‘I’ve nearly finished it, anyway.’

  They were sitting in Sarah’s room; as she had said, it was even larger than the one she had given Amy. The fire was burning low, but the room was cosy. They sat in two deep armchairs within the wide bay window that, in daylight, gave a view over the surrounding houses and a glimpse of the park, but the room’s blue velvet drapes were closed against the night chill. The bed was an elaborate brass affair, with a quilted coverlet and a lace bedspread over that. A small shelf on a table beside the bed held a few books, Sarah’s current favourites.

  ‘Speaking of saying goodnight, it’s really quite late,’ Sarah said, glancing at a clock on her mantel. ‘Do you feel ready for bed once you’ve finished that milk? Take one of those books with you, if you like.’

  ‘I’m not very sleepy.’ Amy took a last mouthful of warm milk and placed the empty mug on a dainty table at her side. ‘Weren’t all the lights at the theatre pretty? And so bright! That electric light’s just wonderful.’

  ‘You’ll be sleepy soon enough, after the day you’ve had. I know I always was after going back and forth to Ruatane. Let me choose you something nice and soothing.’

  Sarah went over to the books, and came back with a slim volume bound in blue leather. ‘Here you are. Not as soothing as all that, perhaps—and a little improper in places, I suspect—but truly beautiful language.’ She opened the book at a marked place and read aloud:

  ‘ “Twice or thrice had I loved thee,

  Before I knew thy face or name.

  So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,

  Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be.” ’

  She closed the book and smiled. ‘Let John Donne sing you to sleep, but dream of me.’ She placed the book on Amy’s lap. ‘Now, come along to bed.’

  Amy followed her. When she tried to start talking about the play again, Sarah put a finger on Amy’s lips to silence her.

  ‘Not another word till tomorrow morning. It’s after eleven o’clock.’

  The bed looked invitin
g, and the room was warmed by its own fireplace. Sarah sat Amy down in front of the dressing table and once again removed the pins from her hair.

  ‘You really should go straight to bed,’ Sarah said when she had finished. ‘I intend to. Don’t read for too long, either. Good night, dearest.’

  She planted a soft kiss on Amy’s cheek, and rose to leave. In the doorway she paused and turned back. ‘Thank you for coming to me, Amy,’ she said softly, then pulled the door closed after her.

  Amy was undressed and in bed within minutes. She read a few pages of the poems, but soon a pleasant drowsiness crept over her limbs. She got up to turn off the light, enjoying the novelty of having electricity at her command, then slipped between those delightfully soft sheets.

  The room did not have the pitch blackness of nights on the farm; a faint glimmer from the street lights crept through the drapes, and the damped-down fire still gave out a dim glow. She had thought the light might keep her awake, but it only made the room seem more warm and comforting. Amy closed her eyes and fell into a sleep that held only comforting dreams.

  4

  Sarah’s dressmaker, Mrs Stevenson, was a tall, grey-haired woman in her late fifties, with bright eyes and a pleasant smile. When an assistant ushered Amy and Sarah into a comfortable sitting room, Mrs Stevenson greeted Sarah with an enthusiasm that suggested Sarah was one of her more valued customers.

  The young girl assistant was despatched to fetch morning tea, and Sarah explained that it was Amy rather than herself who was to be outfitted.

  ‘Mrs Stewart was unable to bring a great deal of luggage on the boat,’ she said. ‘And as she’ll be staying in Auckland for some months, she’ll need a range of outfits.’

  ‘Just a few things,’ Amy put in timidly, but the other two women ignored her for the moment.

  ‘So we’ll need to look at day wear as well as evening, of course,’ Mrs Stevenson said, clearly delighted at the thought of producing a complete wardrobe of garments. ‘Tea gowns as well as costumes for visiting?’

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ Sarah agreed. ‘One or two cloaks, as well.’

  Mrs Stevenson opened a notebook and began writing. ‘Two evening outfits, would you say?’

  ‘Three,’ Sarah said decisively. Amy gave a gasp, and was about to protest, but Sarah raised a finger to silence her. ‘Let me,’ she said, smiling at Amy’s stunned expression.

  ‘Three evening outfits,’ Mrs Stevenson repeated as she wrote in her notebook. ‘Tea gowns?’

  ‘Two should be enough for now,’ Sarah said. ‘And two walking costumes. Two for afternoon visits, as well. We’ll talk about hats when we’ve the dresses organised. Oh, and one other thing,’ she added, giving Amy a brief, sidelong glance. ‘Two sets of lingerie.’

  Amy felt herself redden, and wondered if Sarah had inspected the contents of her underwear drawer. Her second-best chemise had a small patch, while her spare corset cover was frayed around the neckline.

  She was rescued from her embarrassment by the distraction of the girl’s returning with tea and a plate of dainty biscuits on a tray.

  Mrs Stevenson produced a tape measure from her pocket and placed it on a small table by her chair. ‘I’ll take down your measurements when we’ve had some refreshments. Then we’ll look at fabrics, so you can decide what you might prefer. Ah, I must just ask,’ she said delicately, eyeing Amy’s black dress, ‘are you in mourning, Mrs Stewart? It makes a difference to what fabrics I should show you, of course.’

  Sarah cut in smoothly before Amy had a chance to answer. ‘Mrs Stewart was in mourning earlier in the year—light mourning, that is. She’s in the process of returning to dressing normally.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Mrs Stevenson said, clearly relieved. ‘That does make things simpler.’

  ‘Except I don’t think I could wear bright colours,’ said Amy. ‘I’d rather not—it wouldn’t seem right.’

  Sarah made a small grimace, but she nodded. ‘If that’s what you want, dear.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘Well, of course if that’s the case… it’s rather a pity, when… ah well, it can’t be helped.’

  Sarah pounced on the dressmaker’s hints. ‘What were you about to say, Mrs Stevenson?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just that with your pretty colouring, Mrs Stewart, there’s a lovely red velvet that suggests itself to me. Now, you have the same colouring, Miss Millish, but with your statuesque build red could be rather overpowering. But for Mrs Stewart with her neat little figure, it would be just right.’

  ‘Not red,’ Amy said, steadfastly thrusting the tempting image from her mind. ‘I couldn’t wear that.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Sarah said.

  Mrs Stevenson noted down Amy’s measurements, then ushered her and Sarah along a passage and into a larger room, one wall of which was lined with bolts of fabric. The fabrics were arranged according to some system that Amy could not grasp, though Mrs Stevenson seemed able to go straight to the bolts she wanted without the least difficulty.

  ‘Now, what shall we start with? Day dresses or evening wear?’

  ‘Day, I think,’ Sarah said. ‘We might have trouble coming back down to earth if we start with evening dresses. Do you have any special preferences, Amy?’

  Amy shook her head, too awed by the sight of so much satin and velvet, braid and lace, crowded into one room. ‘I’m sure any of these things would be lovely. You decide for me, Sarah.’

  ‘I have every faith in your taste, Mrs Stevenson,’ said Sarah. ‘What would you recommend?’

  Mrs Stevenson was very willing to offer suggestions. She held up different fabrics against Amy, frowning at the effect of some, which were then returned to their places, while others received an approving nod. She sought both Amy’s and Sarah’s opinions of each of her selections, sometimes offering a choice between two or three fabrics; when this happened, Amy insisted that Sarah choose for her, not trusting herself to make a proper job of it. If she had been able to find a price tag on any of the fabrics her choice would have been made easy, but none of them seemed to carry any indication of their cost. Amy decided that they must all be worryingly expensive.

  Even her so-called tea gowns, which, as Sarah had to explain to her, were intended for casual wear around the house, were to be silk; one in pale mauve, and the other a light green with white flowers. The fabrics chosen for the walking costumes were both of wool, but it was woollen fabric of a finer quality than Amy had ever worn, one rust-coloured and the other pale grey. Her gowns for visiting were to be silk as well, a heavy bronze satin for one and a dark green taffeta for the other. A silvery-grey woollen cloak would go with the walking costumes as well as the visiting gowns.

  Mrs Stevenson spread out engravings from magazines on a table for Amy to study the dresses illustrated. ‘Which styles appeal most?’ she asked, but Amy shook her head helplessly.

  ‘They’re all lovely. My head just goes round and round when I try and pick one. I don’t know which ones would go with which material,’ she added, casting an awed glance at the growing pile of fabrics chosen for her.

  ‘It’s up to you again, Mrs Stevenson,’ said Sarah. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, I do think that simple styles might be best, with Mrs Stewart not being very tall. What about something like this for the mauve?’ she asked, turning unerringly to the correct page of a particular magazine.

  They went through the whole range of Amy’s day dresses, and Amy gradually gained the confidence to make some selections of her own when offered a choice of styles.

  ‘Those should all be most satisfactory,’ Sarah said when they had decided on the last of them. ‘Shall we go on to the evening dresses now?’

  ‘We do need to choose the trims for these dresses as well,’ said Mrs Stevenson. ‘Perhaps we should do that first? I thought this lace would be perfect with the green and white gown.’

  Amy felt pleasantly wearied from helping choose the styles, and she let the trims be chosen for her, taking pleasure enoug
h in handling the frothy laces placed before her and admiring the soft colours of the braids. The room seemed something a genie had conjured up in answer to a girl’s wish for magically beautiful clothes, and Amy would not have been completely astonished if the whole scene had vanished to be replaced by her own plain little parlour.

  ‘Oh, Amy, you must show Mrs Stevenson your blue dress,’ Sarah said. ‘I suggested to Mrs Stewart that she might like to have one of her dresses remodelled,’ she explained to the dressmaker. ‘It’s several years old, but perhaps worth keeping.’

  ‘It’s too good to throw away,’ Amy said, carefully unwrapping the neat parcel of tissue paper the maids had fashioned around the dress. ‘I know it’s old-fashioned, though.’

  Mrs Stevenson spread the dress out on a table and examined it. ‘It’s good quality fabric. Quite well made, too. Yes, I think I could make something of this. Does it fit you comfortably, Mrs Stewart? It’s a very close-fitting style.’

  ‘I let it out a little bit a few years ago. I’ve had it since I was fifteen, and it was snug on me even then.’

  ‘Yes, the styles were tighter in the bodice when this was made. Now, perhaps if I were to add a panel in the front, and side panels to the skirt… here, I’ll show you what I mean.’

  She took up a sheet of paper and sketched rapidly, showing a full-bodiced dress with a patterned panel down the centre of the bodice, and matching panels on either side of the skirt. ‘This pale blue silk overlaid with this lace would be rather pretty,’ she said, placing the fabric and lace beside Amy’s dress. ‘I’ll have to alter the neckline, of course, but if I add a wide frill like this, in the same lace, it would look as though it had been intended that way. I’d remove this organdie frill at the hem—in fact I could change the lower edge completely, if I add a row of tiny pleats and a scooped frill. Like this, perhaps.’