The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  As itinerant dressmakers we lived from hand to mouth and were permanently concerned about where we’d next find gainful employment.

  ‘We’d be in a better financial position if you hadn’t made us spend most of what we earned from the Conti bride’s wedding dress on the coach fare from Florence,’ I said. ‘Still, the lady we helped after the carriage accident may be persuaded to give us introductions.’

  ‘Perhaps. But…’ Ma caught my sleeve. ‘Don’t walk so fast, Emilia!’

  ‘But what?’

  Frowning, she said, ‘There was something odd about the lady in the phaeton, wasn’t there? Her rings indicated she has a wealthy husband and her velvet pelisse was of excellent quality. But then there was that peculiar hat and those scarlet boots… Not at all suitable for a lady of her age.’ Ma pursed her lips. ‘And she wears paint.’

  ‘Many women wear paint.’

  ‘But it’s sorely out of fashion now and women of consequence and breeding don’t wear it applied in such a haphazard way. I can’t think how her maid allowed her to go out looking like that.’

  Ma, always discreetly dressed, never resorted to even a dusting of rice flour on her nose. She frequently said it was important to impress on our clients that we had impeccable taste. Once upon a time, before I was born, she’d been personal maid to a lady of the aristocracy and had learned how to conduct herself in a genteel fashion. Occasionally, she spoke wistfully of the natural elegance of her kind mistress and the grand houses they’d lived in.

  Ma glanced up at the winter sky. ‘We must leave in good time. It would be very disagreeable to have to find our way down this hill after dark.’

  The wind was bitingly cold and I was relieved when we came to the avenue of cypress trees, which the innkeeper had informed us led to Villa Vittoria. We walked briskly through an orchard until we arrived at a substantial stone house whose new roof was embellished with a large cupola. The grounds were littered with piles of sand and stacks of timber, and workmen climbed the scaffolding heaving blocks of stone on their shoulders. A colonnaded gallery to one side of the building was in the process of being infilled, while a matching wing was being added to the other.

  A pair of soldiers stood either side of the front door, dressed in the gaudily striped uniform of the Papal Guard complete with helmets and halberds. Since Napoleon’s defeat, the Congress of Vienna had returned the Marche to Papal rule but I couldn’t imagine why soldiers were on watch at Villa Vittoria. Our steps faltered but, since we were not challenged, I lifted the iron doorknocker and let it fall.

  Two great dogs loped towards us, barking loud enough to wake the dead. Ma and I froze to the spot.

  A man hurried after them. ‘Titus! Bruna! Come here, you brutes!’

  ‘We’re here to visit your mistress,’ I said, once he had the dogs under control.

  A maid opened the door, took our pelisses and indicated we were to follow her. I heard the clatter of pans and of women’s voices raised in argument from behind one of the doors leading off the hall. In the air hung the mouth-watering scents of fried garlic and baking bread.

  A child’s high-pitched laughter rang out as the maid opened the door to the salone and announced us. ‘Ma’am, Signora and Signorina Barton.’

  Ma and I paused on the threshold. The woman we’d rescued from the phaeton was on her hands and knees on the floor, skirts tucked up, pretending to be a horse. Victorine sat on her back, shrieking with delight as her mount bucked and whinnied. A bruise stained the little girl’s forehead but otherwise she seemed none the worse for her tumble of yesterday.

  Ma glanced at me, clearly shocked by such unladylike behaviour.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ Victorine’s mother rolled over so that the little girl slid off her back and dropped onto the floor in a fit of giggles.

  We stepped into the salone, a generously proportioned room with a high, beamed ceiling and arched windows. It was richly decorated in the Turkish style. A log fire blazed in the great stone fireplace and portraits in gilt frames adorned the walls. Our hostess could clearly afford to live in comfort.

  ‘I hope you have recovered from the unfortunate accident, Signora?’ I said.

  She shrugged, her fat little legs encased in sagging silk stockings stretched out on the floor in front of her. ‘It was only a tumble, though Willy was very naughty to give us such a fright. I had to scold him severely.’ She held out her hands. ‘Pull me up! We’ve been playing horses for the last half-hour,’ she said, ‘and I’m quite done in.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I answered, grasping her hands. Victorine giggled and came to add her efforts to mine as I heaved her mother to her feet.

  She sat down heavily on an overstuffed chair and waved us towards a sofa laden with tasselled pillows. There was a spider’s web in her hair and her skirt was smudged with dust. ‘Angelica, my dear, come and meet my saviours, Signora and Signorina Barton.’

  A small cough came from behind me and I saw a dark-haired lady sitting in the corner of the room.

  ‘This is the Countess Oldi, my lady-in-waiting,’ said our hostess.

  Ma glanced at me, her eyes wide.

  Countess Oldi, a handsome woman of about thirty, came forward as we made our curtseys. ‘Do you have family and friends in Pesaro?’ she asked.

  ‘None at all.’ We had no friends or family anywhere. Just for a moment I pictured my friend Giulia’s happy smile and anger with Ma for making us move on yet again rose up like bile.

  ‘Come to Mamma,’ our hostess said, pulling Victorine onto her lap. ‘I have been here only two years but the climate is good and the scenery delightful. In the summer I bathe in the sea… so good for the health.’ She leaned forward and said in a theatrical whisper, ‘And it is very cheap to live in Pesaro.’

  The room was overheated and, as my fingers began to thaw, I wondered how to broach the subject of introductions. I glanced at Ma, who sat with her eyes lowered and hands folded. Clearly, she wasn’t going to assist me so I took a deep breath, driven on by our urgent need. ‘My mother and I are both talented dressmakers,’ I said. This was no time for false modesty since we might never again find a wealthy lady so clearly under an obligation to us. ‘We’ve recently completed an extensive trousseau for Signorina Lucrezia Conti in Florence. She’s marrying the Duke of Mantova’s brother and only the most skilled work was acceptable. We have references and will be happy to show these to any interested parties. Perhaps some of your friends…’

  The Signora clapped her hands together and her face lit up like a child’s. ‘I was forced to dismiss my lady’s maid a while ago and my wardrobe is sadly out of order. I have a fancy for a new ballgown. Emerald, perhaps, in the Russian style with gold lacing. You might make it for me?’

  Ma, her expression a model of controlled restraint at the very thought of such a garment, said, ‘We’ll call on you at your convenience with our pattern books.’

  I let out my breath, relieved that I’d succeeded in my mission. I realised then I didn’t know our hostess’s name. Our unconventional reception had distracted me and it was awkward to ask her now.

  Victorine began to fidget, winding her fingers through her mother’s hair and pressing kisses on her cheeks to gain her full attention.

  Ma whispered to me, ‘You see, I knew she couldn’t have a lady’s maid to dress her properly.’

  ‘I’m hungry!’ said Victorine. ‘When is Papà coming home?’

  ‘Soon, my treasure. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and wheedle a piece of bread?’

  The little girl slid off the sofa and skipped from the room.

  The savoury aroma of roasting meat wafted in from the kitchen. I was hungry, too, and wondered when we might eat. I didn’t have long to wait.

  The front door slammed and there was the sound of hearty male laughter and footsteps clattering across the hall.

  ‘Ah, the Baron has returned from his hunting!’ Our nameless hostess smoothed the wiry curls bunched over her ears and turned expectan
tly to the door.

  It burst open and two men entered. The taller of the pair, aged about thirty-five with thick black hair and an extravagantly curled moustache, came to lift her hand to his full lips.

  The pungent scent of horseflesh rising from the men’s mud-splashed clothing made Ma’s nose wrinkle.

  Victorine ran back into the room and clasped the Baron around his knees. ‘I was waiting for you, Papà!’

  The Baron bent to kiss her. ‘And who have we here?’ He turned to look at Ma and me. At well over six feet tall, his splendid physique and confident presence seemed to fill the room.

  ‘This is Signora and Signorina Barton,’ said Countess Oldi. She turned to us. ‘My brothers, Baron Bartolomeo Pergami and Luigi Pergami.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ said the Baron. ‘The two Good Samaritans. I believe we owe you our gratitude and apologies after Willy drove you off the road?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I mumbled, overawed to find him looming over us. I couldn’t help thinking that he was the most unlikely husband for the little dumpling of a woman we had helped. He must have been at least fifteen years younger.

  ‘Let’s eat!’ he said.

  We trooped into the dining room where we found Willy, an elderly woman dressed in black, and a soberly dressed young man with a mop of unruly dark curls all awaiting our arrival. No one introduced us and Willy ignored us.

  Menservants in gold waistcoats under embroidered black coats lined with scarlet silk pulled out our chairs. A variety of soups, pies, roasted game birds, fricassées and puddings were laid before us.

  Covertly, I eyed the young man who sat beside me. A little older than I, he had an aquiline nose that would have graced a Roman soldier. Although not conventionally handsome, it was the hint of suppressed laughter in his eyes and his wide smile that caught my attention.

  ‘I am Alessandro Fiorelli,’ he said, ‘Victorine’s tutor.’ His voice was warm and mellow.

  For two heartbeats I gazed into his amber eyes. ‘Emilia Barton,’ I said, heat suffusing my cheeks.

  The Baron and his brother began to relate the tale of their morning’s hunting, verbally sparring with each other, and their laughter reverberated around the room. The old woman silently watched them as she chewed her dinner. Willy drank a great deal of wine.

  ‘Signorina Barton, Victorine told me how you saved her,’ said Signor Fiorelli. ‘Where do you come from?’ he asked. ‘Your mother is English, I believe?’

  ‘Where do I come from?’ I said. ‘Everywhere. And nowhere.’ I couldn’t begin to remember, never mind name, all the places where we’d lived since we rarely stayed anywhere for more than a few months. ‘We’re both English,’ I said, ‘though I’ve never been to England.’

  He looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face but must have sensed I didn’t care to discuss the matter for he changed the subject.

  I drank sparingly of the thin red wine, anxious that I might say something foolish under its influence. I watched Signor Fiorelli’s well-shaped mouth as he spoke and admired his dark hair and smooth olive skin. It was so very different from my pallid English complexion and strawberry-blonde tresses.

  Time seemed to have no meaning while I was talking to Signor Fiorelli and when Ma attempted to catch my attention, I’m ashamed to say I ignored her.

  Once we’d finished our dinner I glanced out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘We must leave at once, before it’s too dark to see our way back,’ I said, alarmed.

  Ma bit her lip with anxiety.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Signor Fiorelli. He smiled at our hostess. ‘With your permission, Ma’am, I shall escort these ladies back to the inn.’

  A short while later we were outside in the cold. We walked quickly and when Ma stumbled in her haste to match our longer strides, Signor Fiorelli took her arm.

  ‘I hope we’re not taking you out of your way?’ I said.

  ‘Not at all. We pass my family house on the edge of the town.’

  ‘Since we are strangers,’ I said, ‘I wonder if you know of anyone here who has a cottage available to rent?’

  ‘I shall ask my mother,’ he said. ‘She always knows what is going on in the town.’

  Signor Fiorelli pointed out his home as we passed by, a sizeable house with a neat garden.

  Soon we arrived at the inn. ‘I shall call on you in a few days,’ he said, ‘if I have any news.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ I said. ‘I’m embarrassed to admit this but I don’t know the name of your employer. The maid didn’t introduce us and then it was too late to ask.’

  Signor Fiorelli laughed. ‘I expect the maid assumed you knew of the Princess.’

  ‘Princess?’ Ma said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Signor Fiorelli. ‘Your hostess is Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales, daughter-in-law of your English King.’

  Ma clutched his wrist. ‘Not Princess Caroline of Brunswick?’

  ‘The very same!’

  ‘Well,’ said Ma, ‘that explains a very great deal!’

  Chapter 2

  The following day we took our dinner in the restaurant in the Piazza del Popolo.

  ‘My hands are frozen,’ Ma complained as we settled ourselves at a table by the fire. I looked longingly at the next table where two men were enjoying roast veal. As usual, Ma and I ordered ribollita, bean soup, the least expensive item on the menu. I wondered how long it would be before we found ourselves a commission to replenish our dwindling resources.

  ‘Tell me about the Princess of Wales,’ I said as we waited for our soup. ‘Why is she in Pesaro? I know little of what happens in England.’

  Ma sighed. ‘I haven’t been home for so very long.’

  How curious that although she rarely mentioned England, she still called it ‘home’.

  ‘It’s a strange story,’ she continued. ‘The Prince Regent is often called “the First Gentleman of England”, although, if you ask me, he’s anything but!’ She leaned towards me and spoke in an undertone. ‘Still, having met his wife, perhaps that’s easier to understand. Surprisingly, Princess Caroline was popular with the people.’

  ‘What is easier to understand?’

  Ma raised her eyebrows. ‘Does she behave like a princess?’

  I laughed. ‘Not at all. She’s…’ I was lost for words. ‘Unconventional,’ I said at last.

  ‘Quite. She has no sense of her proper position in life and is always happy to mix with the common people, despite being the Prince of Wales’s cousin.’

  ‘I thought she might be German.’

  ‘It was a political marriage. She was past the first bloom of youth when she arrived in England and only met the Prince three days before they were married.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have cared for that!’

  ‘As it turned out, neither did he. The gossip at the time was that when he first greeted her, he reeled back and called for brandy.’

  I frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Apparently she was not fastidious about her person,’ was my mother’s prim response. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, with a gleam in her eyes, ‘he drank for the whole three days before the wedding, had to be held up during the ceremony and then collapsed, dead drunk, into the grate on his wedding night.’

  I tried not to laugh at the picture of events she presented. ‘Hardly the behaviour of a gentleman! But why is the Princess in Pesaro?’

  ‘The couple wrangled for years. They had a daughter, Princess Charlotte, nine months after the wedding.’

  I smiled inwardly. The Prince of Wales wasn’t totally incapable on his wedding night then.

  ‘Within months they were living apart,’ said Ma. ‘The Princess of Wales behaved disgracefully, flirting with all and sundry. The Prince Regent wanted to divorce her and investigated her for alleged infidelity, despite certain…’ Ma glanced at me from under her eyelashes ‘… irregularities in his own private life. Nothing was ever proved against her but she left the country. I didn’t know she’d settled here.’<
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  Our ribollita arrived and I ate mine slowly. If Princess Caroline was married to the Prince of Wales, what was Baron Bartolomeo Pergami to her, if not her husband? He was Victorine’s father and the Princess was her mother so the child must have been born out of wedlock. And then there was the Princess’s son…

  I put down my spoon. ‘So, Willy is the future King of England?’

  Ma spluttered into her soup. ‘Oh dear me, no! That sullen boy isn’t her son at all. The Princess adopted him when he was a baby. As for Victorine…’ She broke off, her cheeks blazing. ‘Oh dear, it’s all most irregular. And now this woman of highly questionable morals is our best chance of immediate employment.’