The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  ‘Ma,’ I said, ‘do you never want to go home to England?’ She only ever spoke of the past reluctantly and if I pressed her.

  She stared at her soup plate, suddenly very still. ‘I can’t,’ she said, after a brief pause.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It holds nothing but unhappy memories for me.’

  ‘But we must have family there…’

  ‘No!’ She took a steadying breath. ‘I grew up in an orphanage.’

  ‘I thought you said your family lived in Essex?’

  Her cheeks turned scarlet. ‘Before I was orphaned.’

  ‘What about my father’s family?’

  ‘I never met them. There was a quarrel and if they’re anything like him, we’re better off without them.’

  I loved Italy and had no desire to leave. It was only that, sometimes, I felt there was a part of me I couldn’t quite make out. My recollections of my father were vague since he’d abandoned us sixteen years ago when I was five. If I closed my eyes I could still hear echoes of Ma’s cries when he hit her. I remembered the sour smell of his breath, acrid with tobacco and red wine. I used to hide on the floor between my bed and the wall but sometimes he’d drag me out by my hair and shout at me, his face scarlet with rage. I shuddered. It did no good to think about those terrible times. I did wonder, though, if the lack of closeness between Ma and myself was because she saw his likeness in me. I certainly didn’t look like her so I suspected I must take after him.

  Once we’d finished our ribollita we whiled away an hour visiting the cathedral, admired the exterior of the grand Ducal Palace and the red granite fountain in the cobbled piazza, and then there was still enough daylight for a wind-blown stroll down by the sea. It was dark when we returned to the inn and a serving maid handed Ma a note as we came in.

  ‘It’s from Signor Fiorelli,’ she said. ‘There’s a cottage he’ll take us to see at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  I held out my hands to the fire so she wouldn’t see the spark of pleasure in my eyes. She didn’t like me to have friends, but I wanted to know Signor Fiorelli better and was determined Ma wouldn’t prevent it.

  I dressed with care in my violet wool walking dress with the embroidered collar. The sun shone and I was full of anticipation at the thought of seeing Signor Fiorelli again. After smoothing my curls, I put on my bonnet, pinched colour into my cheeks and went down to the public room.

  Ma waited for me there, her fingers plucking anxiously at her skirt. ‘There you are, Emilia! I’ve been having second thoughts about staying in Pesaro,’ she began.

  My heart descended into my calfskin boots. Not again! ‘Ma…’

  ‘We cannot work for the Princess of Wales.’ She spoke breathlessly, the words tumbling out of her.

  ‘We need the money!’

  ‘Listen to me, Emilia.’ She gripped my hands. ‘Think what it might do to our reputation if we become involved with that unsuitable household. No lady of quality would wish to use our services then.’

  ‘The Princess is a member of the Royal Family. How could anyone find fault with that?’ I sighed, exasperated.

  Ma lowered her gaze. ‘It may be indelicate to mention it but she and the Baron have a daughter and the Princess is married to someone else. How can we countenance such flagrant behaviour without being considered immoral ourselves? Besides, it’s not just that.’

  ‘What then?’

  She glanced over her shoulder at the deserted room. ‘We may have been followed here from Florence.’

  ‘Ma, please don’t make us move on again! You promised we’d settle this time.’

  ‘But we had to make such a fuss to secure ourselves places on the first coach to leave… someone may remember us. And your red hair is so noticeable. If your father asks after us, he’ll find out where we went. We must move on, more discreetly this time.’

  ‘No! Why must you always do this, Ma?’ I could hardly breathe for the fury that gripped me. ‘I’m tired of roaming like a gypsy and I’m sick of being poor because we constantly spend our savings on travelling. And all because you have some misguided notion that my father wants to harm us.’

  ‘He does, I’m sure of it!’

  ‘He left us sixteen years ago, Ma! He can’t hurt you anymore and your fears are utterly nonsensical.’

  ‘You know we had to leave Florence because a man had been asking about us.’

  ‘It was probably an enquiry for our dressmaking services.’

  Her lips folded together in a stubborn line. ‘I’m sure it was your father.’

  I paced across the room. ‘What possible reason could he have for wanting to harm us, after all this time?’

  She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again.

  ‘You didn’t let me say goodbye to Giulia in Florence.’ Resentment coloured my voice. ‘She was the best friend I’ve ever had and you insisted we left overnight without even giving me the chance to explain to her. I’d promised to make her wedding dress.’ I fought back sudden tears. ‘She’ll be broken-hearted and think I didn’t care about her.’

  The door creaked open and I wiped my eyes as Signor Fiorelli entered.

  ‘Good morning, ladies!’ He came to greet us with outstretched hands and a wide smile on his handsome face. ‘We have a cottage to see.’ His voice faltered as he saw my tears and Ma’s flushed cheeks.

  ‘It’s kind of you to arrange it,’ I said, forcing a smile. Ma opened her mouth to protest and quickly I said, ‘Shall we go?’ I allowed Signor Fiorelli to escort me from the room, hoping Ma wouldn’t balk.

  A moment later her footsteps pattered after us and I let out a sigh of relief.

  We crossed the piazza and reached the point where the River Foglia flowed into the Adriatic. I listened intently while Signor Fiorelli pointed out places of interest and all the while I prayed Ma wouldn’t be difficult. Her groundless fears always came to nothing and, this time especially, I wanted to stay.

  After a while we came to the harbour, bustling with boats and stalls selling mackerel and sardines. Fishermen called out to each other as they unloaded their catches and the air was full of the bracing scent of the sea.

  ‘It’s here,’ said Signor Fiorelli, pointing to a higgledy-piggledy row of houses beside the harbour, all colour-washed in different shades of terracotta, ochre and cream. I was delighted when he stopped outside a primrose yellow cottage with a tiled roof.

  ‘It belongs to my cousin’s great-aunt, Prozia Polidori,’ he said. ‘She’s too old now to manage on her own and she’s gone to live with her daughter. The family want to keep the cottage and its furniture so are happy for it to be rented.’

  The front door led into a sunny parlour furnished with a bookcase and rocking chairs to either side of the fireplace. A door opened into a dining room with an old-fashioned kitchen behind, leading to a walled yard with a pump and a privy. Up the winding staircase from the dining room were two bedrooms, not large but perfectly adequate.

  ‘It’s perfect!’ I said as we descended into the dining room again. ‘And this table is large enough to use for our sewing. The light in the parlour is excellent, isn’t it, Ma?’ I held my breath.

  She looked hesitant. ‘Is it available on a short lease?’ she asked. ‘If we don’t find work here we shall have to move on.’

  ‘I’m sure Prozia Polidori will find that acceptable,’ said Signor Fiorelli. ‘She lived in this house from the day she was married and frets about it remaining empty.’

  ‘Then, if the rent is not too high…’ I said.

  Signor Fiorelli mentioned a sum that seemed perfectly reasonable.

  Impulsively, I hugged Ma. ‘We’ll take it!’ My spirits soared as Signor Fiorelli shook my hand.

  He beamed at me. ‘I knew, if anyone could help, it would be my mamma.’

  ‘When can we move in?’

  ‘As soon as you like,’ he said.

  My new bedroom overlooked the harbour. I stood by the window looking out at the forest of masts a
nd watching the fishermen mending their nets. Seagulls wheeled overhead. Humming, I opened one of my travelling bags. It never took long to unpack since we always travelled light.

  Peggy, the calico rag doll I’d carried everywhere with me for as long as I could remember, smiled up at me. Her woollen hair, tied into two pigtails, was far redder than mine and she wore a spotted muslin dress, replaced from time to time according to what leftover scraps remained after completing a commission. Of course, I was far too old for dolls, but Peggy had always been there to comfort me when I was lonely and was the eternally faithful companion of my childhood. I lifted her out of the bag, kissed her freckled nose and set her on the pillow.

  The remainder of my possessions was soon stowed away. I carried my sewing box downstairs and found Ma unsuccessfully trying to light the fire in the kitchen.

  ‘The paper’s damp,’ she said. There was a smudge of soot on her cheek.

  I kneeled in front of the grate, rearranged the kindling and blew on it until the paper caught.

  ‘It’s burning well now,’ I said a while later as I held out my palms to the dancing flames. ‘I’ll light the fire in the parlour, too, and then everything will be comfortable.’

  ‘I’ll boil some water and start the cleaning.’

  I didn’t say that everything looked perfectly clean already; it would have been pointless. Ma always scrubbed everything from top to bottom when we moved into a new place.

  ‘I’ll buy something for supper.’ I buttoned my pelisse and collected the shopping basket.

  ‘Tuck your hair into your bonnet,’ said Ma. ‘Anyone looking for a redheaded girl will soon be on our trail if you go out like that.’

  Sighing, I pushed a stray curl behind my ear. ‘My hair is less likely to lead anyone to us than your English accent,’ I said tartly.

  ‘That’s why I ask you to do the talking.’ Ma turned away to lift a pan of water onto the fire.

  Signor Fiorelli had told us that the market was held on Tuesdays and Saturdays but I was pleased to find shops nearby. I bought bread, olive oil, beans and polenta then counted out the remaining coins carefully. Just enough. I bought a small chicken. It was an extravagance but I wanted to celebrate our new home. And perhaps Signor Fiorelli might be persuaded to join us for dinner.

  Ma scolded me when I returned. ‘We can’t afford meat until we have work.’

  ‘Then we must hope the Princess sends for us soon.’

  ‘I told you, we can’t work for her.’ She swept the floor vigorously, thumping the furniture with the broom as she muttered under her breath.

  ‘The grocer was happy to display our card,’ I said. We were often successful in finding clients that way when we moved to a new town.

  ‘You didn’t put our address on it?’ Ma’s expression was tense.

  I sighed. ‘You know I never do. I paid the grocer to make a note if anyone showed interest and said we’d call by to check. Then I introduced myself to the baker’s wife. I’m to go back tomorrow because she might have some plain sewing for us, chemises and petticoats.’

  ‘That won’t bring in enough to pay the rent,’ said Ma.

  Somehow she always managed to spoil the small triumphs in life. It was too exhausting to keep wrangling with her.

  Later that afternoon Ma was sitting in a rocking chair beside the kitchen fire, a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose while she darned her stockings. I was making polenta for dinner, wondering how to approach Signor Fiorelli with an invitation to share our chicken the following day.

  There was a knock on the front door and Ma dropped her scissors in alarm. ‘Who can that be?’

  I wiped my hands and hurried to find out.

  ‘Don’t answer it, Emilia!’ called Ma. ‘We don’t know anyone here.’

  A lady stood on the doorstep with a covered basket in her hands. She wore plain but well-cut clothes and a smart bonnet over her greying hair. ‘Signorina Barton?’ She smiled at me with warm brown eyes.

  I nodded.

  ‘I am Signora Fiorelli. My son Alessandro told me that you were moving in today.’

  I opened the door wide. ‘Please, come in out of the cold! I understand we have you to thank for finding us this pretty cottage?’

  Signora Fiorelli’s eyes twinkled. ‘And I see my son was correct when he said you have the face and hair of a Botticelli angel.’

  ‘He said that?’ I flushed with pleasure.

  ‘Indeed he did. Several times, in fact, so I thought I’d better come and see for myself.’

  I heard Ma’s footsteps behind me and pulled her forward to greet our visitor. ‘Signora Fiorelli, may I introduce my mother, Signora Barton?’

  Ma bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘I hope you are settling in?’ said our visitor.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Ma replied.

  Signora Fiorelli cast her gaze rapidly around the room and I was relieved we’d lit the parlour fire and made everything tidy.

  ‘May we offer you some refreshment?’ I asked.

  ‘Another time, perhaps? The family is waiting for their dinner but I’ve brought you something for tonight in case you’ve been too busy to cook.’ She uncovered her basket and held out a dish to Ma. ‘Rabbit stew. It only needs heating.’

  ‘How kind!’ said Ma.

  After Signora Fiorelli had gone I carried the stew into the kitchen. My pulse raced and I couldn’t stop smiling. Alessandro Fiorelli thought I had the face of a Botticelli angel.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, I was returning to the cottage with a parcel of cotton lawn together with several items of the baker’s wife’s undergarments to use as a pattern when I saw Signor Fiorelli hurrying towards me. I couldn’t prevent a smile from spreading across my face.

  ‘A note for you from the Princess,’ he said. ‘I was on my way to deliver it.’

  I unfolded it and sighed. ‘She asks us to call tomorrow.’

  Signor Fiorelli frowned. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘It would be an excellent commission but…’

  ‘What is it?’

  I decided to tell the truth. ‘Ma is very cautious,’ I said. I was too embarrassed to mention the extent of her irrational fears. ‘She’s worried it might affect our reputation if we work for the Princess since her household is somewhat…’ I hesitated, not sure how to put it. ‘Irregular,’ I said at last.

  ‘The Princess is very hospitable,’ said Signor Fiorelli. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps some of her parties are a little high-spirited. She takes a lively interest in whoever she meets, whatever their station in life, and is generally well liked. What is it that Signora Barton objects to?’

  ‘The Princess isn’t married to the Baron, is she?’

  He shook his head. ‘Bartolomeo Pergami is her steward.’

  ‘But Victorine is the Baron’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked puzzled but then his expression cleared. ‘Ah!’ He grinned. ‘I understand now! Victorine is not the Princess’s child.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Victorine has been encouraged to call the Princess “Mamma” because her real mother lives elsewhere. Since the tragic death of her own daughter eighteen months ago, the Princess has taken the little girl to her heart. She even named the Villa Vittoria after her.’

  ‘I remember I read in the newspaper about the heir to the British throne dying in childbirth.’

  ‘Princess Charlotte’s death was a terrible shock,’ he agreed. ‘The Princess is only now beginning to recover her usual good spirits.’

  ‘So Ma can have no justifiable objection to our working for her.’ Relief made me bold. ‘I wonder…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you care to join us for dinner? We’re having roast chicken.’

  Signor Fiorelli beamed. ‘I should be delighted! But now it’s time for Victorine’s geography lesson.’ He pulled a serious expression but there was laughter in his eyes. ‘Today I shall teach her about England and its
strange inhabitants with their peculiar customs.’

  ‘You had better teach me, too,’ I said, ‘since I am far more Italian than English.’

  Signor Fiorelli laughed as he walked away.

  I returned home in high spirits to break the good news to Ma.

  ‘I’m still not sure,’ she said, doubt written on her face.