The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  I nodded in acquiescence but was startled to learn that the risks to the Princess’s well-being were considered so high.

  ‘You will take your dinner now in the servants’ hall and the Princess will see you afterwards in her dressing room to outline your duties. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘Not at present,’ I said.

  The Baron turned his attention back to his ledger and I took it that I was dismissed.

  I returned to my room and hung up my other mourning dress and placed my undergarments in the chest. I pushed Ma’s travelling bag beneath the bed, along with the package of silk for the Princess’s ballgown.

  I took Peggy out of my bag and hugged her tightly, trying to dispel the hollow feeling inside me. It distressed me that I had no memories of the time before Ma, or Sarah as I must learn to call her, had stolen me. She’d said I’d cried bitterly for my mother so I must have loved her. And then there was my real father, who was not Sarah’s husband Joe as I’d always supposed. I wondered if he could really have been as unkind as Sarah said. She had been fond of her mistress, my real mother, and her judgement of the situation could have been clouded.

  I sat on the bed and closed my eyes, letting my mind drift to see if I could remember anything about my long-ago family. My very earliest memories were of hiding behind the furniture with my hands over my ears, listening to a hectoring male voice, but that must have belonged to Joe. The recollection made me feel as forlorn as I had then.

  Sighing, I stood up. Sarah’s petticoat was heavy but I daren’t take it off until I’d found a suitable hiding place for the gold coins. I straightened the bedcover and left the room.

  I followed the buzz of conversation to the servants’ hall and slipped into a vacant place at the refectory table. The girl beside me pulled her skirt aside to make room.

  I smiled. ‘I’m Emilia Barton.’

  ‘Mariette,’ she said, before continuing her lively banter with another maid. It would take time before I was accepted, I supposed.

  Dinner was plain but plentiful, a thick vegetable and bean soup with chunks of crusty bread, but I had little appetite. I glanced at the others, mostly maids but also a number of male servants. Signora Pergami sat at the head of the table beside her daughter Faustina and son Luigi.

  There was no formality and one by one the servants began to drift away to resume their duties. Signora Pergami was picking at what were left of her teeth with a knife when I went to ask her how to find the Princess’s dressing room.

  ‘The Princess has guests for dinner,’ she said. ‘You must wait in the hall until she’s finished.’

  I returned to my room to collect my sewing box and the parcel of silk before sitting down on the hall chair. Gales of laughter emanated from the dining room and a footman went in and out with dishes from the kitchen.

  Eventually the door burst open and the Baron and three other men strode across the hall and stood in a noisy group. A maid appeared from the back of the house with coats and hats in her arms and waited by the front door. Willy Austin sloped out of the dining room with his hands in his pockets. Then came the Princess, laughing uproariously at something her companions, a middle-aged couple, had said. Countess Oldi stood silently beside them, nodding and smiling.

  The maid helped the couple into their coats and saw all the visitors out of the front door.

  The Baron spoke to the Princess in a low voice while she looked up at him with an adoring smile. He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment before walking away.

  I was uncomfortable at witnessing what appeared to have been a private moment. The Princess turned towards the drawing room and I stood up and cleared my throat. She caught sight of me and clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘My dear Signorina Barton! I forgot I asked you to attend me. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you, Ma’am.’

  ‘Still sad, I expect.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘But we shall share some rides in the carriage together to take your mind off your wretchedness.’

  ‘You are very kind. If it’s not convenient for you to see me now, shall I return later?’ I noticed she’d spilled gravy down the front of her bodice.

  ‘Not at all.’ She waved at Countess Oldi. ‘Come with us, Angelica.’

  I followed them upstairs to the Princess’s dressing room. It was all I could do not to shudder at the sight that met my eyes. The room was crammed with chests and wardrobes. Garments hung from hooks on the walls and lay in towering piles on the floor. Shoes were tumbled into a corner. Grubby shifts spilled out of drawers and over everything hung the musty odour of unwashed clothing.

  ‘I can never find anything to wear,’ complained the Princess. ‘Since that traitorous girl left me, I’ve had a succession of maids to dress me but none has properly managed my wardrobe.’

  ‘I do not profess to be a lady’s maid,’ I said faintly, ‘but perhaps I may see what needs mending, altering or cleaning? I’ll arrange everything neatly, though it may be necessary to put some out-of-season items into storage. I fear we must be ruthless and discard items you no longer wear.’ I picked up a crumpled dress from the floor. ‘Does this fit well?’

  The Princess nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll sew on this loose button and mend the tear in the hem before sending it to the laundry.’

  ‘Faustina oversees the laundry maids,’ said the Princess.

  I set to work while she and Countess Oldi sat by the window discussing the Princess’s scheme to turn one of the upstairs rooms into a music room.

  Some time later I had a pile of clothes ready for mending, a larger one for the laundry, and several items that needed letting out.

  ‘Where would you like me to work, Ma’am?’ I asked. ‘I shall need a table by a window so that I have sufficient daylight to keep my stitches neat.’

  ‘I’ll have a table brought in here for you.’

  I glanced at the half-open door that led to the Princess’s bedroom and was conscious that it might not always be convenient for me to have free access to the dressing room. I glimpsed a child’s bed set at the foot of the large bed, draped with muslin curtains, and a large portrait of the Baron hanging on one wall. ‘Are there times you would prefer me not to be working in here?’ I asked.

  The Princess shrugged. ‘If so I shall tell you.’

  ‘Very good.’ I unwrapped the bundle of silk I’d brought with me. ‘I have brought the material for your new ballgown for you to approve.’

  The Princess fell upon the silk with cries of delight. I draped it around her shoulders so that she could see the effect in the looking glass. ‘I shall wear this to the Perticaris’ ball next month,’ she announced.

  ‘Then I will make sure it is ready.’

  The Princess smiled. ‘I can see I am going to be very happy with my new Mistress of the Wardrobe.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ I curtseyed, pleased that she had awarded me such a title.

  ‘I have plans for a bathroom with a sunken bath and frescoes on the ceiling,’ said the Princess, ‘and I have an appointment with my architect now. I’ll send for you later, Signorina Barton. I need you to write the invitations for a dinner here on Friday.’

  I curtseyed again and the Princess and Countess Oldi returned downstairs.

  Gathering up an armful of dirty clothes, I sighed. The organisation of the Princess’s wardrobe was going to be more onerous than I had imagined.

  Chapter 8

  March 1819

  I sat by the window with a purple crepe dress spread out before me. The seams had been let out before and there was barely enough material remaining to do so again in order to accommodate the Princess’s expanding hips. I made my stitches small and reinforced them at the point of strain, hoping there wouldn’t be an embarrassing accident if she bent over suddenly.

  The past month had flown by as I settled into the Princess’s household. Gradually, I was bringing order to her wardrobe. The fusty smell had gone from the dressing room and, since I’d packed away
any items that weren’t suitable for the time of year, there was sufficient space to house everything neatly.

  Sewing was a quiet pursuit, providing time to reflect, and my thoughts frequently turned to Signor Fiorelli. I smiled to myself at the memory of the way his face lit up whenever we met. Despite that I was still unsettled and confused, plagued by guilt that I had abandoned Sarah to die alone and yet remaining angry with her also for her deception.

  A patter of footsteps could be heard along the landing, the door opened and Victorine appeared. ‘Haven’t you finished?’ she demanded.

  ‘Almost,’ I said, looking over her shoulder to see her tutor smiling at me.

  I added the last stitches to the seam and snipped the thread. ‘It’s done.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day for a walk,’ he said.

  Ten minutes later we set off along the avenue of cypresses and into the lane leading down to the town. Victorine walked between her tutor and myself, swinging our hands.

  As we reached his home, Signor Fiorelli said, ‘I promised Mamma I’d take Alfio with us.’ He smiled. ‘Victorine likes the company and Mamma enjoys the peace.’

  ‘And how are you, Signorina Barton?’ asked Signora Fiorelli when she opened the door with Alfio at her side. ‘The Princess is keeping you occupied?’

  ‘She certainly is,’ I said. ‘She often likes me to sit with her in the salone while I’m sewing or writing her letters and she talks to me about Princess Charlotte.’

  Cosima came to greet me with a shy smile, while Alfio and Vittoria tugged at Signor Fiorelli’s coat, anxious to go out.

  ‘Come and eat with us when you can, Signorina Barton,’ said Signora Fiorelli. ‘Any friend of Alessandro’s is always welcome at my table.’ She smiled at me and then gave her son a searching look. I wasn’t sure which of us blushed the deepest.

  ‘Can we see the boats now?’ asked Alfio.

  Signor Fiorelli tickled his little brother’s chin. ‘Of course we can.’

  We said goodbye to Cosima and Signora Fiorelli.

  I stopped to buy thread in various colours at the draper’s in the town and then, as we passed the grocer’s shop, I paused.

  ‘I’d like to call in here for a moment,’ I said.

  Inside the shadowy shop, the grocer leaned over the counter between a pyramid of cheeses and a bowl of eggs. A row of dried sausages hung from a rack above, their pungent aroma enveloping us.

  ‘I am Signorina Barton,’ I said. ‘A few weeks ago you displayed a notice in your window regarding our dressmaking services.’

  ‘Indeed I did.’ The grocer shook his head sorrowfully. ‘My condolences. I was sorry to hear your poor mother has passed on since then.’

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps you remember she came to ask you if there had been any enquiries for us?’

  He smoothed down the front of his apron. ‘I told her a man had asked me about you. I remember it well because he was a foreigner. And he seemed very curious about you and your mother.’

  ‘Do you remember what nationality he was?’

  The grocer shrugged. ‘German perhaps. Or English. I thought at first he might have come to ask more questions about the Princess of Wales.’ He pulled at his moustache. ‘There have been many enquiries of that sort but the Princess is a good customer of mine, with so many mouths to feed up at Villa Vittoria, and I’ll not say a word against her.’

  Victorine tugged at my skirt. ‘I’m hungry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Just a moment, sweetheart.’ I took her hand. ‘What did he look like, Signor?

  He turned up his palms and shrugged. ‘Foreigners all look the same, don’t they?’

  I glanced at Signor Fiorelli, who was trying not to laugh. ‘Please try to remember.’

  The grocer narrowed his eyes while he thought. ‘Pale. And very tall. Thin.’

  ‘Then he might be the man I saw outside the cottage,’ said Signor Fiorelli.

  The grocer took a notepad from under the counter and flipped through the pages. ‘This is him,’ he said, peering at his notes. ‘His name was John Smith and he was staying at the Albergo Duomo. His wife wanted a new dress.’

  ‘My mother enquired but no such persons stayed there,’ I said. ‘If you see him again, would you be kind enough to let me know? I’m staying at the Villa Vittoria.’

  ‘Ah, working for the Princess?’

  ‘I am.’ I glanced down at Victorine. ‘And in the meantime we’ll have a few slices of your best salami.’

  We left the shop, nibbling upon the salami as we walked. When we reached the harbour the children ran ahead of us, squealing with laughter as they chased seagulls.

  We passed the cottage where Sarah and I had lived and the door opened. A young woman carrying a baby came out and crossed the street.

  ‘I’m relieved that a new tenant was found so quickly since I had to leave without notice,’ I said. ‘I loved the cottage and had hoped so much that we’d settle there.’

  ‘Don’t look so sad!’ said Signor Fiorelli. ‘I can’t bear you to be unhappy.’ He took my hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘You must miss your mother very much.’

  I didn’t answer for a moment. His amber eyes were filled with compassion and I decided to tell him the truth. ‘She wasn’t…’ I closed my eyes, feeling the dull ache of her loss. ‘She wasn’t my mother,’ I confessed.

  ‘Not your mother?’

  I shook my head, unable to speak for the sudden constriction in my throat. I’d had no one to talk to about it and I longed to tell him the whole story.

  He glanced at the children but they were happy watching the boats. ‘She adopted you?’ he asked.

  ‘No. She stole me.’

  His mouth fell open.

  ‘I didn’t know that until the night she died.’ All at once the great well of my grief overflowed.

  Signor Fiorelli made a small sound of distress and took out his handkerchief. Gently, he blotted my tears. ‘Don’t cry, Signorina Barton!’

  His tenderness made me weep all the more and he put his arm around me. I didn’t care what any passer-by might think and buried my face in the comfort of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of clean skin and feeling the rough texture of his coat against my cheek. He rubbed my back and kissed my fingers and at last my tears were spent.

  ‘What did you mean when you said Signora Barton stole you?’ he said.

  ‘When I was four years old she took me away from my home and family in London.’

  He shook his head as if he didn’t believe me. ‘But why?’

  I related the story Sarah had told me on her deathbed and when I’d finished he sat with his head bowed. At last, he said, ‘Family is everything. I cannot imagine what it might be like not to have my family. Of course we fight sometimes but it would be inconceivable for me not to have my parents and siblings beside me, giving their love and support.’ He looked up at me. ‘They are my life.’

  ‘Sarah and I were never very close,’ I said. ‘I’ve been lonely for as long as I can remember. Yes, we travelled together and we relied upon each other, but there was always something missing. We thought so differently about everything.’ I shrugged. ‘If my real mother hadn’t died, then Sarah would have returned me to my father. For most of my life I thought her fears were irrational and it made me angry. I’m still angry.’ I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat. ‘She said she took me away because she wanted to keep me safe but all I wanted was a normal life, with a proper family. Like yours.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault your real mother died, though. Did you never wonder why you looked so different from Signora Barton?’ he asked. ‘I noticed that the first time we met. She was so small, plump and dark while you are tall and slender with hair the colour of a Botticelli angel’s.’

  I couldn’t help smiling, despite my misery. ‘Your mother told me you thought I looked like a Botticelli angel. I’m flattered. He’s one of my favourite artists.’

  He shook his head, his mouth curving into a wry smile. ‘M
amma allows me no private thoughts.’

  ‘If I considered it at all, I presumed I looked like Sarah’s husband, Joe, the man I thought was my father.’ I squinted at the horizon while I tried to picture him. ‘His face was always red,’ I said. ‘Usually he was drunk or angry and his breath smelled rank. Sometimes, in my dreams, I hear his shouts echoing in my head. The memory of him still makes me afraid, even though he left when I was younger than Victorine is now.’