The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  After I’d eaten the soup and apple pie I began to unpack. Drooping with fatigue, I released the pins from my hair and searched the bag for my hairbrush. It was then I realised with a jolt that Peggy wasn’t there. I snatched up the second bag, delved under the folded clothes and then tipped everything out onto the bedroom chair. Nothing. In my haste to pack I must have left the doll behind. I remembered then that I’d last seen her in Victorine’s arms.

  I missed Alessandro so much and there was a horrible aching void in my chest. My life would be unimaginably bleak if my father wouldn’t see me and if Alessandro didn’t still want to marry me when I returned to Pesaro. Shivering, I undressed and climbed into the cold bed, close to tears. In Peggy’s absence, I hugged one of the pillows, attempting to draw comfort from its downy softness.

  The following morning, I awoke when the maid lit the fire. It took me a moment to realise where I was. Grey light filtered in through the curtains and I sat up in bed. The bedroom chair was strewn with possessions and my stomach lurched as I remembered the desperate search for Peggy.

  ‘Did I wake you, miss?’ asked the young maid. She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled back the curtains. ‘I’ll bring you hot chocolate directly.’

  ‘What time is breakfast?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten o’clock, miss. Lady Hamilton is always prompt. You’ll hear the hall clock chime the hour.’

  I’d counted the quarter-hours as the hall clock chimed all through the night while I fretted about Alessandro and imagined how my father might receive me.

  After I’d drunk the chocolate I contemplated my tumbled clothes and shook out the blue silk dress I intended to wear while making my visit to Grosvenor Street. I wished I’d laid it flat the night before but natural optimism encouraged me to hope that the creases would fall out from the warmth of my body. The dress had been one of the Princess’s cast-offs and, although too short for me, I’d taken it in and added a band of contrasting blue damask to the hem, using the same material to trim the sleeves and bodice.

  I took extra trouble with my hair, coiling it up with a ribbon but allowing a few curls to frame my face. As I regarded my reflection in the mirror I remembered how Sarah had stood behind me when I’d looked in another mirror many years ago. She’d shown me how to style my hair to flatter my pointed chin and high cheekbones and taught me the tricks of her trade as a lady’s maid. Even though we’d had our differences, she’d always tried to do her best for me. We’d done everything together and I missed her.

  I stood by the window looking dejectedly at the rain as it pelted down on the pavement. The sky remained gloweringly grey. The day I’d left Italy there had been blue skies and golden autumn sunshine. I almost wished I’d never come to London.

  A carriage rolled along the street, sending up a spray of water and drenching a pedestrian. Turning away from the depressing view I paced up and down, planning, without a great deal of success, what I would say to Sir Frederick. I was uncomfortably aware that he might very well have me thrown out as an imposter.

  At last, the hall clock chimed and I slipped on my shoes, still damp, before going downstairs.

  Lady Hamilton acknowledged me with a nod as we went into the dining room.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said. I hadn’t seen her standing up the day before and was surprised to see she was at least six feet tall and certainly six inches taller than myself.

  ‘I trust you were comfortable?’

  ‘Very, thank you.’ The pleasantries over, we sat down.

  Anxiety at the prospect of meeting my father made my stomach churn but I drank coffee and nibbled a piece of pound cake.

  ‘Your father never remarried,’ said Lady Hamilton. ‘The death of your mother affected him greatly, I believe. You may not be aware,’ continued my hostess, ‘that the Prince Regent is a staunch Tory and that Sir Frederick supports him. The Whigs, on the other hand, support the Princess.’

  ‘I know little of English politics,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps you do not take my meaning?’ said Lady Hamilton. ‘Sir Frederick may not take kindly to discovering that his long-lost daughter has been residing in the enemy camp. Feelings run very high against the Princess in those quarters.’

  I placed my coffee cup carefully on the saucer. ‘I see. Nevertheless,’ I said, ‘since I’ve travelled so far, I shall still visit him, even if he turns me away. I’m very grateful to the Princess for offering me a position in her household when I needed it and my association with her is nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Lady Hamilton smiled for the first time. She pushed back her chair. ‘If you are ready, I shall send for the carriage.’

  I peered out of the carriage window as it progressed along Grosvenor Street. Everything in London was grey and damp. The street was wide and lined with substantial townhouses with slate roofs, not the warm-coloured terracotta tiles I was used to. The brickwork was dusted with soot deposited from the coal-fire smog that loured like a funeral pall over the town. It was all very different from Pesaro. Still, there was a general air of prosperity and elegance in the façades of these buildings, even though I had no memory of ever living in this illustrious area. Lady Hamilton had gone to the trouble of asking her brother, Lord Archibald Hamilton, to find out the exact location of my father’s residence and very soon we drew up outside.

  I was too nervous to notice more than that the house had a wide frontage with a pillared portico and a freshly painted front door and railings. My knees trembled as the coachman handed me down but I made a show of holding my head high and walking confidently up the stone steps. The lion’s head doorknocker was brightly polished and I knocked twice.

  A footman opened the door almost immediately.

  ‘I am Miss Barton,’ I said. ‘I should like to speak to Sir Frederick.’

  ‘Sir Frederick isn’t at home.’

  I was in such a state of nervous anticipation and false bravado that I could only stare at him. Of course, there was no reason to assume that Sir Frederick would be there.

  ‘I’ve travelled from Italy,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to wait?’ said the footman. ‘He’s expected shortly.’

  ‘I arrived in London only yesterday.’

  The footman glanced sideways at me and I knew nervousness was making me talk too much.

  The hall was decorated with a bold, almost masculine, paper hanging of purple and gold stripes and the floor was black and white marble. A great number of gilt-framed paintings were displayed on the wall beside the mahogany staircase and a pier glass over a matching console table reflected a magnificent arrangement of hothouse flowers. There was an air of opulence that I had only encountered in the homes of some of our richest clients in Italy and it made me even more nervous.

  The footman showed me into a morning room painted in faded pea green and I sat down to wait. The room spoke of ease and comfort, although here the upholstery was sadly worn and the curtains had faded where the sun caught them. All was in such contrast to the sumptuousness of the hall that I suspected the room might not have been redecorated for many years. I indulged a fancy for a moment that my mother had sat by the window at the satinwood desk to write her letters. I wondered if she might have chosen the flower paintings and the china figures in the glazed corner cupboard. I sat quietly, my hands gripped together while I tried, without success, to remember if I had played with my toys at her feet.

  I don’t know how long I sat there but, when I heard the front door open, my fingers were stiff as I unclenched my hands. There was a murmur of voices and then footsteps echoed across the marble. My heart began to gallop as the footsteps approached. Hurriedly, I pinched colour into my cheeks.

  The door opened and a man stood on the threshold. Slightly above average height and a little fleshy around the jowls and stomach, his iron-grey hair was combed back from a noble brow. From the top of his pomaded hair to the tips of his gleaming boots, he looked as sleek and well fed as a pigeon. ‘Miss Barton?’ he said.
/>   ‘Yes,’ I croaked. ‘Sir Frederick, I presume?’

  He moved quietly for such a solid man and was inside the room with the door closed behind him in one catlike movement that barely stirred the air. ‘My footman said you’ve travelled from Italy?’

  I nodded. Now I was face to face with him I couldn’t seem to make my mouth form the words to tell him who I was.

  He strode across the room and came to a stop in front of me. His face was impassive but his slate-coloured eyes were watchful.

  ‘I’ve lived in France and Italy for nearly all my life,’ I said. ‘But recently I discovered that I was born in England.’ It unnerved me to have him study me so intently. ‘I’ve come to London to find my family.’

  ‘Your family?’

  My mouth was as dry as sandpaper. ‘Before she died, the woman I thought was my mother told me that she was, in fact, my natural mother’s maid. She said she’d stolen me and that my name was really Harriet…’ I swallowed, unable to look at him. ‘Sir, I have reason to believe I am your daughter.’

  ‘Harriet Emilia Langdon.’ His voice was low and expressionless.

  ‘I realise this must be a shock to you.’

  White-faced, he clenched his jaw. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t know my own daughter?’

  ‘It’s the truth! I know you may not believe me but…’

  He lifted a trembling hand to smooth his already smooth hair.

  ‘I’m not a fortune hunter,’ I said, lifting my chin. ‘I want nothing from you…’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.’ Suddenly, he snatched off my hat and tossed it on the carpet.

  I gasped and shrank back.

  He plucked the ribbon from my hair, allowing it to tumble to my shoulders. Grasping me by my upper arms, he pulled me out of the chair. ‘I could never have forgotten the colour of your hair. I’d have picked you out in a crowd.’

  His eyes welled with tears and I felt the dawning of hope.

  ‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘I searched for you for years all over France and Italy. I advertised a reward for you. And now,’ he held me at arm’s length to study my face, ‘after all these years, you’ve simply walked back into my life.’

  ‘So you do believe me?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you, silly girl?’ He hugged me to his broad chest again and I felt a sob catch in my throat.

  I had found my father.

  Chapter 13

  ‘I never stopped looking for you, Harriet,’ said my father, ‘even though I thought you might have drowned with your mother. I can’t tell you how many false trails I’ve followed.’

  ‘Perhaps Sarah was right after all,’ I mused. ‘I always thought she was imagining that people followed us.’

  He scowled. ‘Don’t talk to me of that woman. She’s caused me more agony than you can possibly imagine. To lose both my children and my wife so close together was a living hell.’ He took my hands. ‘You must tell me everything, all the smallest details of your life. We have seventeen missing years to talk about. How did you live? Was it very terrible?’ Drawing a chair close to my own, he sat down beside me.

  I remembered what Alessandro had said. ‘Too much time has passed to build the years of memories that bind you into a proper family.’ But was it really too late for us? Father hadn’t rejected me as I’d expected. On the contrary, he’d welcomed me. I began to tell my story.

  Some considerable time later I sighed and leaned back in the chair.

  ‘I don’t understand how you managed,’ said Father, frowning. ‘Surely the income earned as travelling dressmakers cannot have been enough?’

  ‘We survived,’ I said. ‘Sometimes we went hungry but that served to sharpen our appetites to work harder.’

  ‘Did you not have anything to sell that might have brought in some money?’

  I saw how his hands gripped the arms of his chair. ‘My mother’s jewellery, you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘Or any other little treasures Sarah might have brought with her?’

  ‘Anything of value was sold while I was still small,’ I said. ‘Sarah’s husband Joe was a drunkard and he drank the proceeds.’

  ‘Nothing remained?’ asked my father. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

  ‘Was there something special you’re thinking of?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘there was a sapphire brooch that had belonged to my mother.’ His eyes met mine. ‘It was valuable and I should have liked you to have it.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing it. After Sarah died I found gold coins sewn into her petticoat. She’d never mentioned them. When I think of all the times we went hungry…’

  ‘She was a wicked thief,’ said Father, fists clenched. ‘But I’m glad you told me about the coins.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t want there to be secrets between us.’

  ‘Then will you tell me about my mother now?’ I said.

  Father stood up and riddled the fire with a poker. When he turned to look at me his face was etched with lines of pain. ‘She was beautiful,’ he said, ‘like you. But when our son Piers died then something in her died, too.’

  I hesitated but I had to ask. ‘Sarah said you quarrelled with my mother and confined her to her room. She said that’s why Mother tried to run away.’

  ‘Of course I confined her!’ Father’s eyebrows drew together. ‘After Piers died she lost her reason and threatened to harm herself.’ He looked directly at me. ‘And you, too.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I tried to keep her safe until she was well again but that interfering maid got her a key. And so Rose ran off and threw herself in the Thames.’

  ‘I wish I could remember her.’ I spoke in a low tone, my voice full of regret.

  Father curved his hand around mine. ‘I cannot give you your mother back and, God knows, I still miss her. But there is someone else you must see. Wait!’ He hurried from the room.

  I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, utterly drained. I’m not sure, perhaps I dozed, but then Father entered the room, steering an elderly lady by the elbow.

  ‘This is Miss Weston, your great-aunt Maude,’ he said. ‘My mother’s sister.’

  I bobbed her a curtsey, looking at her with curiosity.

  Thin and frail, she leaned upon an ebony stick and blinked watery blue eyes at me. ‘Harriet?’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘You really have returned to us?’ Her face was bone-white against her black shawl and a few silvery wisps of hair had escaped from her cap.

  ‘I answer to Emilia,’ I said. ‘I’m too accustomed to it now to revert to Harriet.’

  Father smiled. ‘It will take me a little time to become used to that.’

  ‘Frederick told me that your mother’s maid stole you away,’ said Aunt Maude. ‘And you have been abroad with her all this time?’

  ‘She died,’ said Father, ‘and poor Emilia was forced to live in Caroline of Brunswick’s peculiar household. Can you imagine? Still, there’s no reason to mention that to anyone. None at all.’

  I remembered Lady Hamilton’s comments about his support of the Prince Regent.

  ‘I daresay Emilia will have returned abroad before any of your cronies hear where she’s been living,’ said Aunt Maude.

  ‘Return to Italy? Certainly not!’ Father patted my cheek. ‘My little girl has come home again and I’m not letting her out of my sight.’

  ‘But I must return…’ I began, thinking of Alessandro.

  ‘Emilia, listen to me!’ said Father. ‘I cannot allow my daughter to return to a life of penury, working as a travelling dressmaker, of all things. Or, even worse, as a servant to that appalling madwoman.’ The distaste in his voice made it sound as if I’d been earning my living on the streets.

  ‘The Princess took me in when I was left alone,’ I protested. ‘Besides, I have friends in Italy.’

  ‘It’s perfectly natural for Emilia to wish to return to the li
fe she knows, Frederick,’ said Aunt Maude.

  ‘You have family in England,’ said Father, ignoring his aunt. ‘Where are you staying, Emilia?’

  ‘Portman Street,’ I said, ‘with Lady Hamilton. I shall accompany her back to Italy in a few days’ time since she’ll be taking up her position as the Princess’s lady-in-waiting again.’

  ‘It gets worse!’ he said, striding across the room. ‘You absolutely cannot stay there. Lady Hamilton’s brother is the Radical MP Archibald Hamilton. I’d never hear the end of it! I’ll have your luggage collected immediately.’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask Emilia what she wants, Frederick?’ Aunt Maud glanced enquiringly at me.