The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

If this meeting went any longer, there was a distinct possibility that Sylvia Pearsall would scream.

She shut her eyes, praying to be delivered from the ten-minute discussion currently raging about whether the tablecloths at the next War Widows’ Fund tea should be white or ivory. Surely what mattered was that the charity raised as much money as possible to supplement fallen soldiers’ pensions and help their grieving families.

She opened her eyes again, willing herself to focus. She’d almost skipped this committee meeting, but charity work was the anchor upon which her entire social calendar was built, and she couldn’t let go of it. Not when she felt so very adrift.

“Thank you for that fascinating insight into linens, Mrs. Harwell,” said Lady Nolan, their chairwoman, finally cutting the speaker off with her usual air of authority. “I’m sorry to say that we have gone past our time.”

All around Sylvia, ladies with perfectly coiffed hair and patriotic red lips nodded.

“We shall pick up the matter of the tablecloths at our meeting in two weeks’ time. Until then, ladies,” Lady Nolan dismissed them.

Dread soured Sylvia’s stomach. Much as she’d wanted the meeting to end, now that it was over, she would have to go home. Home to an empty flat and them .

Slowly she closed her notebook and capped her Parker pen, slipping them both into her crocodile handbag. Then she pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her full height, enhanced by leather heels, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

If only she could slip out and—

“Shall we walk out together?”

Sylvia managed to arrange her features into a soft smile before turning to Claire.

Married to Sylvia’s husband Hugo’s school friend Rupert Monroe, Claire had been the first of Hugo’s set to welcome Sylvia into their circle. Claire too had been the first to share a knowing look with her when the gentlemen said something a little risqué at supper, the first to compliment one of her gowns at a ball, and the first to congratulate her on her engagement. It had been natural, then, that when Hugo’s mother had urged her to consider asking Claire to be a bridesmaid, Sylvia had said yes without hesitation, asking Claire before anyone else.

It was because of this shared history that Sylvia heard herself say, “I’d like that very much.”

As soon as they had collected their coats, Claire leaned in and asked in a low voice, “Did you see Lady Winman’s hat? It was positively bizarre.”

“It was rather avant garde for a charity committee meeting on a Wednesday afternoon,” Sylvia admitted, thinking back to the geometric configuration that had bobbed on the head of the slightly aloof Lady Winman, the newest member of the committee.

“It was positively bizarre, that’s what it was. Someone really should take her aside and remind her that we’re at war.” Claire sniffed. “I’m shocked the dowager hasn’t done it herself, but—even now—they don’t like one another.”

“At least the hat was black,” Sylvia said because she simply didn’t have it in her to rise to the bait of asking why the Dowager Countess of Winman and the current Lady Winman did not see eye to eye.

Claire nodded to the housekeeper holding open the front door of Lady Nolan’s Mayfair home and, as soon as they were out of earshot, said, “It wouldn’t have mattered if it was bright red and covered in spots. It looked as though she had a deranged stork perched on her head. I suppose that’s what happens when you marry up.”

Sylvia felt heat creep up the back of her neck, even as she silently scolded herself. Claire was her friend and would never say those sorts of things about her. Besides, as far as anyone knew, Sylvia’s father had been a barrister, making the Sheltons unremarkably middle class. It was a truth, just not the entire truth.

“Are you walking home?” asked Sylvia as they reached the corner of South Audley and Tilley Streets.

“Yes. It’s doing simply awful things to my shoes, and it’s so difficult to find a decent cobbler these days. Every time my maid thinks she’s discovered a new one, he’s called up to serve. It’s incredibly inconvenient,” said Claire.

“Then I’ll have to leave you here, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll see you in a fortnight, unless some thrilling invitation comes along sooner. Ta-ta, darling!” Claire trilled with a wave.

Sylvia returned the gesture and then doubled back on herself past Lady Nolan’s house and north on South Audley Street.

There had been a time when she would have balked at the idea of walking the nearly twenty-five minutes from Lady Nolan’s home to her flat in Marylebone. If she hadn’t been able to borrow Hugo’s driver, Phillip, for the day, she would have taken a cab. However, Phillip had been called up along with seemingly every cabdriver in London. Women were climbing behind the wheel now, but with the petrol ration firmly in place it hardly made sense to take the short, thoughtless jaunts she used to indulge in. After all, they were all meant to be doing their part for the war effort.

Her feet were beginning to ache when she finally turned onto Beaumont Street. The quiet grandeur of Nottingham Court rose above her, and if it hadn’t been for the silent silhouette of a barrage balloon floating in the distance she might have been able to forget about the war for a moment.

Ever since she first walked inside on her wedding night, she’d loved the comfort of returning to the block of mansion flats where she and Hugo lived. She knew exactly how heavy the entryway door was and how the lift gave a little shudder when it reached the third floor, where she would alight and take the short walk down the corridor to her front door.

However, as she performed the familiar ritual that day, she couldn’t fight the wave of exhaustion that overwhelmed her. She let herself in, the warm scent of beeswax and lemon furniture polish wrapping around her. The soft step of Mrs. Atkinson announced the cook-general’s arrival before Sylvia spotted the hem of the woman’s black dress.

“Mrs. Atkinson, hello.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pearsall. May I take your coat?” asked Mrs. Atkinson.

“Thank you.”

Sylvia slipped off her mink and then set about unpinning her hat. She checked her appearance in the entryway mirror, touching first her dark fringe and then the neat roll of hair at the base of her neck to ensure they were still in place. There was no one there to see her save for Mrs. Atkinson, but she’d learned long ago how much appearance mattered.

She remembered the day, age sixteen, when she caught her mother studying her from head to toe. When she’d tilted her head in question, her mother had said, “You’re not clever or talented, Sylvia, so it’s a good thing you’re beautiful.”

She could still recall the way her breath had escaped her lips, almost as though her mother had slapped her, but rather than making her shrink from the mirror, Sylvia had clung to her looks as her one asset. From that day on, Sylvia studied every woman’s magazine she could lay her hands on. She knew her hair, thick and a deep chocolate brown, was good, so she took to styling it in long waves swept off her face to highlight her clear complexion. She saved her shillings and purchased powder, rouge, mascara, and lipstick, darkening her lashes and painting her lips a deep red that stood out against her pale skin. She chose her clothes with care, making sure to show off her neat waist and long legs.

Her mother had tsked, calling her vain whenever she caught Sylvia checking her appearance in the dress shop’s triptych mirror, but it was her looks that had captured the attention of Hugo Pearsall. When he’d proposed a few months later, she’d believed she had every tool she needed to hone herself into the sort of wife a genteel Harley Street doctor might expect.

So how had she lost him?

“Mrs. Atkinson, I shall take tea in the drawing room please,” she said.

The housekeeper nodded and made her quiet retreat to the kitchen. Sylvia waited until she heard the soft sounds of water running to fill the kettle. Mrs. Atkinson would be busy for a least a quarter of an hour.

With a strange mixture of dread and anticipation, she made straight for Hugo’s study.

The polished door handle twisted without a sound, and she let herself in. Closing the door behind her, she turned to survey her husband’s domain. Everything about the room was masculine, from the heavy club chairs to the paintings of hunting dogs hung on the walls that she was secretly glad were confined to his study. Even the air smelled faintly of man, the remnants of cigar smoke, ink, and coal lingering long after Hugo’s last visit home.

Sylvia forced one foot in front of the other until she had rounded the huge desk that had once sat in the study of Hugo’s grandfather’s country home. Her husband had insisted that it come with them to their flat, even though the men who moved their furniture in had looked at it with great skepticism and more than a little dread. In the end, it hadn’t been able to make the turn through the front door and had had to be hauled in through the study window by pulley, creating a great spectacle as the neighbors gathered to watch it rise from Nottingham Court’s sweeping drive.

Sylvia’s hand shook slightly as she reached for the desk’s right-hand drawer. It opened without protest, revealing the contents nestled in red flocked lining. Two bottles of ink, a spare pen, some blotting paper, a letter opener, and a stack of letters.

She counted out one, two, three, four, five of them until she reached the sixth. She set the first five leaning against the blotting paper in the drawer and drew out the sixth letter, opened the envelope, and freed the paper inside.

She unfolded the letter. It was typed—clearly the sender was concerned that a casual observer might recognize their penmanship—and the paper crinkled as she handled it.

My darling Hugo,

Whenever I write you one of these letters it reminds me how little we are together. I want more of your time, your body, everything. Instead, I must content myself with writing to you in hopes that this letter might stir up in you even a fraction of the feeling that I hold for you.

I love you, my darling. I know you will think me rather vulgar for confessing that only in a letter, but I cannot pretend any longer. I cannot sign off with “All my love” and not let you know that that love is not a mere platitude. It is as real as the air we both breathe.

I know you say that we must wait until after this bloody war has ended, but I do not want to wait. Each time my husband comes home on leave, I find it harder to hide my revulsion. I do not know if I could stand the inevitable day when we all cross paths—you with Sylvia and me with him. It is difficult enough knowing that whenever we are in public I cannot even look at you for fear that someone might suspect.

Write to me soon and let me know when it is that I can see you again. You have me forever…

All my love,

X

Sylvia set down the letter and closed her eyes, letting the pain wash over her.

Once, when she’d been a new bride, she’d been caught in the rain going from one shop to another in Knightsbridge and ducked into a restaurant to shelter. She’d been speaking to the ma?tre d’ when she’d spotted Gerald, a friend of Hugo and hers, tucked into a cozy table in the far corner of the restaurant. The woman he was sitting with and whose hand he was holding was not his wife but rather Margot Weaving, who was married to one of Hugo’s fellow club members.

Shocked, Sylvia had backed out of the restaurant and into the rain, walking as fast as decorum would allow her until she reached the welcoming doors of Harrods. Only then, while gasping for her breath, had she allowed herself to think about what she’d just seen. An affair being conducted in public.

When Hugo had returned from his surgery that evening, she’d barely been able to contain herself. It had all come out in a rush, but when she finished her story she realized that her husband didn’t look horrified at all. He appeared to be amused.

“Well, what did you expect, darling?” he asked.

“What do you mean what did I expect? Gerald’s married to Caroline. We had them for cocktails before the theater in March!”

“Yes,” he said slowly, as though explaining to a child, “but he and Caroline already have two boys and that girl of theirs.”

She blinked, stunned. “So because they already have children, it’s acceptable for him to have an affair ?”

She whispered the last word, eliciting a laugh from her husband.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that Gerald should go walking around announcing it to every Peter and Paul, but I’m hardly surprised. She spends all her time in the country, and he practically lives at his club, not to mention that he’s always looking for an excuse to race that new Aston Martin of his. They must hardly see one another.

“I will say, it’s poor form of him to go about it in public like that. It’s almost as though he wants to be caught. Of course, if Caroline has been having her own fun on the side, that is another matter. I shouldn’t be surprised if the daughter’s not Gerald’s at all, although we’ll likely never know. Caroline’s intelligent enough not to conduct her affairs in public.” He paused. “Are you all right, darling? You look pale. I haven’t shocked you, have I?”

He laughed again, which made her feel silly, so she shook her head.

“No, no. I was simply surprised to see them, that’s all,” she said.

Hugo’s eyes softened and he grabbed her hand. “These things happen, darling. As you see a little more of the world, you’ll become used to it soon enough.”

“But you wouldn’t, would you, darling? I don’t think I could bear it.”

He gathered her close to him. “Silly duck, of course I wouldn’t, because no one could be quite like you. You’re so refreshing. It’s good for me.”

Now, sitting at her husband’s desk reading the evidence of his infidelity, she felt like a fool for how smug his reassurances had made her. How blind.

She’d discovered the letters when she’d been trying to find, of all things, a stamp. She’d finished her weekly letter to Hugo and discovered that she’d run out of postage in her writing desk. Without thinking, she’d gone into his study, opened the desk drawer, and seen the letters sitting there plain as day. She’d peeked at one out of curiosity and realized immediately what they were. A compulsion had come over her, driving her to read more and more intimate details of her husband’s relationship with another woman. When she’d finished the final letter, she’d stared into space. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t raged. She’d sat with a sickness in her stomach and wondered.

Now she was forcing herself to go back every day and read one letter at a time, hunting for answers.

Who was this other woman?

When had it started?

Was it still going on?

How had she lost him?

After fourteen years of marriage, that was the question that frightened her the most.

With a sniff, she carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and slid it into its place in the drawer. Then she stood, smoothed down her skirt, and let herself out of Hugo’s study.

By the time Mrs. Atkinson appeared with the tea tray, Sylvia had wiped any trace of distress from her perfectly powdered face.