The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

On Friday morning, Izzie clutched at the lapels of her coat as she walked into St. Anne’s with Miss Reid by her side. She would never admit it to anyone, but she’d been terrified waking up and knowing that in a few short hours she would need to put on a black dress, coat, gloves, and hat and say goodbye to Mum.

She’d dressed deliberately, making sure every seam was straight and every hair in place. However, she’d been unable to force herself to put on her hat, the last thing she needed to do before leaving, until the flat’s doorbell rang. She’d hurried down the narrow stairs that led to the street and found Miss Reid standing on the front step, sheltering under an umbrella against the swiftly falling rain.

“Put your hat on, Miss Shelton. We’ll walk over together,” the seamstress had said shortly, and Izzie had done as she was told.

Now, walking into St. Anne’s, Izzie was even more grateful for the irascible woman by her side. Izzie was painfully aware of how people turned to stare and then quickly look away. She knew what the modest collection of neighbors, suppliers, and customers must be thinking: Poor little Izzie. The girl who never left is now all alone.

She kept her eyes ahead of her until they reached the front pew. It was empty, just as she’d expected it would be. Mum had lost touch with her family, the O’Sullivans, years ago, and Izzie hadn’t even known how to tell them about the funeral. And her father’s side—the Sheltons—never would have deigned to attend even if Izzie had wanted to tell them about it.

Sylvia, she noticed, was nowhere to be seen.

“Will you be all right here, Miss Shelton?” asked Miss Reid.

Izzie wanted to pull her coat a little closer around her neck, but she forced herself to loosen her grasp on her lapels and lower her gloved hands. “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Then I’ll just go find a seat.”

“Wait!” Izzie’s hand shot out to stop her. “Sit with me.”

Miss Reid looked horrified. “But the front pew is for family.”

“You worked for Mum for nearly two decades. She would want you to be seated in the front,” she said.

Izzie was shocked to see Miss Reid’s eyes start to shine. “Are you certain, miss?”

She touched the older woman’s forearm. “Please.”

With a sniff and a nod, the seamstress sank down into the seat next to Izzie. She could sense Miss Reid twisting to peer around, but Izzie kept her eyes forward, willing the day to be over.

“It looks as though it’s about to begin,” said Miss Reid. “The priest has come to the door.”

Izzie squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

Miss Reid leaned over. “Do you expect Mrs. Pearsall to attend?”

“No,” said Izzie quietly. “I told her what had happened, but I’m certain she won’t come.”

“Well, a woman who looks awfully like her just walked in and took a seat in the last row,” whispered Miss Reid.

Izzie whipped around just in time to catch a glimpse of her sister, dressed all in black with a small smart hat complete with a net veil that hid her eyes, sit in the last pew.

The church doors opened once again and the priest led in the pallbearers—all neighbors—who carried Mum’s coffin balanced on their shoulders. However, try as she might, Izzie couldn’t stop staring at her sister.

Sylvia had come.

Why?

Izzie squinted to try to read Sylvia’s face, but the distance and the veil hid her sister’s expression, leaving only the thin line of Sylvia’s carmine lips.

It wasn’t until the priest began the prayer that Izzie tore her gaze from her sister and faced forward again.

Sylvia grasped a bit of dirt and threw it onto her mother’s coffin. She winced as the earth landed with a hollow thud.

She edged back, her eyes fixed on the dirt-scattered coffin until the grassy edge swallowed it whole. Then she turned, tilting her umbrella a little to better shield her from the rain.

It was all surreal. Maggie Shelton was only fifty-two—far too young to die. That disastrous Boxing Day, her mother hadn’t exactly looked hale and hearty, but Sylvia recalled thinking that at least her mother hadn’t appeared as bone-tired as she had in those first years of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions when the newly widowed Maggie Shelton had taken on the world with an angry determination.

Mourners were beginning to disperse, but Sylvia stopped at the end of the row of plots. She watched her sister touch a handkerchief to her eyes, Miss Reid placing a comforting hand on Izzie’s back. Then the seamstress turned. Sylvia didn’t miss the way that Miss Reid’s eyes cut to her, nor the lift of Miss Reid’s chin as she approached.

“Mrs. Pearsall,” said Miss Reid with a curt nod.

“Good morning, Miss Reid,” she said, grasping her umbrella a little tighter.

“Well, I can’t say that I’m happy to see you given the circumstances, but I thought the priest gave a very good sermon. Speaking of Mrs. Shelton’s service to others and her selflessness. It was all very fitting.”

“Yes. I think my mother would have approved,” she said, catching a flash of black out of the corner of her eye.

Miss Reid followed her gaze to where Izzie was turning from the grave.

“Miss Shelton has been a great help to your mother,” said Miss Reid. “It’s terrible what happened and far too early for it, but Mrs. Shelton will be happy knowing that the shop is in safe hands with Miss Shelton.”

“I’m certain it is,” she agreed quietly as Izzie came to a stop in front of them.

“Sylvia,” said her sister.

“Hello, Izzie,” she replied.

Miss Reid’s eyes slid from sister to sister. “I’ll give you both a moment, shall I?”

“Thank you,” said Izzie.

As soon as Miss Reid was out of earshot, Izzie said, “I see you decided to come.”

“I said that I would,” she said, studying her younger sister. It had been so long since she’d laid eyes on Izzie, it shouldn’t have surprised her that Izzie was a little taller, her hair a little shorter, and her cheeks a little more hollow thanks to age and the ration. Still, she was taken aback at how Izzie had gone from a girl with open enthusiasm to a prim young woman buttoned into a high-necked black coat and modest heels.

“I’m surprised that you were able to tear yourself away from your busy social schedule. Or has Horrible Hugo given you the day off from playing the perfect wife?” Izzie asked.

“I told you on the telephone that Hugo is serving,” she said, the old instinct to defend her husband rising up in her despite everything. “Tell me, how are things at the shop?”

“Why?” Izzie’s question was sharp as a knife’s edge.

She sighed. “Because I’m curious.”

“You’ve never shown an interest in it before.”

“Izzie, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You could hardly wait to leave the shop when you were younger. The moment Hugo came along you were gone,” said Izzie.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she started, but Izzie cut her off with a shake of the head.

“You haven’t visited once in fourteen years. You hardly write.”

“I write,” she said, stung.

“A card at Christmas? That hardly counts.”

There had been a time, just after her wedding, when Sylvia had dutifully written every month, just as she did to Hugo’s family. However, when her letters had gone unanswered, she assumed that they hadn’t been welcomed. Besides there had been so many things to do as a new wife, from decorating their home to answering the onslaught of correspondence and invitations that seemed to come in the post every day.

“You never telephone,” Izzie pressed.

“Izzie, the shop only had a telephone installed seven years ago,” she said, recalling her mother’s boast at Boxing Day. “Before that you used to have to use the box down the road.”

When Izzie didn’t return her smile, she tried again. “I can imagine that rationing has made things challenging.”

“Miss Reid and I are managing just fine, thank you very much,” said Izzie.

The sound of someone clearing his throat saved Sylvia from a reply, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a man in a double-breasted black suit with sandy hair standing close. There was something familiar about him.

“Mrs. Pearsall, Izzie, please accept my deepest condolences. Your mother was always very kind to me, and I cannot imagine how much you must miss her,” he said.

“Thank you, Willie,” said Izzie.

That was William Gray, their neighbor from a few doors down in Glengall Road? It hardly seemed possible that this could be the same reedy boy in striped jumpers who had tagged along behind Sylvia and her sister on their way to school every morning.

“William, it’s been so long I hardly recognized you,” she said, stretching out a hand to shake his, being sure to speak in the direction of his good ear.

He pressed his hand in hers, his grip firm and reassuring.

“I imagine I look a little different, but I do still have the spectacles,” he said, touching the gold-rimmed glasses that perched on his nose.

She smiled at his polite demeanor. He’d always been that way as a child, the boy who thought things through and gave a considered answer to each question he was asked. He’d been quiet but ever-present, one of the few good things about moving from their family home and into the flat above the shop after Papa’s death.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, slipping into the role of hostess that she wore so easily those days. “We appreciate it.”

Izzie huffed, no doubt taking objection to Sylvia referring to them as “we.”

“Of course,” said William before Izzie could reply, “although I will confess, I’m in the awkward position of being here in both a personal and professional capacity.”

“Professional?” she asked.

“Willie was Mum’s solicitor,” Izzie explained, as though this should have been obvious to her.

Sylvia’s cheeks flushed.

“I’m actually glad to have caught both of you together,” he went on, having the good manners to overlook Sylvia’s embarrassment. “I’m sorry to have to speak of practicalities on such a day, but there is the matter of your mother’s will. I realize that it is a difficult time, but could I please ask that you join me at my office on Monday morning?”

“You would like both of us to attend?” Sylvia asked at the same moment Izzie asked, “Why does she need to be there?”

William cleared his throat. “It was your mother’s wish that you should both be present for the reading of the will.”

It was incredible that, even from the grave, Maggie Shelton thought she knew best. What did it matter if Sylvia attended anyway? Everything would go to Izzie, as it should, because Izzie had stayed and Sylvia had chosen a different life.

“Mrs. Shelton’s instructions were very clear on the matter,” William prompted.

Sylvia exhaled slowly and pulled out the small notebook she kept in her handbag. “Where is your office?”

She jotted down the address he gave her, and when she looked up, she caught her sister studying her, no doubt taking in her hat, shoes, and handbag. She stood a little taller, knowing that the cut of her Hartnell suit would stand up to even her sister’s very keen scrutiny.

“That is a beautiful brooch,” said Izzie in a way that told Sylvia she didn’t really approve of the diamonds and pearls pinned to her lapel.

“Thank you. It was a tenth wedding anniversary present from Hugo,” she said before turning her attention back to William. “I will see you on Monday.”

“Thank you,” said William with a neat bow of his head. “I apologize again for discussing business at such a time.”

“I must go thank the priest,” said Izzie. “Excuse me.”

Sylvia watched her walk off, head down, through the cemetery.

She hardly noticed that William had come to stand next to her until he said, “Will your sister be all right?”

She glanced at him and saw the very real concern etching his features. “I wouldn’t know. Izzie hasn’t confided her thoughts or feelings to me in a very long time.”

“Funerals are difficult,” said William.

“I’ve always found them cruel,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“People say they’re meant to be about the person who has passed, but I always think people are far more interested in those who are left behind. Who is showing an appropriate display of grief—tearful but not hysterical, devoted but not desperate. We’re meant to be stiff upper-lipped but not cold. Perfect in our grief.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him turn to her. After a moment, she twisted and met his eye.

“I sincerely hope that you don’t actually believe that anyone wants anything from you other than whatever your own true feeling of grief is, Mrs. Pearsall.”

“Why is that?” she asked, a little taken aback.

“Because that would mean that someone has convinced you that you have to be perfect at every moment.” He touched the brim of his dark gray hat. “Good day.”

She watched his retreating back until she could no longer see him around the edge of the cemetery’s wall.