The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

It turned out that selling a business was not straightforward. At least it wasn’t when Izzie was involved.

Sylvia had walked away from the will reading at William’s office assuming that it would be a simple matter of gathering the funds together. Given that the shop’s fortunes were now half her sister’s, Sylvia had no doubt that Izzie would be able to come up with the money. After the first lean years of the business, their mother had been proud that Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions had always turned a modest but tidy profit.

However, when nearly a week had gone by with no word from Izzie, Sylvia found herself on the sitting room telephone, asking the switchboard to connect her to the shop.

“Things have been busy here,” said Izzie by way of explanation as soon as Sylvia began to inquire about the shop. “I haven’t had a chance to even think about your offer.”

“Is everything all right?” she’d asked.

“Miss Reid and I have been run off our feet. We were closed for a few days after Mum…” Izzie cleared her throat. “We were closed, and we lost some time.”

“But it’s Saturday.” It was the reason that she’d waited until that afternoon to telephone. Their mother had kept half-day trading hours on Saturdays, only taking morning appointments.

“Yes, it is,” Izzie replied slowly, as though speaking to a child, “and if you remember, Mum always used Saturday afternoons to catch up on orders. That is what Miss Reid and I were both doing before you rang.”

Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek. She had forgotten about that.

“Once those orders are delivered,” Izzie continued, “I’ll be able to sort through Mum’s office and find the account books.”

“You don’t know where the account books are?” she asked, sitting up a little straighter. “I thought you said you were practically running the business.”

Izzie hesitated, and Sylvia could picture her sister twisting the telephone cord around her index finger as she did when she was grasping for an answer. Finally, Izzie said, “They’re in the office. I’m sure they are.”

Sylvia frowned. Their mother had been a talented seamstress but not a natural businesswoman, habitually neglecting tasks she cared about less than sketching and sewing garments. Sylvia remembered the state of things when she’d left school and started doing the accounts at fourteen. It had taken weeks to sort out the mess of her mother’s office, and more to implement a system to account for all of the orders, expenses, and income flowing in and out of the business. Sylvia had been the one to take a reluctant Maggie Shelton to the bank and practically hold her mother’s hand as her mother opened an account for the business. Before her wedding, she’d walked her mother through everything to make sure she understood and could maintain the system, but that had been years ago.

“Do you need help?” she asked. “I could come around and—”

“No,” Izzie said quickly. “I have things in hand. Don’t worry.”

Except worry was what Sylvia did. It was one of the things that made her so effective as a member of the War Widows’ Fund committee. She worried about how much money they would raise, who would sit next to whom at which ball or tea, how they could secure the support of important members of high society whose mere presence at an event could put it under the spotlight. All of it would consume her until she felt as though she couldn’t ignore it any longer. Then she would channel that energy into the sort of focus that allowed her to tick items off to-do lists with ruthless abandon, all while blocking the uglier parts of the world out. It helped her ignore the war and—lately—Hugo.

It was worry that occupied Sylvia’s mind two days after her telephone call to her sister. Her bus pulled up to her stop, and she tucked her white silk scarf a little more firmly into her mink against the wind of the chilly early-December night before she stepped off onto the pavement. The buildings were hardly visible thanks to the inky dim of the blackout, and it took her a moment to orient herself. Sure of her direction, she made her way carefully home to Nottingham Court, her heels clicking against the icy concrete.

Izzie, she knew, would never believe her if she confessed that there was rarely a day when she didn’t think about her old life. It happened whenever Sylvia took out her sewing basket to do some half-hearted mending, her mother’s criticism of her stitching still echoing in her mind. Walking past a butcher’s displaying liver or kidneys brought back the visceral memory of all the inexpensive meals they’d eaten after Papa had died. And whenever the doorbell of the flat rang unexpectedly, a little flicker of fear still flashed in her chest, too close a reminder to those first lean days of Mrs. Shelton’s when their mother would tell them to hide and keep quiet in case it was Papa’s creditors looking to collect on the debts he’d left behind.

Why, even the dinner party she’d just come from that Monday evening was full of reminders of the way she’d used to be. She’d once called a napkin a serviette because she hadn’t known better, and the first time Hugo took her to supper in a restaurant, the soldier-like rows of seemingly endless silverware that made up the formal dinner service had intimidated her so much she’d nearly knocked over a glass of claret. But she’d learned and nodded wordlessly as he gently corrected her with a light touch on the elbow during their first months together.

Yet the veneer of polish she now wore as Mrs. Hugo Pearsall could never completely hide the fact that she had once been Miss Sylvia Shelton.

Sylvia welcomed the warm light from her building’s lobby as she pushed open the door, nodding to Mrs. Bellington-Norton from the second floor as she went.

“Mrs. Pearsall,” said the venerable barrister’s wife, who wore a calf-length sable and held the lead of her little puffball of a dog, which yapped at everyone it saw.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bellington-Norton,” she said over the little dog’s barks.

“I have been meaning to ask you to tea. The refugee society I sit on the committee of is planning a ball, and I would appreciate any advice you could lend me,” said her neighbor.

A surge of pride swelled up in Sylvia’s chest, and she lifted her head a little higher. Miss Sylvia Shelton would never be invited to help with a committee ball, but Mrs. Hugo Pearsall was.

“I would be happy to help in any way I can, Mrs. Bellington-Norton.”

“Come around Thursday afternoon, if you would,” said Mrs. Bellington-Norton over her dog’s increasingly loud yaps.

With a nod of assent, Sylvia stepped onto the lift, feeling fractionally brighter.

She hardly noticed the ding as the doors opened, her legs automatically carrying her to the front door. She let herself in, frowning as she realized she’d left the entryway light on. Usually she was so careful about checking that every switch was off before leaving the flat, but she’d been tired that evening and she must have missed it. She would, she decided, write Mrs. Atkinson a note asking the housekeeper not to wake her with breakfast as usual.

She closed the door and put her beaded evening bag down on the side table before unclasping her mink. However, as she was about to slide the coat off, her eyes fixed on the reflection of a naval officer’s hat hanging on the entryway hatstand.

Moving very slowly, she smoothed her hands over the front of her midnight-blue silk Molyneux gown and straightened the halter-neck straps. Then she walked to the sitting room door and opened it.

In the armchair farthest from the door sat Hugo, reading an evening newspaper with one leg crossed ankle to knee. He looked up, said, “Hello, darling,” with the same dispassionate tone that one might use to greet the milkman, and returned to his paper.

Sylvia gripped the doorframe with one hand, willing herself to stay upright. They’d been married nearly fifteen years, but he was still as handsome as he’d been the day he trotted up to the door of his friend’s house as she stood on the doorstep, a boxed-up dress she’d been delivering balanced in her arms. He’d helped her ring the bell because it had turned out his friend’s mother and Mrs. Shelton’s most well-heeled customer were one and the same. He’d looked her over from top to tail and then smiled as though he couldn’t think of anything more delightful than meeting her. It had been that smile that had slain her, and the absence of it now sent a pang through her chest.

When had he stopped lighting up when she walked into a room? She wanted to ask, but instead she said, “You’re home.”

He glanced up and then inclined his head. “Clearly.”

“I wasn’t aware that you had leave.”

“I don’t,” he said, his gaze settling back on his newspaper. “I have been called to London for meetings at the Admiralty. We are discussing how the Royal Navy coordinates its medical corps. Where have you been?”

“The Alexanders had a dinner party,” she said.

He sniffed, but she knew that he approved. After all, there were rumors that Mr. Alexander was being considered for a knighthood.

“Who was there?” asked Hugo.

Before she could answer, she heard the rustle of fabric and turned to find Mrs. Atkinson bearing the glass and silver soda bottle that normally lived on the bar cart in the sitting room.

“Oh, Mrs. Pearsall,” said the housekeeper, “isn’t it wonderful having the surgeon lieutenant-commander home?”

Sylvia shot Hugo a look, but he was watching Mrs. Atkinson set down the soda water.

“Mrs. Atkinson, I thought you were leaving early tonight,” she said.

“Oh,” said the housekeeper, busying herself as she poured out a measure of scotch and then added soda to it just as Hugo liked it. “I was all set to go after you left, but then Lieutenant-Commander Pearsall arrived.”

“Mrs. Atkinson was kind enough to give me supper,” said Hugo.

Sylvia couldn’t help the annoyance rising in her. He made it sound as though it had been Sylvia’s negligence that there hadn’t been anything for him to eat when he came home, rather than his failure to inform her that he would be in London.

“Would you like a drink as well, Mrs. Pearsall?” Mrs. Atkinson asked.

“No, thank you,” she said.

“You might as well enjoy it while it still isn’t rationed,” said Hugo.

“I’m fine,” she said to Mrs. Atkinson. “You may go now.”

“Good evening, madam,” said the housekeeper before adding, “It’s good to have you home safe and sound, Lieutenant-Commander Pearsall.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Atkinson,” said Hugo, his gaze hardly rising from that damned newspaper.

The housekeeper shut the sitting room door, leaving husband and wife alone together for the first time in months.

“If you had let me know that you were coming home, I wouldn’t have gone out,” Sylvia started. “I would have made sure that we had something decent in for supper rather than whatever Mrs. Atkinson had to put together on short notice.”

“She didn’t mind,” said Hugo, turning the broadsheet’s page.

“How long will you be at home?” she asked.

“Does it matter? It is my home.”

It was their home. The shop above the flat had never felt really like home, so it had meant a great deal to her to have a beautiful place that was at least partially her own. Hugo had indulged her from the first day, allowing her free rein to decorate every room save his study. She’d chosen things she thought he would like, understated and not too feminine. She’d shown an elegance and restraint she’d quietly applauded herself for, congratulating herself on being clever enough to find a man who would wrap her in the cotton wool of his class and affluence.

“I’m asking a simple question, Hugo,” she said, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of her tone. “You could do me the courtesy of answering it.”

He gave a huff of frustration, the pages of the newspaper crinkling violently as he shook it out in front of him again as he always did when he wished she would stop speaking.

“I’ll be in town for a few days before returning to base,” he said.

“You see? That wasn’t so very difficult,” she said.

“I have rather a lot on my mind, Sylvia. I can’t be expected to apprise you of every small matter,” he said.

“Then I take it you haven’t read my last letter?” she asked.

His eyes stayed resolutely on the page. “I’m not certain that it was delivered when I left.”

“I wrote to tell you that my mother died.”

At least that merited a glance up and a furrowed brow. “Died? But she was hardly fifty.”

“She was fifty-two. The doctor said it was a condition of the heart. He thought that the stress of the war and trying to keep the shop open during rationing might have also contributed.”

“No doubt it did,” said Hugo, his eyes drifting back to the page.

She stared at him. He’d just learned that his mother-in-law had died, and he had nothing more to say? It wasn’t as though he knew her mother particularly well, but surely he should offer her some comfort.

“I went to the funeral.”

“Oh yes?” he muttered.

“I saw my sister.”

He sighed. “Sylvia, would you please come to your point? I have very little time that is my own these days. All I wish is to read my paper and drink my—”

“My mother left me half of the business, the building, and its contents.”

That, she was satisfied to see, had shocked him. “She left you the shop?”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, half of it. Izzie has the other half.”

“What could she have been thinking?” He scoffed. “As though you would want half of a shop.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.

“Come now, Sylvia,” said Hugo in that infuriating tone he used when he thought she was being ridiculous. “No one we know works in trade.”

She gave a little laugh. “?‘No one we know works in trade’? Half the members of your club are in business of some sort or another. The Hargreaves are in cosmetics, and they have a string of shops. Or what about Mr. Yarley? He sells automobiles.”

His eyes narrowed. “Mr. Hargreaves is the president of his family’s company, and Mr. Yarley wouldn’t know the first thing about selling an automobile if his life depended on it. He owns factories that make automobiles. They are in business; they are not in trade.”

“That is a ridiculously thing to say, Hugo, and snobbish to boot. You sound as though you were a disapproving father in a nineteenth-century novel.”

“Disapproving fathers in nineteenth-century novels knew a thing or two. I took you out of that shop, Sylvia, and don’t pretend that you weren’t grateful for it,” he said.

He was right, and yet his words hurt all the same. The shop was the world she’d come from, and she expected her husband to have some sympathy, understanding, compassion—something.

“Well, it really doesn’t matter anyway,” she said. “I’m selling my share to Izzie.”

She waited for him to ask her what she would do with the funds, but instead, he cocked his head. “That should keep you in Hartnell for some time. If it turns out to be worth anything. Right.” Hugo set his newspaper aside and rose. “I’m going to my club.”

“But you just came home,” she began to protest, her anger beginning to dissolve into desperation. “It’s half past midnight.”

He shot her a look. “I only have so long in London, Sylvia. There are people I must see.”

Are you going to see her? The question choked her, but she forced what she hoped was a smile. “Who could be more important than the wife you haven’t seen in six months?”

“Don’t be sentimental, Sylvia. It doesn’t suit you,” he said.

“Is it sentimental to want to spend time with one’s husband?” she asked.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“I’m not sure I do.”

He sighed, and disappointment crashed down on her. No matter what he’d done, he was still her husband, still the man she had fallen in love with and given up so much for. He might have drifted from her, but this was his home. He should want to be here. With her.

“I could ring Claire and a few other friends and see if they would like to join us at the club tomorrow,” she offered, fighting to keep the naked hope from her voice. “I’m afraid Rupert’s still in Scotland, but it would still be jolly.”

He tapped the folded newspaper against his palm once, twice, three times. She thought for a moment she had convinced him, but then he shook his head.

“I must change into my dress uniform,” he said.

Then he walked out of the room, leaving Sylvia staring at the empty doorway.