The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

With a harrumph, Izzie let her hand holding her sister’s letter fall into her lap. Sylvia had written hardly anything about the shop, spending most of her time on jokes that weren’t particularly funny, criticism of Mum’s organization of the office, and demands that Izzie write to her news from camp.

She scanned the letter again.

So you see, Izzie, it would be a great help to me if you would send some news so that I can continue to encourage Miss Reid to speak to me.

“Your glare could burn a hole through that letter.”

Izzie’s head jerked up. She’d come to the base’s NAAFI, a canteen of sorts where servicemen and women could pay a few shillings for some comforts like a cup of tea and the luxury of a moment’s peace that could not be found in a cramped hut she shared with three dozen other girls. She’d intentionally chosen an empty table away from everyone else, but apparently her efforts had been for naught, because now a tall, grinning woman in an ill-fitting uniform stood in front of her, one hand on her hip and the other holding a cup of tea.

When she realized that the woman was looking at her expectantly, she cleared her throat. “It’s just a letter from home.”

“Ah, I understand those. I swear that if I receive another note from Mamma about the horrors of having the house taken over by the army, I’ll scream,” said the woman cheerfully. “Not that she should complain, when the army has allowed Daddy and her to stay on in the old dower house.”

The army? A dower house? Where on earth did this woman live?

The woman stuck out her hand. “Aircraft Woman Second Class Alexandra Sumner. How do you do?”

Izzie cautiously extended her own. “Aircraft Woman Second Class Isabelle Shelton.”

Alexandra gave a nod to the letter Izzie still held, sending her tight blond curls dancing merrily around her face. “Is it very bad?”

Izzie looked down at the letter and sighed. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… it’s from my sister.”

“You have a sister?” Alexandra brightened. “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

“I’d be happy to give you mine,” Izzie muttered under her breath.

Alexandra laughed. “Is she a nightmare?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly.

“What has she done?” asked Alexandra, dropping into the chair opposite Izzie, clearly settling in for a story.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Why don’t you begin with that letter?” suggested Alexandra before taking a sip of her tea.

“I own a dressmaker’s shop. Or technically, we do. My mother died and left it to both of us, but I’m trying to buy Sylvia’s half from her,” she said.

“A difficult inheritance. It’s a tale as old as time,” said Alexandra with a serious nod.

Despite her initial shock at Alexandra’s attention, Izzie couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t know if I would call it that; it’s just that Sylvia hasn’t really been interested in the shop at all since she left at eighteen.”

“Did she run away to join the circus?” Alexandra asked, clearly hoping Izzie would say yes.

This time Izzie laughed. “Does that ever happen outside of books and films?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. It would be frightfully exciting,” said Alexandra.

“Well, Sylvia didn’t do anything nearly that daring. She married a man I can’t stand.”

“The plot thickens. Is he an utter beast?” asked Alexandra.

“I call him ‘Horrible Hugo,’?” she admitted.

“The villain. Tell me, why do we detest him?” asked Alexandra.

Izzie leaned in. “He’s a snob. He always looked down on Mum and me.”

Her companion made a sound of disgust. “Why did he marry your sister if he’s such a snob?”

“She’s always been the beautiful one,” Izzie started. “She still is.”

“So are you,” said Alexandra.

“I have mousy hair that refuses to hold a set most days, a nose that’s too big for my face, and thin lips. I am not beautiful,” said Izzie, shaking her head to emphasize the point.

“No, you look like Joan Fontaine in Rebecca. I can very easily imagine you transforming from cardigans to that chic black dress that beast Maxim tells her to change out of because he doesn’t understand the first thing about glamour,” said Alexandra before adding, “But I can tell that no amount of arguing will convince you, so why don’t we return to the matter at hand: the letter?”

Izzie sighed. “When I had to register, I realized that there would be no one to mind the shop if I was called up. I couldn’t see any alternative but to ask Sylvia. She’s old enough that she didn’t have to join up, you see. Only I think it might have been a terrible mistake.”

“Why is that?” asked Alexandra.

Izzie made a face. “I thought I could help her run the shop by writing back and forth, but she’s never going to be able to do it. There are so many little things to know, like how Mrs. Beecham likes a good ten minutes of chat before you go about the business of her fitting, and if you hurry her she will be insulted. Or what about Mrs. Lang? Her bills are paid by a Mr. Talworth and not her husband, so it is vital that we send the delivery to the Lang household but never with the bill. Oh, and if Miss Birch ‘pops in’ one afternoon and orders an entire new wardrobe while smelling of gin, it’s worth double-checking any order by telephone the next morning to confirm that she does, in fact, want the clothes.”

“That does sound like a great number of things, but why can’t you simply answer her questions when she writes to ask them?” asked Alexandra.

“Sylvia thinks she knows everything, and she’s far too proud to ask when she needs help. Instead, she’s insisting that I write about my news from Innsworth.”

“That is generally how letters work,” said Alexandra.

“But that isn’t what we agreed upon at all ,” said Izzie, her frustration growing. “Sylvia made it clear as day that she wanted nothing to do with Mum and me after she was married.”

“Was that her decision or this Horrible Hugo fellow’s?”

“I’m certain Hugo didn’t help,” Izzie conceded, “but ultimately the decision was Sylvia’s.”

It had started the moment Sylvia told Izzie she was engaged. Izzie had been thrilled—what fourteen-year-old wouldn’t be delighted that their beloved, beautiful sister was to be married to a man who had swept into their lives like a fairy-tale prince?—but then Sylvia had begun having tea with Hugo’s mother, who had a great number of thoughts about how the wedding should proceed. Suddenly every conversation was about what people would think and how Hugo’s family friends would expect this or that from the ceremony. Izzie had listened to it all, slightly in awe of the family her sister was marrying into, until it came to the dress and the bridesmaids. Then Izzie understood that Sylvia had changed—and not for the better.

“Sylvia wants to pretend that the last fourteen years didn’t happen,” Izzie said.

“Do you think she could be a little ashamed of what she did?” asked Alexandra.

“What do you mean?” she asked with a frown.

Alexandra shrugged. “Sometimes people come to regret the decisions they made a long time ago.”

“Not Sylvia. She knew exactly what she was doing when she met Hugo.”

“I’m sorry, Izzie,” said Alexandra. “Families are tricky things.”

Izzie sighed. That they were.

“What does your family think about you becoming a WAAF?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re all in favor of it. Daddy is mad for flying. He flew in the last war. I think if they would let him, he’d be up in a Spitfire in a flash—not that Mamma would allow it. She says it’s bad enough having three sons in the RAF,” said Alexandra.

“Three sons?” Izzie asked in surprise.

Alexandra pulled a face. “Yes. I have the misfortune of having three older brothers. Awful, all of them, although I love them all to pieces.

“Having brothers is a real nuisance. They’re enough worry when there isn’t a war on. I’ve told all of them that if they manage to get themselves killed, I’ll be very cross and will haunt them for the rest of time. They had the audacity to point out that hauntings generally don’t work like that. Rascals.” Alexandra glanced at her watch. “Do you fancy another cup of tea?”

Izzie opened her mouth to say yes, but something made her hesitate. They might wear the same uniform, but everything about Alexandra, from the cut-glass polish of her accent to her dower house, told her that they were from very different worlds. How would they ever have enough in common to make it through another cup of tea’s worth of conversation?

“I should write Sylvia back,” she said, stuffing her sister’s letter back in its envelope.

“Oh.” For a moment, there was real disappointment in Alexandra’s face, but then, just as quickly, her sunny smile returned. “Of course you should. You have a shop to manage.”

As Izzie walked away she couldn’t help the temporary tug of doubt that settled low in her stomach. She glanced over her shoulder back at Alexandra, who remained alone at the table, toying with the handle of her teacup. She recognized that look. It was the same one she’d worn as she watched her fellow seamstresses at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions bundle up in their coats, chattering about which film or dance they would go to that evening. No one ever invited Izzie, because she was Mrs. Shelton’s daughter.

She’d told herself that she didn’t care. Proving to Mum that she was capable of running the shop was more important. Yet that hadn’t stopped the creep of loneliness as she walked by pubs cheerful with full tables or stepped around gaggles of women spilling out of cinema doors after a film.

And now, knowing that Mum hadn’t trusted her enough to leave Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions to her, she had to ask herself if it had all been worth it.

Next time Alexandra asked, she decided, she would say yes to that cup of tea.