The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Sylvia snuck a glimpse at her watch as she hustled as quickly down South Audley Street as she dared in her heels. She’d had every intention of making it to Lady Nolan’s meeting in good time, having planned to arrive ten minutes early to join the other ladies of the committee as they mingled and sipped cups of tea. However, when she’d opened the shop that morning, there had been no electricity. Given that she and Miss Reid were expecting Mrs. Chapman for a fitting, followed swiftly by the arrival of a Mrs. Karber, who wanted a new winter dress, Sylvia had marched to the telephone box down the road to ring both women to reschedule their appointments. Then she’d made a long, expensive telephone call to the electricity company to explain in a decidedly stern tone that she had, in fact, paid the shop’s bill as Izzie had instructed and that the power should be restored immediately. Many coins later, she’d received the reassurances of a harried clerk that the lights would be back on in no time.

She’d shot out of the telephone booth and into the shop to scoop up her handbag. An agitated Miss Reid had tried to stop her to speak, but Sylvia had called over her shoulder that whatever it was would have to wait until she returned.

Now, after sitting on a slow-moving bus for what felt like hours, she skipped up the three steps to the front door and cranked the old-fashioned bell key. Lady Nolan’s housekeeper answered almost immediately.

“Good afternoon,” she said breathlessly, daring to hope that the meeting might not have started.

“Mrs. Pearsall, I believe the other ladies began at two o’clock,” the housekeeper said as she took Sylvia’s coat.

Sylvia’s heart sank. She would have to walk through the drawing room, find a seat, and sit down while everyone scrutinized her.

Bracing herself, she followed the housekeeper to the drawing room and waited for the woman to open the door for her. With a deep breath, she pulled her chin back and walked into the belly of the beast.

From her Louis XIV chair at the top of the room, Lady Nolan observed her entrance with a raised brow. “Mrs. Pearsall. So good of you to join us.”

Sylvia forced herself to smile even as she felt every other woman’s gaze settle on her as she began to round the circle of chairs. “I do apologize for being late.”

There was a long pause before Lady Nolan inclined her head. “If you will take your seat, we can begin again.”

Naturally, the only chair that was free was all the way on the other side of the room from the door. Sylvia finished her promenade around the backs of the other ladies’ chairs and primly took her seat.

Claire shot her a querying look, and Sylvia shook her head, trying to convey to her friend that everything was fine even if she couldn’t help feeling rising embarrassment at having drawn the wrong sort of attention to herself.

“As I was saying,” Lady Nolan began, “the food bank proved to be a great success, especially in the East End, where people are still struggling after the bombings. Additionally, the Christmas coat drive showed promise, although—understandably, perhaps—the number of coats donated was far fewer given the clothing ration. People appear to be hoarding their clothing. Quite selfish of them really.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the other ladies that Sylvia thought was rather rich given how many women had recently shown up to these committee meetings wearing an array of coats from their extensive prewar wardrobes.

“Now, I have spoken to several organizations that we have previously worked with,” continued Lady Nolan, “and they all agree that, while the distribution of food and clothing is important, what war widows really need is monetary donations. To that end, I would ask that all of you turn your thoughts to how we might go about raising money for relief aid this spring.”

There was another murmur of agreement, and Sylvia unclipped her handbag to retrieve her notebook and pen. She’d found that these days, if she didn’t write things down, they slipped from her memory as soon as they entered it. However, far from being annoyed at the development, she embraced it. The shop and its many tangled problems provided a welcome distraction from Hugo.

As soon as he’d left London just before Christmas, she’d started her dutiful weekly letters once again, telling him that Izzie had been caught up in the recent conscription orders but leaving out any mention of the shop or its sale. She’d written him again on the twenty-second that she wished him a happy Christmas and saying that she’d sent his mother and father a card, forging his signature so that it would look as though he’d signed it when he’d been in town during early December. It was such a farce—she suspected that the card she received from the senior Pearsalls also contained a forged signature from Mr. Pearsall—but it seemed like the thing to do. To keep up appearances and pretend that everything was normal.

Normal… Her mind skipped over the word, like the needle of a gramophone over a deep scratch. What was normal about a husband who failed to write and let his wife know he’d be coming home—even if only for a short while? Who could conduct an affair with such brazenness and arrogance that he kept letters in such an easily discoverable place? Who at the worst of times made her feel as though she should be grateful that he had ever condescended to pay her any attention at all.

Once, she’d thought his love would be enough to sustain her through anything. Now she wasn’t so sure.

The rest of the meeting passed without incident, and when Lady Nolan finally dismissed the ladies of the committee, Sylvia began to gather up her things, her mind already turning to the shop. She was just shutting her handbag when Claire approached.

“Is everything all right?” her friend asked, eyes wide with concern.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” she asked.

“Well, the way you rushed in…”

“Time ran away from me,” she said, edging around the truth. Claire might be her friend, but Sylvia had never dared divulge the entire truth of her background to her. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions exactly—why would she have put so much work into the shop recently if she was?—but she had a certain reputation to uphold as Hugo’s wife.

“You should be careful,” her friend said, glancing around to make sure no one could hear them. “Apparently, in the summer before the war started, Lady Nolan had a stern word with Mrs. Miller after she was late three meetings in a row. She threatened to expel Mrs. Miller even though Mrs. Miller claimed her tardiness was due to her obligations volunteering to help refugees.”

Sylvia flushed remembering the way that the harried Mrs. Miller had burst into Lady Nolan’s drawing room on a stream of apologies. At the time, she’d sat there with great superiority, thinking that the woman should give more care to managing her diary. Now Sylvia wished she’d done something—anything—to show the other woman that she understood, because Mrs. Miller had quietly dropped the committee shortly after the war broke out, and Sylvia hadn’t seen her since.

“There’s no need to fret. I don’t intend to make a habit of being late,” she said.

“Good.” Claire glanced at her watch as they left the drawing room. “If we go to Claridge’s now, we can have tea and then stay for champagne.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t this afternoon,” she said, as Lady Nolan’s housekeeper settled her coat onto her shoulders. She needed to go back to the shop to make sure the chaos of the morning had abated, the lights were back on, and nothing else had gone wrong in her absence. Miss Reid was there, but the seamstress had made it very clear what she thought of Sylvia taking an afternoon off when the entire point of the shop closing early on Wednesdays was to package orders and take care of all manner of business.

Claire laughed. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Where could you possibly need to go at four o’clock on a Wednesday?”

She set her lips in a thin line. “I’m sorry, I really can’t. We’ll have tea soon.”

She gave her friend a little wave as she hurried back down the road to the bus stop that would return her to Maida Vale.