The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

And I should like a blouse made as well,” said Mrs. Sutton, resting her hand on a brown wrapped package that she’d held on her lap since she’d entered Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions.

“Of course. May I ask what the material is?” asked Sylvia, leaning forward in her seat in the shop’s front room.

“A cotton lawn,” said Mrs. Sutton, opening up the paper as carefully as she might have if it had contained precious treasure. “My daughter sent it to me from America.”

Sylvia eyed Miss Reid, who stood at the counter behind Mrs. Sutton, pretending that she was doing something with a bit of paperwork. The seamstress raised a brow, and Sylvia instantly knew why. While it was entirely possible that Mrs. Sutton’s daughter had sent her the fabric—anyone who could get their hands on cloth these days was doing it by any means possible—the Board of Trade had only just warned them about steep penalties for businesses and customers who supported the black market.

“May I see the fabric?” Sylvia asked.

Mrs. Sutton gently lifted a length of blue-and-white-striped cotton lawn free.

Sylvia took the cloth with due respect, discreetly looking at the name on the selvage edge as she admired it. “Smythe” was printed in black. She let out a little breath of relief. It was an American producer after all.

“It’s lovely,” she said, even as Miss Reid craned her neck to see the fabric.

“Perhaps something with a chevron,” said Mrs. Sutton. “I think that would be just the thing with my linen skirt.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said hesitantly as Miss Reid began to adamantly shake her head from side to side. “Although if you wish for something that can stretch between the seasons, might I suggest a simple blouse?”

Mrs. Sutton’s face fell a little. “Yes, I suppose that would be more practical. It really is a bother having to think of these things. I wish we could go back to the days when you could have something new every season.”

Behind Mrs. Sutton’s back, Miss Reid gave Sylvia a nod of approval.

“We all hope those days will return soon,” said Sylvia, handing the cloth back to Mrs. Sutton. “So that will be one suit in a lightweight wool crepe and one blouse, off coupon. Miss Reid, perhaps you could show Mrs. Sutton the selection of sketches that would suit her?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pearsall,” said Miss Reid, stepping out from behind the desk. “I’ll just fetch our book.”

When, finally, Mrs. Sutton had selected her items, paid her deposit, and handed over her coupons to be cross-checked against the Board of Trade’s records, Sylvia bid the woman goodbye and shut the shop door. She waited a beat or two and then turned around to Miss Reid.

“We need more sketches,” said Miss Reid.

She let out a weary sigh. “I know. I was certain for a moment that Mrs. Sutton was going to insist on a chevron top. What’s wrong with that anyway?” she asked.

“If she hadn’t wanted sleeves, lapels, or a button band, nothing. However, none of our patterns will suit,” said Miss Reid.

“Surely it can’t be that difficult to cut a dolman top or something like it,” she said.

Miss Reid folded her arms over her chest, and Sylvia put her hands up.

“I know, I know. You sew, you don’t design. You’ve told me,” she said, rubbing her forehead just above the hairline so that she didn’t take the powder she wore every day off of her skin. Cosmetics were becoming increasingly difficult to find, and wasting any felt like a shame.

“It’s ridiculous that we can only offer our customers three suits,” she muttered, exhaustion settling over her.

She’d thought that running the shop wouldn’t require too much from her, but over the past two and a half months she’d realized just how naive that had been. She was there every day. She and Miss Reid had settled into a routine, with Sylvia greeting customers and managing the business, and Miss Reid sewing away. Each night, she found herself going home later. She couldn’t even recall the last time she’d accepted an evening invitation.

She sighed. “I’ll think of something.”

Sylvia felt a light pressure on her forearm and jerked back a little before realizing that Miss Reid had touched her.

“ We will think of something,” Miss Reid corrected her.

Sylvia stared at the seamstress, stunned at the show of reassurance from the usually ornery woman.

Swiftly, Miss Reid withdrew her hand and straightened her shoulders. “Now, no more dillydallying. I have fabric to cut.”

She dipped her head, allowing them both a graceful exit from an unusual display of compassion neither of them were completely comfortable with.

Sylvia waved goodbye to Miss Reid that evening at six o’clock. Then she shut and locked the shop door, pulling the blackout curtain over its glass pane.

The next part of Sylvia’s day was only just beginning.

Back in her mother’s office, she opened the desk drawer and extracted a bottle of whiskey she had borrowed from the bar at home. She was in the shop so many evenings these days that it made sense to bring refreshments in.

It wasn’t as though she was trying to avoid going home. There was simply so much to do every day. Orders, invoices, coupon checks, bookkeeping—all of it fell to her by simple virtue of the fact that there was no one else to do it. However, she didn’t mind. She’d forgotten that there could be comfort in the black-and-white surety of numbers.

That evening, however, she had grand plans of turning her attention to the last frontier in the office: a bookshelf stuffed with old notebooks and sketchbooks, the odd piece of loose paper sticking out.

Sylvia poured herself a whiskey, took a sip, and began.

She grabbed as many books as she could with one hand and hauled them over to the now-clear surface of her mother’s desk. Opening the cover of the top one, she found herself looking at drop-waist dresses and coats with long lapels and low single buttons. Opera coats with exaggerated collars and simple boxy-cut suits. Notes in her mother’s familiar handwriting about fabric and finishing accompanied each drawing. She ran her fingers along the lines of a long cocoon coat. These must have been some of her mother’s sketches from her first years of running the shop. While Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions never would have catered to flappers and jazz girls, the silhouettes of the era had penetrated every level of fashion.

The next book contained more separates, mostly skirts and blouses. Maggie had clearly been focusing on the everyday wear that most of her clients had come to her for.

The third book had a few evening gowns dotted throughout the pages, and even a tennis outfit.

Sylvia set it aside and shuffled through a few loose sheets of paper that had been stuffed between books, groaning when she realized they were invoices from five years ago. She would have to file them away with the rest of the paperwork she had organized and check them against the system she’d re-implemented.

She reached for the fourth book. There was no question of throwing out the sketchbooks. They were the legacy of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, a way of tracking the history of the shop and her mother’s many ideas. She had to admit it was impressive that the dress shop her mother had set up in 1920 was still operating.

Without thinking, she opened the cover of the sketchbook in front of her and immediately stilled. While the other books had been filled with her mother’s intricately detailed sketches full of technical details written in the margins, this was something different. The lines were sketchier, giving an impression of the body rather than fashion plate–like accuracy. But it was the suit on the first page that really gave her pause.

The outfit was far more pared down than most of her mother’s designs. The skirt was simple and slim, ending just below the knee. The jacket was single-breasted, with deep, thin lapels more reminiscent of a man’s suit but with more shaping through the waist than the usual boxier designs that her mother favored.

There were no notes written next to the suit, but she knew without a doubt that this was not her mother’s work.

Sylvia flipped to the next page, her lips parting. The suit was just the beginning. She began to page through the book faster and faster. There were blouses, skirts, coats, and even ladies’ trousers, which Sylvia was certain Mum would never have approved of. Some of the clothing was fanciful—bias-cut ballgowns with plunging necklines and sweeping trains and none of the loose drop waists that her mother had always insisted ladies of a certain age felt most comfortable in. There was a level of restrained glamour in this book that Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions had never seen before.

This. This was the sort of clothing that Mrs. Shelton’s should be offering its customers.

The shop’s doorbell rang, pulling her attention away from the sketchbook.

She pushed away from the desk and hurried to the front. She edged the blackout curtain back and found herself staring at William. He gave her a little wave.

Quickly, she unlocked the door. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mrs. Pearsall.”

Sylvia laughed. “Oh, come now, William. I’ve known you since I was eleven. It sounds ridiculous, you calling me Mrs. Pearsall.”

“Well, in that case, hello, Sylvia,” he said with a half smile. “May I come in? I don’t want to be the reason that you’re scolded by the air raid warden for breaking the blackout.”

She opened the door, letting light spill out into the twilight, and shut it swiftly behind him.

“How are you?” he asked, removing his hat.

“I’m well,” she said.

A silence settled between the two of them until he said, “I wasn’t sure whether you would still be here.”

“I was just going through some things in the office,” she said, not wanting to let on how late she had intended to stay.

“I thought maybe you would be off to some dinner or the theater,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, I thought I’d take the night off from the Dorchester and The 43,” she said, although she hadn’t set foot in either in what felt like ages. “Are you on your way home?”

“I have my fire-spotting shift tonight.” He looked down at his hat, seemed to notice that he was playing with the brim, and stilled. “I thought I would stop by. To see how you’re doing.”

Something warmed in her at his awkwardness. “That’s incredibly kind of you. Won’t you come back? I could put the kettle on.”

He swayed forward a fraction, almost as though he wanted to cross the threshold of the door to the back of the shop, but then he smiled apologetically. “No. No, thank you. Not tonight. I did want you to know that I received this from the Inland Revenue.”

He dipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Sylvia’s heart leaped into her throat when he held it out.

“I’m not certain I want to open it,” she confessed.

“The news won’t be any better or worse for leaving it unread,” he said softly.

She swallowed. “You’re right—I know you’re right—and yet…”

“Would you like me to open it?”

She felt a little ridiculous, but nodded nonetheless.

He slipped a finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. She watched his face, cool with professionalism, as he skimmed the contents, his eyes flicking efficiently over the page.

When he looked up, she held her breath, but then he grinned. “It appears that the tax liability for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions is all in order.”

Sylvia sagged against the shop’s counter. All of that worry—all of that time wondering if she was going to receive a dreaded letter in the post saying that Mrs. Shelton’s owed far more in back tax than she knew the shop’s meager accounts could pay—was gone.

“Sylvia, are you all right?” asked William.

“Never better,” she said, giving a little laugh.

“You’re crying,” he said.

She lifted a hand to her cheek and found it wet. “So I am.”

William produced a handkerchief, crisp and clean, just as she’d known it would be, from his pocket.

“I suppose I’m relieved, really. I was worried that something terrible would happen, and Izzie would be so disappointed in me,” she confessed, the words she’d never spoken aloud before tumbling out to this man who had once been her childhood companion as swiftly as her tears. “I don’t think I could stand it if I lost Izzie her shop.”

“It’s your shop too,” said William.

“Only for as long as it takes for this wretched war to finish and for her to come home.”

Feeling suddenly awkward herself, she dabbed at her tears and then handed him back his handkerchief. “Thank you, William. Are you certain you won’t stay for a cup of tea? It’s the least I can do after crying all over your linen.”

He took the handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket. “Thank you, but I really should be going.”

“Of course,” she said.

He nodded and stepped back to settle his hat. “Good night, Sylvia.”

“Good night.” She moved to open the door but then, with her hand on the knob, stopped herself. “It was good to see you, William.”

He smiled, and then tugged on the brim of his hat. “It was good to see you too.”

She opened the door and he brushed by, leaving her alone in the shop once again.

The following day, when Miss Reid came in Sylvia was ready and waiting, seated in a chair she’d pulled up to the cutting table. She had the sketchbook she’d found open in front of her, a cup of tea half-drunk next to her hand.

“Good morning,” said Miss Reid, shrugging off her black wool coat.

“Miss Reid, will you come look at this?” Sylvia asked.

With a frown, the seamstress put her coat on her usual peg, deposited her handbag next to her machine, and walked over. As soon as Miss Reid’s eyes landed on the sketchbook, she let out an “Oh…”

“Do you know where this sketchbook came from?” Sylvia asked.

Miss Reid glanced at Sylvia, then at the sketchbook, then back again. Finally, she said, “It’s one of your sister’s.”

Sylvia traced her fingers over a sleek black evening coat.

“I knew she liked to draw, but I didn’t realize she could do this,” she murmured.

Miss Reid lifted her chin and nodded. “Not long after you left, your sister began to carry a sketchbook around with her everywhere. I used to ask her what was in it, but it was a full year before she showed me anything. They were good. A bit too romantic for my taste, but good.

“However, as she became older, she became more interested in what the couture houses in Paris were making. She stripped back all of the fabric flowers and bows. She became very good,” said Miss Reid, as close to beaming with pride as Sylvia had ever seen her.

“She must have showed them to our mother,” Sylvia said, turning a page and looking at the designs with new eyes. “I found this on the bookshelf in my mother’s office.”

“Miss Shelton did show her sketches to your mother from time to time,” said Miss Reid carefully.

“But,” she prompted.

“I believe Mrs. Shelton thought that they weren’t suitable for the shop’s clientele,” said Miss Reid.

“Then why was this stuffed onto the bookshelf with all of my mother’s drawings?” Sylvia asked.

Miss Reid’s lips tightened. “On occasion, Mrs. Shelton would become frustrated with Miss Shelton spending her time drawing and confiscate a book.”

“She took Izzie’s sketchbooks away from her?” Sylvia asked in shock.

“Only when they were interfering with your sister’s work,” said Miss Reid, rising to the defense of her old employer.

Sylvia stared down at a bias-cut dress with a low, sweeping back and immediately she understood. Her mother would have hated this style, showing off and celebrating a woman’s figure rather than hiding it. It would have felt modern, even radical, to Maggie Shelton. Too French. Too Hollywood. To begin dressing this woman would have been a risk because it would have meant evolving, growing, changing. It would have ruffled the feathers of the shop’s old-guard customers.

“Many of these designs are perfect for the Board of Trade’s utility scheme,” she said. “They are simpler than my mother’s designs, and they’ll require less fabric.”

She thought for a moment that Miss Reid might protest, but instead the seamstress gave a sharp nod. “They are.”

“I doubt we’ll have much call for evening dresses, but the everyday separates would work well with only a few modifications.” She glanced at Miss Reid. “Do you think you could create patterns based on some of these designs?”

“I can try,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia closed the book. “Then, Miss Reid, I think we may have found a solution to our problem.”