The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

No, that will not be acceptable,” said Sylvia down the office telephone she’d had installed three weeks ago after growing tired of taking all her calls in the corridor.

“I’m sorry, madam, but that’s the best I can do,” said Mr. Harding on the other end of the line.

Mr. Harding was, Sylvia had decided, her archnemesis. He was in charge of all deliveries for Fuller & Crosgrove, which was one of the suppliers her mother had apparently used for years, if the receipts she’d found were anything to go by. Considering that she had never once in her time at the shop seen an order from Fuller & Crosgrove show up on time and in full, she wondered why.

Every telephone call to Mr. Harding to fix an order cost her precious time she didn’t have. It was, she had to admit to herself, becoming more and more difficult to keep all of the plates in her life spinning. The shop was like a needy child, tugging at her skirt. It might have been fine if that was all she had to contend with, but there was also the matter of being Mrs. Hugo Pearsall. She ran their household, directing Mrs. Atkinson in what needed to be done around the flat, doing the accounts, and paying all of the bills in her husband’s absence. Then there was the social aspect of her life. She couldn’t exactly stop answering letters or turn down every single invitation from friends because of the shop, because no one was supposed to know about it. Nights out had been easy to beg off of because of the blackout and the cold winter they’d had, but that still left luncheons, committee meetings, and teas to try to juggle around the shop’s needs.

Sylvia straightened in her mother’s desk chair and prepared to fight the familiar battle. “Mr. Harding, I will not be paying your invoice until you bring the correct order to the shop.”

“You took delivery of it, Mrs. Pearsall. There’s nothing I can do,” said Mr. Harding.

“Half of the order was missing, and the other half was wet through. What did you do? Leave it out in the rain because you knew it was coming to me?” she asked, her voice sarcastically sweet.

“Now, Mrs. Pearsall, there’s no need to make accusations. If you’ll pay for the order, I’ll see to it that the missing items are sent to you,” said Mr. Harding.

“No, you will see that the entire order is sent to me as soon as possible in full, and I expect a discount of twenty-five percent,” she said.

The man scoffed. “Mrs. Pearsall, I understand that you may not be familiar with how this business works—”

“Mr. Harding, I have been in the garment trade since I was eleven years old, so I suggest that you take another tack, because you will not find any success trying to cow me into agreeing with you,” she said sharply.

“Now, now, I didn’t mean any offense.”

“I’m certain you would never do anything so unwise,” she said, knowing she sounded utterly unconvinced.

The man sighed. “I can send you the missing items, but only after you’ve paid.”

Outside of the closed office door, she heard Miss Reid’s sewing machine stop its whirring. There were no appointments scheduled for at least two hours, but walk-in business had begun to pick up a little in the past month. Sylvia tried her best to greet any woman who entered with a smile and the sort of gentle attention she received when she had her clothes made at Hartnell or Worth, but she was at a critical juncture with Mr. Harding. This time she let Miss Reid handle whoever had come through their door.

She leaned forward, elbows on the desk as she cradled the telephone receiver closer to her ear. “Mr. Harding, I find myself growing tired of our little discussions, so I will explain what will happen. You will send the complete order again—dry and undamaged—as soon as humanly possible. You will also send a new invoice less the amount of twenty-five percent of the total of the order. If you do no not do this, I will make it my personal mission to telephone every dressmaker, tailor, and designer in London and explain to them that it would be in their best interest not to trade with Fuller and Crosgrove because of your unjust business practices.”

The man was so quiet, Sylvia thought that they might have become disconnected until a deep sigh filled her ear.

“Ten percent,” said the man.

She smiled. “Twenty.”

“Fifteen,” he said.

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen is more than I give anyone.”

“You’ll give us twenty, and you personally will ensure that any future orders for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions are received full and on time,” she said firmly.

Mr. Harding made an exasperated noise and then said, “Fine. You’ll have it within the next three days.”

Sylvia sat back in her chair with a grin just as there was a knock on the door.

“I look forward to receiving the order then, Mr. Harding.” She settled the telephone back on its cradle and then called out, “Come in!”

Miss Reid opened the door, and Sylvia knew from one look at the woman that something was wrong.

“What is it?” she asked, sitting up abruptly.

“Mrs. Pearsall, you’re going to want to come now,” said Miss Reid in a loud whisper.

“Why? What’s the matter?” she asked standing. “And why are you whispering?”

Miss Reid glanced over her shoulder. “It’s—Well, you’d better just see for yourself.”

Sylvia rounded the desk and was almost to the threshold of the office when Miss Reid pushed the door open to its full width, revealing Izzie in uniform with a tall, blond WAAF at her side. Sylvia was about to greet her sister when Izzie looked up with righteous fury in her eyes, and Sylvia knew instantly that this would be no happy family reunion.

Izzie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She was standing in the middle of the workroom, Alexandra at her side, staring at a spread of her own sketches covering half the table. It looked as though they had been cut out of one of her sketchbooks with a penknife, which would explain why the clothbound cover sitting on the edge of the table was starting to collapse in on itself a bit. And if that wasn’t enough, the other half of the table was taken up by pattern pieces cut from draft paper and what looked like part of a muslin toile.

Miss Reid, who had clapped her hand over her mouth at the sight of her the moment she’d walked through the shop’s front room, now stood with her back plastered against the wall next to Mum’s office while Sylvia looked stunned in the doorway.

“What is this?” Izzie asked, snatching up a sketch of two women wearing skirts that hit just below the knee topped by short jackets, each with a narrow lapel.

“Izzie, I was going to write to you—”

“What is this?” she demanded, shaking the paper at Sylvia.

It only made her angrier when Sylvia lifted her chin as though she were preparing herself to speak to one of those bloody women’s committees she served on.

“I found them on the bookshelf in the office,” said Sylvia. “Miss Reid tells me they’re yours.”

Izzie rounded on Miss Reid.

“They’re very good, Miss Shelton,” Miss Reid started, her eyes downcast.

“When I realized that many of them suit the new Board of Trade utility scheme, I asked Miss Reid to do what she could to try to translate them to patterns,” Sylvia continued.

“You’re making them?” Izzie hissed.

“I don’t understand, I thought you would be pleased to see your sketches become real clothing we sell,” said Sylvia.

It was what she had wanted for so long, but not like this. Not with her sister digging up sketches that Mum had already rejected. She was not going to put work that would make her mother ashamed out into the world. She wouldn’t do it.

“Izzie, what’s the matter?” asked Alexandra in a low voice.

Her friend’s question barely registered. “You have no right, Sylvia. No right!”

“I was only trying to help,” said Sylvia.

“You were supposed to mind the shop. Perhaps take an order or two. That is all,” said Izzie fiercely. She knew she was being unreasonable. From her letters, it sounded as though Sylvia had done a great deal to sort out the shop’s books and draw in new business, but using her sketches without Izzie’s permission was beyond the pale.

“Miss Shelton,” Miss Reid cut in, “your sister has worked hard these last months. She is here every day to open up the shop, and I know that she stays on well beyond when I leave for the evening. She’s delivered parcels and sorted out lost orders. She takes consultations, and she even had a new telephone installed.”

“You would defend her after everything you know she did?” asked Izzie.

Miss Reid drew herself up to her full height. “Your sister is no longer an eighteen-year-old girl. She grew up.”

“Miss Reid,” Sylvia whispered.

“I cannot believe you are taking her side,” Izzie said in disgust. “You were here for all of it. You saw how fast she was out that door as soon as that husband of hers came along. She couldn’t wait to turn her back on Mum because she never had one bit of respect for Mum or this shop.” Izzie’s gaze cut over to Sylvia, who was standing pale and pinch-lipped. “Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? You hated Mum. You hated this shop. You hated all of us.”

The truth hung heavy as fog in the middle of the room, and for a moment no one dared to breathe.

“There are no sides here,” Miss Reid finally said. “All that matters is that your mother’s shop stays open.”

“It is supposed to be my shop now.” Tears began to prick behind Izzie’s eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t let her anger and her frustration win. “I am supposed to know everything that happens here. That was the agreement, Sylvia.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t write to you first,” said her sister. “Miss Reid and I didn’t want to get your hopes up before—”

“My hopes up? These are private,” she said, her voice cracking. “I never meant for anyone to see them.”

It was a lie but she couldn’t stop herself. Seeing her sketches spread out in front of her and patterns made from them didn’t give her the joy she’d once dreamed of. Instead, she felt violated. Exposed.

“Izzie, the sketches really are perfect,” Sylvia tried to reason.

“They are, Miss Shelton,” said Miss Reid with a weak smile.

“Izzie, what is really the matter?” Alexandra asked in a low voice, touching Izzie’s arm.

It was the calm kindness in her friend’s tone that brought all of those held-back tears spilling down her face.

“They aren’t good enough,” said Izzie, a sob escaping her lips.

“That’s not true,” said Sylvia.

Izzie shook her head emphatically. “Mum said they were not good enough for our customers, and they aren’t. They were just a silly thing I did.”

“I’m telling you that they are just what we need. It was a godsend finding them,” said Sylvia.

Izzie wanted to curl up under the cutting table and hide from everyone. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself. “No,” she said firmly. “No one wants to buy clothes like that.”

“ I want to buy clothes like this,” said Sylvia.

“What good does that do us when we all know that you would never deign to have your clothes made at a place like Mrs. Shelton’s?” Izzie lashed out.

It gratified her to see Sylvia rear back. “That’s not true.”

“What are you wearing right now? What is that?” she demanded. “Hartnell? Hardy Amies? Or perhaps it’s Jacqmar? When was the last time that you went to a place like Mrs. Shelton’s to have your clothes made? You didn’t even let Mum make your wedding dress. Your own mother, who was a dressmaker.” When her sister didn’t answer, Izzie continued, “Don’t tell me what is best for this business when you wouldn’t even condescend to spend your money and your clothing coupons here.”

Her breath came fast as she braced herself for Sylvia’s response. A part of her wanted her sister to rise to the bait and finally tell her what she really thought of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. At least then it would all be out in the open.

Instead, Sylvia simply said, “I’m sorry, Izzie.”

She scoffed and dashed away the last of her tears. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m sorry for many things. I’ve made so many mistakes in my life—more than you can ever guess,” Sylvia said. “I would be happy to explain anything to you that you like, and I will offer up every apology that I have.”

Izzie shook her head. “You’re years too late.”

Sylvia folded her hands in front of her and looked down. “I understand.”

Izzie looked around, taking in the familiar sewing machines, the fabric, pins, shears. She saw the wan look on Miss Reid’s face, Alexandra’s clear worry, and Sylvia’s reticence.

“As soon as I’m demobbed, I want you out of this building,” said Izzie. “We will make whatever arrangement necessary to complete the sale. Willie will handle all of the paperwork. In the meantime, I would ask you to keep your letters to me focused on the business of the shop.

“Alexandra and my balloon unit will be stationed at RAF Horsham Saint Faith in Norfolk. I will come up to London as often as I am granted leave. You do not need to be here when I arrive. Miss Reid can give me any updates in person that are necessary.”

She leaned over the table to begin gathering up her loose sketches and tucked them into the cover of their book. Then she marched into Mum’s now-clean office and stuffed the sketchbook back on the bookshelf where it belonged.

“Isabelle Shelton, you are acting like a child,” said Miss Reid as Izzie emerged into the workroom again.

“You wouldn’t have dared speak to my mother that way, Miss Reid,” Izzie warned.

“Perhaps I should have,” fired back the seamstress.

“Don’t test my patience, Miss Reid. You will not like it.”

Miss Reid planted her hands on her hips. “Then fire me.”

Izzie hesitated. She couldn’t fire Miss Reid. Not if she wanted the shop to survive the war.

“I held my tongue for too long with your mother because she took me in and gave me a job when no one else would, but I won’t make that same mistake with you,” said Miss Reid. “If you really want to be the owner of this shop, you must see that the changes Mrs. Pearsall has made are necessary. If you could put aside your own bloody-mindedness, you would realize that she’s trying to save this place, not run it into the ground.”

“You are welcome, from here on out, to keep your opinions to yourself, Miss Reid,” Izzie said. “Come along, Alexandra. We’re leaving.”

“Izzie, maybe we should talk about this,” said Alexandra quietly as Izzie led her down the corridor to the front of the shop.

“There is nothing to talk about,” she said.

“But why don’t you want your designs to be used?” Alexandra asked as Izzie stepped out into the street. “Your sister and Miss Reid said that your sketches are perfect.”

“They were wrong. Mum knew best, and she said they weren’t right. ‘Frocks for film stars’ she used to call them.”

“What woman doesn’t want to feel a little chic right now?” asked Alexandra with a cautious smile. “Besides, your sister wouldn’t have chosen those sketches if she didn’t think they were right for your clientele.”

A part of her deep down in a secret corner of her heart wanted to believe that her friend was right, but she couldn’t escape the echo of her mother’s words. Izzie wasn’t ready. She wasn’t experienced enough. She didn’t know the first thing about designing for real women. The sketches were just a fantasy. They would never sell. Mrs. Shelton’s was founded on the backs of good, practical garments.

“My mother built this business from nothing. She was right,” she said firmly.

Alexandra chewed her lip, but then nodded. “If you say so.”

Izzie gave a sharp nod. “I do.”