The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

A few hours later, Sylvia held her breath as Lady Nolan’s housekeeper opened the drawing room door for her a full twenty minutes after that day’s meeting of the War Widows’ Fund committee meeting had started. Once again, every lady in attendance swiveled to look as she strode in, and once again she lifted her chin to brazen her way through their stares.

She knew that she should have left the shop earlier, but she’d lost time trying on the black dress Miss Reid had magicked out of nowhere. When the seamstress had insisted on taking the hem down slightly to account for Sylvia’s height, she could hardly have said no. Sylvia knew an olive branch when she saw one.

She’d gone through the week’s invoices while waiting for Miss Reid to finish the alterations, and then a new customer had walked in with no appointment but with two daughters, fifteen and seventeen, in tow, sending Miss Reid and her scrambling to serve all three women in what would prove to be the shop’s biggest order in a fortnight.

After the customers left, Sylvia had grabbed her handbag and only just made her bus, congratulating herself on managing to do it all. However, the bus had to be rerouted because a work crew had hit a water main while repairing bomb damage, forcing a main road to close and snarling traffic.

And so, yet again, she was late.

“Mrs. Pearsall, I see you have decided to join us after all,” said Lady Nolan as Sylvia rounded the back of the circle of chairs and settled into a seat next to the newest member of the committee, Lady Winman.

“My apologies,” she said, settling her handbag next to her chair.

“Mrs. Pearsall, I should hate to have to remind you that our work is important and deserves our full attention. Can we be reassured that you intend to be prompt in your attendance to these meetings from now on?” asked Lady Nolan.

The barb was finely honed, and once it might have hit her right in the softest part of her insecurity that any misstep might see the door to this world close in her face. However, now she found herself balking at her hostess’s words. The War Widows’ Fund committee work was important, but there were a dozen ladies on the committee. Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions only had Miss Reid and her. The shop had bills that had to be paid, and customers had to be served. If she didn’t do those things, no one else would.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” she said, fighting to keep her voice level.

“I should hate to think that you are making lateness your new hobby, Mrs. Pearsall,” Lady Nolan continued to needle.

“Perhaps I should, as time seems to be the only thing not rationed at the moment,” Sylvia snapped.

Soft scoffs of disbelief peppered the room along with one stifled giggle next to her. Sylvia slid her gaze over to Lady Winman, who had raised an index finger to her lips, clearly trying to keep her laughter in.

“Well,” said Lady Nolan, shifting in her seat and looking down at her notes, “since you are here, perhaps you would like to start our discussion of ideas for our next fundraising event, Mrs. Pearsall.”

Damn . With Hugo’s return and the argument with Izzie, Sylvia had hardly given the fundraising event a single thought even though Lady Nolan had prompted all of them to bring ideas at the end of their last meeting.

“Well, I should hate to preempt anyone who wishes to go first,” she hedged, glancing around the room at a dozen expectant, judgmental faces. She caught Claire’s gaze, and her friend shook her head slightly.

“Please, do go on, Mrs. Pearsall,” said Lady Nolan. “We have discussed at great length the fact that we have exhausted the reasonable bounds of our usual efforts. We are in need of new ideas, which I’m certain you have in abundance.”

Sylvia smoothed a hand over the skirt of her dress, and suddenly she had it.

“A fashion show.”

Lady Nolan frowned. “A fashion show?”

“Yes,” she said, the idea forming rapidly as she recalled an article she’d read a few weeks before.

“Wasn’t that just done by Digby Morton, Edward Molyneux, and some others? I read about it a few weeks ago in The London Lady ,” said Mrs. Hartwell.

“Yes, but we would do it differently. We would focus on local dressmakers here in London. They don’t receive nearly as much attention as designers do.”

“Don’t dressmakers just copy what more talented designers do?” asked Claire with a scoff.

“Many dressmakers do have the skill and talent to design themselves,” Sylvia argued.

“Which, I’m certain, is why so many of your dresses are made by dressmakers no one has ever heard of,” said Claire with a conspiratorial wink.

“This dress was designed and made by a London dressmaker,” she said, waving a hand down the black dress her sister had designed and Miss Reid had sewn.

There was a wave of murmurs, and Claire lifted a brow. “I stand corrected. I thought you lived and died by your Hartnell.”

“What exactly is your proposal, Mrs. Pearsall?” asked Lady Nolan.

“We would invite a number of local dressmakers to each create an original ensemble that aligns with the Board of Trade’s new austerity measures and uses utility cloth. We can tell them we want them to show that, despite the restrictions, fashion is alive, well, and within reach.

“The show would be a ticketed event, with the proceeds going to the charity,” she continued. “We could invite an audience of women and let them know that they can purchase the garments at the end of the show if they choose. If we do that and invite the fashion trade publications, I imagine many dressmakers would be even more inclined to join because it would encourage patronage.”

“Since she took over as editor at Vogue , Audrey Withers has been keen to show women how they can keep up appearances and maintain morale even with rationing on,” said Lady Winman. “We could write to the magazine to invite them to cover the event.”

“But does Vogue really have any interest in a small group of seamstresses no one’s heard of?” asked Claire. “Their pages are filled with Molyneux and Jacqmar, not Mrs. Bloggins’s frocks from the shop down the road.”

Sylvia’s eyes narrowed at her friend’s continued criticism even as Lady Winman said, “I should think Miss Withers would be very interested. The magazine seems to have a real interest in covering all aspects of the war. They’ve been writing about the clothing ration extensively, and they’re keen on promoting domestic fashion in all forms. I would be happy to ask Miss Withers. We are both volunteers with the London Fire Brigade.”

Disloyal though it was to her friend, Sylvia couldn’t help but feel triumphant when Claire sank back into the chair looking mollified.

“What I want to know is who would be the models? Most young ladies are in the auxiliary services now,” said Mrs. Neil, a slight woman who wore silver glasses on a chain.

“The ladies of this committee,” Sylvia jumped in, causing a stir.

“Not all of us have a model’s figure any longer,” said Lady Nolan primly.

“This show would be about women of all ages, shapes, and sizes,” she explained. “Practical dressing for the practical—but fashionable—woman.”

To her great surprise, Lady Nolan turned to the other women and said, “Well, I hope that you have all come with ideas as robust as Mrs. Pearsall’s because her fashion show will be very hard to best. Mrs. Neil, you are next.”

As Mrs. Neil fumbled with her notebook, Sylvia sank back in her chair with a sigh of relief.

It took time to listen to all the ideas pitched for the committee’s next fundraising event, even with Lady Nolan ruthlessly cutting off anyone who seemed unprepared with a curt “I think we’ve heard enough.”

Reassured that the focus of the afternoon’s meeting had shifted safely away from her, Sylvia busied herself by making a list down the right side of her notebook of all the things she needed to do when she returned to Mrs. Shelton’s, starting with submitting the coupons they’d collected that week to the Board of Trade for cross-checking.

When Lady Nolan finally declared the meeting over, Sylvia shot to her feet. However, a light hand on her forearm stopped her.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your dress is lovely,” said Lady Winman.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, a little taken aback. Before this meeting, the countess had hardly spoken to her. Now, in the space of a single afternoon, Lady Winman had not only offered up Audrey Withers of Vogue in support of Sylvia’s fashion show but she had a compliment for Sylvia’s wardrobe.

“Would you mind passing along the name of your dressmaker?” asked Lady Winman. “I’ve struggled to find one I like.”

“Oh,” she said as Claire slid into her field of vision. When she’d mentioned that she was wearing a dressmaker’s design, she hadn’t thought that anyone might want to know the name of the shop. Now she realized that it had been a risk to open herself up like that. Still, to have a customer like Lady Winman… Well, wouldn’t that be a coup?

“I would be happy to find the address and send it to you, my lady,” she said firmly.

Lady Winman pulled a small gold case out of her handbag, flicked it open with her thumbnail, and handed Sylvia a heavy cream card bearing her name and address. “Please do. The silhouette really is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia.

Lady Winman nodded a goodbye and then made her way out of the emptying drawing room.

As soon as the countess was gone, Claire asked, “What was all that about?”

Sylvia passed her thumb over the beautiful paper of Lady Winman’s card and then looked up at her friend. “Nothing really.” She slipped the card into her handbag and snapped it shut harder than necessary. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”

Claire caught up to her as Lady Nolan’s housekeeper handed Sylvia her coat.

“Sylvia, don’t be like this,” said Claire.

“Like what? I have an appointment,” she said, slipping her arms into her sleeves.

“You’re cross because I challenged your idea just a little bit, aren’t you?” Claire asked, her heels clicking as they both descended the three steps from Lady Nolan’s front door to the road.

“I’m not.”

“Your dress is beautiful, I was only a bit surprised. You always seemed so devoted to your usual fashion houses. And it’s black. It’s an interesting choice for someone who isn’t in mourning.”

It was funny that she’d never noticed before how compliments from Claire had to be handled carefully because they so often came surrounded by thorns.

“I was not aware that you were so intimately acquainted with the contents of my wardrobe,” Sylvia said, keeping her gaze forward.

Claire grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop or risk toppling both of them onto the pavement. “What is the matter? If you’d like me to apologize, I will, but something is the matter.”

“Nothing is the matter,” she said.

Claire rolled her eyes. “You’re preoccupied. You’re always late. Whenever I see you, you’re rushing off somewhere. It’s almost as though you don’t want to spend any time with me.” Claire paused. “Or there is someone else in your life you want to see more?”

Was there an accusation wrapped up in that comment, or was Sylvia simply imagining it?

“I’m busy,” she said.

“We’re all busy these days. My maid just had the audacity to tell me she’s been called up as a Land Girl. Can you imagine her digging up potatoes in the countryside? But do you know what I did when I found out? I put on a dress and went out for supper and dancing—much to Rupert’s chagrin,” said Claire.

“I thought Rupert was stationed in Scotland,” she said.

Claire waved a hand. “Oh, he’s home on leave. Three weeks, if you can believe it. I suspect that means he’ll be sent somewhere terribly far away next.”

“Really? Hugo hadn’t mentioned Rupert was home,” she said.

“Is Hugo back too? My word, it’s practically raining husbands in London.”

“Yes, well, Hugo’s hardly home. His work keeps him busy,” she said. That and his insistence on dining at his club most nights.

Claire’s eyes lit up and she grabbed Sylvia’s arm. “I have an idea. Why don’t we go out together—the four of us for dinner and dancing, just like old times.”

She should be able to say yes immediately, but the truth was, she had no idea whether Hugo would want to go to a restaurant and on to a nightclub with her. She knew so little about her husband these days.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally said.

“Excellent,” said Claire, already sounding lighter. “Well, that meeting was one for the ages, and all the credit should go to you. Did you see Lady Nolan’s face when you defied her and talked back?”

A smile touched Sylvia’s lips. “She did look rather shocked, didn’t she?”

“Because no one’s ever put her in her place before. And what about Lady Winman? For months she’s hardly said a word, and now she’s offering up the editor of Vogue the same way someone might lend out a spare handkerchief.”

“I think she wants to be helpful,” Sylvia said.

“Personally I’m shocked she’s still attending meetings. I didn’t think she’d last,” said Claire.

“Why is that?”

Claire leaned in. “Well, before she was Lady Winman, apparently she was just plain old Miss Carter, a writer for one of Lord Winman’s ladies’ magazines.

“The rumor is that Lord Winman took a liking to her. His mother, the Dowager Lady Winman, did her best to break the couple apart, but Lord Winman declared that he wouldn’t give Miss Carter up because he loved her too much. In the end, the Dowager Lady Winman had to concede because the count had to marry Miss Carter, if you understand my meaning.

“I’ve also heard that the Dowager Lady Winman nearly refused to hand over the Winman rubies when her son married,” Claire continued. “Can you imagine the indignity she must have felt when those jewels that have been in the family for nearly three centuries hung for the first time around the neck of a woman who writes columns? I would have died of embarrassment.”

Sylvia watched the smug smile on Claire’s face as her friend of years spread gossip about a woman whose only sin, as far as Sylvia could tell, was having had a career. Claire had always liked talking about who was doing what with whom, but Sylvia had never really minded. Her friend had been a fount of information that Sylvia could use as she tried to navigate all the unspoken relationships and rivalries that only people in the know would ever be privy to. But there was an edge to all of this gossip, and all at once Sylvia couldn’t be certain how far their friendship would stretch if Claire found out Sylvia’s secrets.

The daughter of a widowed seamstress who ran a shop.

A wife who couldn’t give her husband a child.

A woman who couldn’t keep a husband in her bed.

She could practically hear what Claire would whisper about her if she only knew.

“No wonder he ran to another woman. We never really knew anything about her or her people, but we were all willing to overlook that for Hugo’s sake. If you ask me, you always could tell that she’s not quite the thing. There’ve been little hints all along. It’s a good thing really that there never was a child.”

“Do you know,” said Sylvia, cutting off her own harsh thoughts, “I think that Lady Winman’s story is very romantic.”

“Romantic?” Claire laughed. “It’s preposterous.”

“A man who is in love decides that nothing will stand in the way of being with the woman he wants to be with? That is the sort of thing you see in films or read in novels,” she said.

Claire sniffed. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I would be careful about becoming too close to her. She might be a countess, but she’s not the right sort of countess, if you understand my meaning.”

“Claire, I think I understand your meaning perfectly.”

And she wasn’t certain why she’d ever tolerated it.