The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Nickelson please?” Sylvia asked, cradling the telephone receiver against her ear.

“Speaking,” said a woman with a soft Scottish accent.

Sylvia straightened. “Mrs. Nickelson, my name is Mrs. Pearsall. I’m one of proprietresses of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions in Maida Vale. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time to discuss a business proposition with you.”

“Yes?” the other woman dragged out the word.

“I’m also a member of a committee that does charitable work to support soldiers’ widows in need,” she said, speaking more rapidly for fear of losing Mrs. Nickelson’s attention. “We are holding a fashion show that would feature a number of London’s best dressmakers to promote the wonderful, skilled work of local dress shops. Given your considerable reputation when it comes to constructing”—she glanced down at her notes—“coats, I felt that our list of participating dressmakers wouldn’t be complete without you.”

There was a pause on the other end of the telephone. “What did you say your name was, Mrs….?”

“Pearsall,” she supplied.

“If you are the owner of a dress shop, then I’m certain you are aware that this is a challenging time,” said Mrs. Nickelson. “I’ve started taking in officers’ uniforms to mend. Male officers.”

“I understand, it’s difficult for all of us right now. However, that’s precisely what we’re trying to address with this fashion show. We wish to make a virtue out of the Board of Trade’s austerity measures, show women that it is possible to enjoy fashion in a time of war, and remind them that their neighborhood dressmaker is the best person to help them do that.”

There was a pause on the other end of the telephone, and then Mrs. Nickelson said, “All right then. What could it hurt?”

Sylvia waggled her pencil in a silent little cheer. “Very good. I will be in touch with further details by letter, or you can telephone Cunningham 4930.”

After they said their goodbyes, Sylvia replaced the receiver and then placed a tick next to Mrs. Nickelson’s name. It had not been easy putting together her list of dressmakers to contact, and not everyone had received her invitation as swiftly or as warmly as Mrs. Nickelson. Since she’d begun making her calls, a few had scoffed at the idea that a fashion show of unknown dressmakers would receive any attention, while switchboard operators had been unable to connect to the exchanges of two, leaving Sylvia wondering whether they had fallen victim to the bombs that had rained down on London at intervals for the past year and a half.

However, she kept ringing friends, making discreet inquiries as to where they had their clothes made, and pulling on the surprising fountain of knowledge that was Miss Reid, who seemed to be an encyclopedia of who specialized in what sort of garment. The additional work kept her occupied, for which she was eternally grateful, because it gave her another reason to avoid Hugo.

When Claire’s invitation to supper had come in the post, Sylvia had thought at first to quietly decline it and save herself the indignity of dressing up and pretending she didn’t know about the letters in Hugo’s desk. However, Rupert was Hugo’s very good friend from school and a member of the same club, so she couldn’t be certain that Rupert wouldn’t also extend the invitation in person.

That morning, she’d caught Hugo at home changing into his dress uniform.

“Claire and Rupert have invited us to supper on Saturday,” she said from the bedroom doorway.

Hugo glanced at her as he adjusted the collar of his jacket. “Really?”

“Apparently Rupert is home on leave, and Claire thinks it would be fun to go dancing afterward. ‘Like old times,’ I think she put it.”

Hugo’s gaze fixed on his reflection in the long bedroom mirror again. “You should say yes.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t we?” he replied, as though he hadn’t spent a fortnight avoiding her.

That morning, before going into the shop, she wrote Claire a reply saying that she and Hugo would be delighted.

The office telephone rang, and Sylvia answered with her usual greeting, “Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, this is Mrs. Pearsall speaking.”

“Hello, I wanted to inquire about having a new dress made. My daughter is to be married, you see,” said the woman on the other end.

“How exciting! Many congratulations to your daughter,” she said as she opened the shop’s appointment book. “It looks as though we have availability on Thursday or next Tuesday in the afternoon if you would like to come in.”

“Thursday at eleven o’clock would suit me,” said the caller.

The shop’s doorbell rang, and as Miss Reid waved a hand at the open office door to silently say that she’d answer it, Sylvia mouthed, “Thank you.”

“Very good, may I have your name?” she asked the caller.

“Mrs. Harris.”

“Then we shall see you Thursday at eleven o’clock, Mrs. Harris. And may I ask, how did you learn about Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions?” she asked.

“I believe it was an advertisement in The Lady ,” said Mrs. Harris.

Sylvia grinned. Another potential customer from her advertisements.

She said goodbye to Mrs. Harris and replaced the receiver. She could hear the muffled sound of Miss Reid speaking to some customer—likely Mrs. Temple and her daughter, who were both due for fittings at one o’clock.

Closing the appointment book, Sylvia made her way down the corridor to greet the Temple women before leaving them in Miss Reid’s capable hands for their fitting. However, when she walked through to the reception, she found it wasn’t the Temples examining the dress form displaying a linen suit but Lady Winman.

“My lady,” she said, stopping short.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvia registered the shocked look on Miss Reid’s face at Sylvia’s deference. A flash of surprise passed over the countess’s face too—no doubt for completely different reasons—but Lady Winman quickly regained her polite composure.

“Mrs. Pearsall, I didn’t expect to find you here,” said Lady Winman.

Miss Reid took a hesitant step forward. “I was just showing her ladyship this summer suit, madam.”

From the way that Miss Reid addressed Sylvia, there could be no denying her position of authority at the shop. A few months ago, she might have stammered some excuse and tried her best to explain away her association with the dressmaker’s shop. However, she had worked too hard for that. She might not be able to sew like Izzie or their mother, but she had put her own form of work into Mrs. Shelton’s then and now, and she wanted her due credit.

“Miss Reid is our head seamstress,” she told Lady Winman, approaching the dress form. “The suit is lovely, but the cut is perhaps a little boxy compared to the sort of jacket I’ve noticed you normally wear, my lady. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Lady Winman smiled. “I don’t mind at all. And you are quite right.”

“I would recommend something more elevated and tailored. If a linen suit is what you are looking for,” Sylvia finished.

Lady Winman’s lips tilted up a touch. “I would like that very much.”

“Miss Reid, why don’t you fetch Miss Shelton’s sketchbook?” asked Sylvia.

“Are you certain, madam?” asked Miss Reid, who hadn’t lost her slightly stunned expression at the appearance of a countess on the shop floor.

Sylvia knew without having to consult Lady Winman that her mother’s sketches wouldn’t suit the countess and her streamlined, simple elegance. And while some women like Claire might think that the Countess of Winman wasn’t the “right sort of countess,” Sylvia knew that any countess wearing a Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions design would be good for business.

It would have to be her sister’s sketches. She just hoped Izzie would forgive her.

She gave Miss Reid a firm nod. “Please.”

Miss Reid retreated to the back of the shop faster than Sylvia had ever seen her move.

Turning back to Lady Winman with a smile, Sylvia pointed to a chair. “If you would like to make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” said the countess.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked.

“No, thank you. It is kind of you to offer.”

As Sylvia lowered herself into the chair opposite Lady Winman, the countess said, “So you own a dress shop.”

She folded her hands across her lap. “Half of one, yes.”

Lady Winman smiled and began pulling off her gloves. “Yet it is called Mrs. Shelton’s and not Mrs. Pearsall’s.”

“It is.”

There was a pause long enough for Sylvia to begin to question whether she’d been entirely wise in confiding in the countess. However, Lady Winman finally said, “I imagine there is a very good reason for that, and I hope one day you might tell me. However, I understand if you don’t wish to do that today, because I know how funny high society can be when it comes to women and business.”

Despite all her rationalization, Sylvia’s shoulders still inched down a fraction at the countess’s words. “Yes. Although apparently it is all well and good for men to be in one of the more gentlemanly professions.”

“Including earls,” said Lady Winman with a little quirk to her lips.

“You were a writer before you met your husband,” Sylvia said cautiously.

“And an editor. That was the job I was most proud of—the one I worked hardest for, for so many years. People so often forget about that when they gossip.” Lady Winman sighed. “I know I’m an anomaly. The countess who grew up a professor’s daughter with no dream of ever being presented at court.”

“May I ask how you cope?”

Lady Winman tilted her head, her dark hair falling over her eye. “With what? The gossip? Or the end of my career as I knew it?”

“Both.”

The countess seemed to consider the question. “I worked for one of Alistair’s magazines when I met him, and the editor in chief thought it inappropriate that I continue on, no matter how much Alistair railed at him. Of course, none of his competitors would employ me, so I had to make a choice between my career and him. As much as I loved the magazine, I love Alistair more.”

“But isn’t it difficult?” Sylvia asked almost before she could stop herself.

When Lady Winman laughed, it was genuine, full-throated. “Of course it’s difficult. Sometimes it feels impossible, and all I want to do is scream. I know that some people think I trapped my husband, that he had to marry me. But I know that they’re wrong. Not only because my daughter came a year after we married but because I know my own heart. He is the only man who could have made me want to give up the life I had for the one I have married into.”

Sylvia blushed.

“Now I’ve gone and shocked you,” said Lady Winman, amusement lacing her voice.

“No, you haven’t. It’s… refreshing.”

“Then perhaps you’ll indulge me a little. How long have you owned half of this shop?” asked Lady Winman.

“Not long at all. My sister and I inherited equal portions when my mother died late last year,” she explained. “Izzie is currently serving with the WAAF.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Lady Winman.

“Thank you.” She paused, knowing that she probably shouldn’t say more but finding it difficult to turn off the tap of frankness now that it was open. “I actually grew up above the shop. At least after the age of eleven. My mother opened it shortly after my father died.”

“Then being a woman of business runs in your family,” said Lady Winman.

An unexpected swell of pride filled Sylvia’s chest. “I suppose it does,” she said, just as Miss Reid returned with Izzie’s sketchbook in hand.

“Thank you, Miss Reid,” she said, taking the book. “Perhaps you would stay and offer your advice to Lady Winman about cut and fabrics?”

Miss Reid’s brows shot up, but then she nodded. “If you wish.”

“Now, my lady,” Sylvia said, “shall we see if there is something in here that will suit?”

“I’ve never dressed a countess before,” said Miss Reid as soon as Lady Winman had left the shop, having fallen in love with a sketch of a light-green-and-white-striped summer dress that wiped away any thought of a summer suit.

“I would imagine it’s a first for the shop,” said Sylvia, trying to hide her smile at the thought of what her sister—or even her mother—would say about this.

“How do you think she learned about us?” Miss Reid asked.

“Do you remember the day I was splashed coming in and had to change into the dress you’d made from one of Izzie’s sketches? Lady Winman was at the meeting that I had to run off to. She complimented the dress you made, and I gave her the name of the shop,” she said.

She could see Miss Reid’s eyes slide over to covertly examine her. It hadn’t escaped her attention that something had slowly shifted between them since Izzie’s deployment. Miss Reid seemed, of late, far more willing to pitch in for the front-of-house work than she had when Sylvia arrived. Gone too were the sly comments about Sylvia’s character. She hadn’t known whether it had been her new policies around payments, the advertisements, or her enthusiasm about tackling every problem from missing deliveries to the austerity announcements. However, Lady Winman’s appearance seemed to be the final confirmation Miss Reid needed to believe that Sylvia really was invested in the shop’s future.

“Well, I suppose some good came out of that lorry splashing you then,” said Miss Reid.

“I suppose it did.”

“Will you tell your sister about Lady Winman?” asked Miss Reid.

“Yes. I owe her a letter about the fashion show. I meant to ask her if she had ideas of whom to approach as well.”

“Will you tell her that the countess chose one of her sketches?” asked the seamstress.

Sylvia hesitated. “That I’m not so certain of. She hasn’t forgiven me for pulling the sketches in the first place. I can’t imagine she’ll be delighted with the news that I’ve sold one of them.”

“But you’ve apologized.”

“I’ve written letter after letter. Nothing seems to make a difference.”

She could see now what a mistake her last letter had been. Izzie held her anger with Sylvia too close to her chest for simple apologies and explanations to heal the wounds around her sister’s heart.

“Why don’t I put the kettle on, and we can go over the week’s orders together?” she suggested.

“Yes, madam,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia stopped short. “Miss Reid, you’ve known me since I was eleven. You really don’t need to call me ‘madam.’?”

Miss Reid lifted her chin. “So long as you’re the owner of this shop, that’s exactly what I’ll call you. I won’t hear any argument against it.”

Sylvia couldn’t entirely hide her grin at the sort of olive branch her old rival appeared to be offering. “Thank you, Miss Reid. That means the world to me.”

“Oh”—Miss Reid batted a hand in front of her—“don’t turn sentimental on me. Your mother never was the sentimental type.”

“No,” said Sylvia with a little laugh. “I don’t suppose she was.”