The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Sylvia looked up when, through the open doors of her flat’s dining room, she heard the grandfather clock by the sitting room chime ten. She put down her pencil and stretched her arms overhead, her cramped muscles relaxing with relief.

The table was a mess of newspapers, notebooks, and the afternoon post that she hadn’t yet had the chance to open. She’d come home early to work on her fashion show plans, and somewhere along the way she’d lost track of the time. If Mrs. Atkinson hadn’t placed supper in front of her with a tut before leaving for the day, Sylvia probably wouldn’t have even eaten.

She would clean it all up before she went to bed, but she still had work to do.

She looked down at her list of dressmakers with satisfaction. Half of them had ticks next to their names with notes regarding their commitment to the fashion show. Entrusted with shaping the fundraiser, she’d gone above and beyond, making notes as she assessed what each dressmaker’s skills and strengths were so that the committee could recommend what sort of garment was needed for the show and help dressmakers present their businesses in the best light. Likewise, she’d created lists of members of the press, trade publications, and ladies’ magazines she wanted to target to drum up attention and support for the charity.

At tomorrow’s committee meeting, she expected Lady Nolan to announce that the fashion show would be their next fundraiser. She would continue to work securing the agreements of her fellow dressmakers, but then she would refocus her attention on the shop once again.

“Right,” Sylvia said, placing her palms firmly on the dining table and pushing away. She needed to be sharp, so she would forgo a nightcap and make a cup of tea instead.

She started to turn, but then the post caught her eye. She swept it up and carried it with her to the kitchen, flipping through the envelopes as she went. However, she stopped when she saw the fourth letter. It was addressed to her in her sister’s hand.

Sylvia pushed open the kitchen door and set the letters on the counter, leaving Izzie’s on top. Moving deliberately, she filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Then she opened the cabinet and rummaged around for the tea tin Mrs. Atkinson did her best to keep as full as the ration would allow. She’d recently switched to Darjeeling so she wouldn’t miss the lack of real milk as much. Carefully, she spooned out a scant measure of leaves into the Royal Doulton pot that had been a wedding gift from Hugo’s parents. When she reached for a matching teacup, however, she accidentally nudged the one next to it and sent it clattering to the floor.

Cursing softly, she took the broom and dustpan from the small cabinet on the far end of the kitchen and set about sweeping up the broken china. With this done, she glanced at the letter again.

It wasn’t that she was afraid of what might be inside, exactly. It was just that Izzie’s last letter had been so brief and so abrupt.

Do not pretend that you know the first thing about what Mum was like.

Chastising herself for being afraid of a piece of paper, Sylvia tore the letter open, drawing out an unusually thick sheaf of sheets. When she unfolded it, her breath hitched. Sitting in the center of the handwritten pages was a sketch.

She touched her finger to the drawing, following the lines of the dress with modest gathers on the right side. It fell just below the knee, with long, tight sleeves that would emphasize the slimness of the wearer’s wrist. To the side, Izzie had written, “I would suggest a fine claret wool or, if that is not available, navy for autumn.”

The dress was beautiful, and Sylvia could imagine a model walking out into the middle of the crowd of onlookers at the charity fashion show, gloriously dressed in a way that showed off her sister’s talent perfectly.

Carefully, Sylvia set the sketch aside and began to read. She wasn’t even to the end of the first paragraph when she began to tear up. By the bottom of the first page, she was crying. When she finished reading, she felt completely drained.

The letter was part apology, part acknowledgment, and it was exactly what she’d wanted the moment Izzie had come back into her life.

She’d wasted too much time pushing her sister away, and she was done with that misguided part of her life. She would be glad however Izzie would take her back, and she would prove that she wasn’t the neglectful, profligate sister Izzie seemed to have thought she was for years.

Sylvia wouldn’t fail her sister.

The kettle began to scream, and she composed herself enough to lift it off the hob and pour boiling water over the tea leaves. Then she loaded up a wooden tray with the pot, a fresh cup and saucer, a teaspoon, and the post. Already she was writing a letter in her head, wanting to pour so many things out onto the page.

Perhaps that is why, as she made her way out of the kitchen and back to the dining room, she didn’t notice that anything was awry until she saw Hugo, standing next to the dining room table, peering down at her papers.

He turned to face her, his lips so thin they’d nearly disappeared.

“What is this?” he demanded, pointing at her list.

Her hackles immediately went up. How dare he go through her things?

“Good evening to you too, darling,” she said, her tone rather arch as she set the tray down next to her work and carefully moved Izzie’s sketch and letter out of the way of her tea.

“What is this?” he repeated.

“Something I’m working on for Lady Nolan on behalf of the War Widows’ Fund,” she said as she poured herself a cup.

“Why is your mother’s dress shop at the top of this list?” he asked, holding up the notebook. “We agreed that it would be best if you didn’t mention your association with the shop socially.”

She stiffened, cheeks ablaze. It was true she had once agreed to that. It had seemed more important to be accepted by the Pearsalls, the members of Hugo’s club, his friends and patients, and to do that, she knew she couldn’t be Sylvia Shelton, whose mother was a dressmaker. She had whittled away her rough edges until only a perfectly smooth acceptability was left behind, but in doing so she’d taken away all of her supposed imperfection—all of the things that made her who she was—and more and more, she found herself missing that woman.

She cleared her throat. “The fashion show is for charity. I suggested at a committee meeting that it might be a good way to raise money for the war widows given all of the recent attention on the utility scheme.”

He sighed. “Sometimes, Sylvia, I really wonder whether you have a clear thought in your head.”

She jerked back. “I beg your pardon?”

“What would happen if someone connected the shop and your sister back to you?” he asked, as though speaking to a child.

“Then they would know that my sister is a very talented dressmaker.” They would see the beautiful work Miss Reid had produced of late, as Lady Winman had. They would discover a place that was a beacon of style in a time when women desperately needed something chic in their lives.

“Shouldn’t Isabelle have been conscripted anyway?” he asked, tossing the notebook down on the table. “She’s about the same age as the Wrens they keep sending us.”

She stared at him. She’d written to him and told him that Izzie was being sent away to train in the WAAFs. When he’d rolled in one night, half-tight after being at his club, she’d mentioned to him that her sister had been dispatched to East Anglia. He’d made a noise in the back of his throat—an acknowledgment that he’d heard her—but nothing more.

“Izzie is with her barrage balloon unit in Norfolk,” she said, trying to keep a measure of calm in her voice.

He screwed up his face in confusion. “Then who is running the shop?”

“I am. I own half of it, after all.”

Hugo stilled. “You told me that you were selling to her.”

She lifted her chin. “The sale didn’t come through in time for Izzie’s deployment, so she asked me to take over.”

“But you don’t speak to your sister.”

That stung, but she held her husband’s gaze.

“Sylvia, what do you really know about running a business?” he tried again.

“I know a great deal more than you think, Hugo. I was doing the accounts and running orders for my mother long before I met you. It isn’t something a woman readily forgets.”

“Be reasonable.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “I am being perfectly reasonable.”

“No.” He bit out the word so hard she almost flinched. “I will not have any wife of mine playing at running a shop.”

“I’m not playing at anything. If you ever came home for supper, you’d realize that I was spending more time at the shop than I am here. I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before—”

“You are my wife, and you will not work!” he exploded.

She stared at the red-faced man in front of her and realized for the first time in her marriage that she had no idea who he was—not really—because the brilliant young doctor who had swept her off her feet with promises of love and comfort was gone.

“You have no idea what it took to convince my mother and father that you were worth marrying,” he gritted out, clearly trying to pull his temper back under control. “They agreed that you were beautiful, but they didn’t think I could mold you into an acceptable wife. I did that. I brought you into this world, and I taught you everything.”

“They didn’t?” she whispered, feeling almost sick as she remembered how kind Mrs. Pearsall had been to her. How much she’d looked to the older woman for guidance before the wedding.

“No one did. I took you away from that miserable shop and your miserable little life with those miserable people.”

“Those people were my family.”

He scoffed. “Don’t pretend that you ever gave them a single thought. You wanted to leave, Sylvia. You practically begged me to take you away from that place.”

He was right. He was right, and she’d never felt so ashamed of that fact. She’d thought that he would be her knight in shining armor, taking her away from all of the unhappiness that tainted her life at Glengall Road. But over the years something had shifted. It had been slow at first, almost imperceptible, but ever since she’d found the letters in his desk it had been clear. At first, she’d been convinced that the change had been in him, but he was the same man she’d married—charismatic, charming, obstinate, and imperious. She’d been wrong.

She was the one who was different now.

“I have spent years trying to be the perfect wife for you,” she said slowly. “I’ve entertained your friends. I’ve joined the committees that you thought would be advantageous for your practice. I’ve kept your home. I changed everything about myself, from how I wear my hair to where I shop, to suit you, and I didn’t complain. Not once. But it isn’t enough any longer.

“I love my mother’s shop. It wasn’t always like that, but it is now. I love helping customers and chasing down missed deliveries. I find an immense amount of satisfaction in sitting down at my mother’s desk and sorting through the accounts. I even like Miss Reid.

“I’m good at all of it too, and what’s more, I think I need it. The dinner parties and committees and even the war work—it isn’t enough anymore, Hugo. You must understand,” she said.

He looked down and for a moment she thought that maybe he understood, but when he lifted his head his gaze was like ice. “Sell the shop. Give it away. I don’t care, but your association with it ends tonight.”

“If you will just listen to me—”

“No wife of mine will serve other women! You are demeaning yourself.”

She laughed in disbelief. “Demeaning? You call what I do at the shop demeaning? That’s rich coming from you, Hugo.”

“Sylvia—”

“Perhaps before you begin slinging accusations at me, you should take a long, hard look at yourself. You have been assigned to London for weeks, yet I’ve hardly seen you except when we had supper with Claire and Rupert, and what an evening that was. You won’t come home, and when you are here—on those very rare occasions—you cannot wait for the moment when you can leave again.”

He stretched his neck, as though the collar of his uniform was suddenly too tight. “That isn’t true.”

“You’re able to sleep in your own bed and kiss your wife good night every evening if you wish. Do you know how many men would trade the world for that privilege if only they could?” she asked.

“I have certain obligations,” he said, looking away.

“What is more important than your wife and marriage?”

As the silence stretched between them, Sylvia’s last illusions shattered. If he wasn’t going to fight for their marriage, she wasn’t going to pretend any longer.

She broke into a stride, making for the dining room door.

“Sylvia? Where are you going?” he called after her.

She went straight to his study and wrenched open the drawer that held his love letters. She began pulling them out, tossing them onto the desktop one by one.

“What is the meaning of this? Why are you in my study?” he demanded from the doorway.

She stopped, chest heaving, and braced one hand on either side of his green leather blotter.

“Who is she?” she demanded.

Hugo’s eyes fixed on the letters, but he said nothing. She picked up an envelope and flung it at him. It sliced through the air and bounced off his thigh before falling to the carpet.

“Who is she?” she repeated, louder now.

Hugo stepped into the study and closed the door behind him, even though they were the only ones in the flat.

“You are making a spectacle of yourself,” he said.

“So I’m a spectacle? I’m absurd? Is that what you really think of me, Hugo?” she raged.

“The neighbors will hear.”

“I am standing here telling you that I know of your affair and all you can say is the neighbors might hear?”

Hugo sighed. “If you will just take a moment to compose yourself, I can explain.”

She picked up one of the letters and ripped it out of its envelope, the paper tearing. She didn’t miss his wince.

“?‘My darling,’?” she read out. “?‘I cannot tell you how horrible it is waiting for you. I lie in bed and think about your touch. Your clever hands sliding—’?”

“Sylvia, that is enough,” he barked, his composure breaking.

“Who is she?”

“A gentleman never speaks of matters of the heart.”

She gasped, hinging at the waist as his words stole the breath from her. “Matters of the heart? You are my husband . No one else is supposed to hold that place in your heart.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Do you love her?”

There was that condescending sigh again as he rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I should have expected you wouldn’t understand.”

“Why? Because I’m common? Because I grew up above a shop and you went to bloody Eton with Rupert and all your other wretched friends who seem to treat their wedding vows as they would the morning’s paper—useful for a time but then disposable?”

“That is enough.”

“You took a vow, Hugo!” she continued, rage pulsing hot in her veins. “You stood at an altar and promised that you would love me and only me. You’re my husband. That is supposed to mean something!”

Revulsion, clear and forceful, flashed across his face, and Sylvia stepped back in shock. He hated her. Her husband, whom she had given so much up for, hated her.

“Do you love her?” she repeated in a whisper.

“I—” His voice broke and his features fell, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion. He looked a good twenty years older than he really was, and for the first time she could see the deep grooves etched into his forehead as he frowned.

“Whether I love her or not is a private matter.”

“Is” a private matter. Not “was.”

The affair was still happening.

“Do you regret marrying me?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“You should not insist on embarrassing yourself, Sylvia. Besides, this matter is not up for discussion. I don’t care whether your sister buys half of it or someone else does, you will sell your stake in your mother’s shop. You will return to whatever it is that you do when I am not at home.”

Then he turned and left her standing behind his desk, the evidence of his love affair scattered in front of her. A few seconds later, the front door to the flat opened and shut with a firm click.

She wrapped her arms across her stomach and waited for the tears to come.

Nothing.

After years of pushing down every one of her own desires in service of her husband, she was hollow.

She let her arms fall to her sides.

Enough.

She didn’t know what she would do, but she couldn’t stay there in the home they had shared, waiting for him.

She went to the bedroom, slipped off her shoes, and dragged the small upholstered stool that usually sat in front of her vanity over the carpet to her wardrobe. Climbing on it, she balanced on her tiptoes and managed to grasp the handle of first one and then another of her largest suitcases.

She placed both on the bed, opened them, and went to her wardrobe. She began to pull out skirts, dresses, blouses, and even the pair of trousers she only wore around the flat because Hugo hated how unladylike he thought they were. Into the cases went jumpers and cardigans, slips, underthings, and the precious silk stockings she had been hoarding for months. She chose the best of her shoes and added gloves and her second-best handbag.

From inside her wardrobe, she drew out her train case. She put her makeup and cold cream inside. She glanced at her jewelry box, hesitating before opening it and adding the pieces that Hugo had given her. She left behind anything she knew had once belonged to his mother or grandmother.

In the dining room, she swept up her paperwork along with Izzie’s letter and sketch. Then she went to the sitting room desk where she kept her correspondence. Looping back, she placed everything on top of her clothes, slipped in her library books from her bedside table, and closed the last case.

The suitcases were heavy, but she managed to make it out of the bedroom without knocking into any of the walls. When she reached the hall closet, she put them down to retrieve her coat, put her hat on, pull on her gloves, and loop her best handbag around her right wrist.

She thought for a moment about ringing down to the night porter, but she shook off the idea. Instead, she eased open the front door, lifted her cases once again, and left the flat.