The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four

Sylvia rang the bell of Lady Nolan’s home with a sense of profound relief. Not only was she early, but she had her proposal for the fashion show all bundled up in an old attaché case of her father’s she’d found tucked away in a cupboard in the flat.

She probably should have sent Lady Nolan the papers before that afternoon, but just as her personal life had begun to spiral out of control, the shop had also descended into controlled chaos. The happy result of the new ration books that would be issued in June was that everyone was rushing to use up the last of their current coupons before they were declared invalid. The telephone never seemed to stop ringing, and Miss Reid had stayed late the past two nights in order to finish up garments that were due for collection the following day.

A flutter of nerves stirred in her stomach at the idea of Lady Nolan briefing the committee on the fashion show, revealing all of the work Sylvia had already done to ensure it was a success. Over the past weeks, she’d come to know some of her fellow proprietors a little bit, and she was more determined than ever to serve as their champion. They deserved to share the spotlight, and so did Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions.

However, it wasn’t just nerves or a sense of responsibility to the project that had driven Sylvia to take a bus from the shop so early that she’d had to spend three quarters of an hour in a nearby tearoom to pass the time. She also wanted to select a seat before Claire arrived and suggested they sit together.

She didn’t know how much Claire might know about the rift between Sylvia and Hugo, but Rupert was Hugo’s best friend, and at some point the two men would surely speak. It would be the most natural thing in the world for Rupert to confide in his wife, and then Claire might—

The door opened, abruptly stopping Sylvia’s spiraling thoughts.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted Lady Nolan’s housekeeper. “I had hoped that Lady Nolan might be able to spare me a few minutes before the meeting.”

“Lady Nolan asked that you join her in the morning room as soon as you arrive, Mrs. Pearsall,” said the housekeeper.

“Excellent,” she said, pleased that her instinct to arrive early to discuss the plans ahead of the committee meeting seemed to have been anticipated.

She followed the housekeeper in the opposite direction of the drawing room where the committee normally met and into a part of the Nolan home that she’d never entered before. The hall was all done in light wood with oil paintings of landscapes mounted on the picture rail. Her heels sank into soft pale-blue-and-cream carpet as they passed several doors before stopping in front of one of polished oak. The housekeeper knocked and then opened it.

“Mrs. Pearsall, madam,” said the housekeeper, stepping back to let Sylvia in.

“Mrs. Pearsall,” said Lady Nolan, not rising from her seat.

“Good afternoon. I think you will be pleased to hear that I have all of the plans here,” Sylvia said, touching the attaché case lightly with her free hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodson. That will be all,” said Lady Nolan.

As soon as the door was closed and they were alone, Lady Nolan said, “Mrs. Pearsall, I wish to speak to you about a rather distressing matter.”

“Distressing?” she asked, moving to a chair.

“I must ask you not to sit.”

Sylvia froze at the incredible breach of etiquette and good manners.

“It has come to my attention that you have been misrepresenting yourself to this committee,” said Lady Nolan.

“Misrepresenting myself?”

“Is it not true that you are the proprietress of a dress shop in Maida Vale?” asked the committee chair.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, a flush of heat sweeping over her.

“Do you own a shop called Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions?” asked Lady Nolan.

For a moment, Sylvia thought about denying it, but the thought of pretending made her tired deep down in her bones. She had spent so many years cloaking, hiding, and denying where she was from, and for what? So that in the middle of a morning room on South Audley Street, she could find herself having to account for a fact that her accuser clearly already knew to be true?

“I do not solely own it. My sister has an equal share,” said Sylvia.

“I was not aware that you had a sister.”

The simple sentence stole her breath. No wonder Izzie had hated her for so long. No wonder her mother thought so little of her. She’d erased them so thoroughly from her life that even the people she saw regularly didn’t know about them.

“My sister and I recently inherited the shop from my mother,” she said.

“I see. And is your Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions on your list of recommended dressmakers to feature in the committee’s fashion show?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because the work we do at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions merits our being included on that list.”

Lady Nolan gave her a condescending smile. “Mrs. Pearsall, I must ask for your resignation from this committee. Effective immediately.”

She stared at the committee chair. “Why?”

“I am sure you can understand that, given the circumstances—”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Mrs. Pearsall, it will do no one any good for you to make a scene.”

“I am not making a scene, I am asking a perfectly reasonable question in response to a very unreasonable request.”

Lady Nolan smoothed a hand over the fussy pin tucks of her blouse, which certainly would not have passed muster with the Board of Trade’s new regulations. “You have misrepresented yourself to the ladies of this committee and to myself.”

“I have done nothing of the sort,” she said. “I am Mrs. Hugo Pearsall, the very same woman who helped you organize a number of events in the past. I have raised money just like the rest of the ladies. I have done my bit—more than my bit, if you compare my work to some of the other committee members.”

“Nevertheless,” said Lady Nolan.

“I have been a member of this committee in good standing for years,” she began, unable to countenance the snobbery of the other woman.

“You have been late twice this year alone, and you missed the last meeting.”

“Lady Nolan, there is a war on. Certainly that is reason enough for a little compassion.”

“I am not certain that you can be relied upon any longer to focus the attention that is needed for this committee,” said Lady Nolan.

“And you don’t like that I own a dress shop,” she said.

Lady Nolan sniffed. “If you simply owned it, that might be one thing.”

Sylvia straightened. “I work there too. Is that the real heart of the matter? You can’t countenance a woman who works mixing with the good and proper ladies of your precious committee.”

“Mrs. Pearsall, I am certain that neither of us would like to say anything unbecoming that we might regret as part of this conversation,” warned the other woman.

“And what happens to the fashion show?” she asked.

“I believe that, given the current circumstances, it would be best for all involved if we set the idea of the fashion show aside for the time being. However, if you will leave your notes with me, we may revisit it at a better time.”

Lady Nolan held out her hand for the attaché case.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Lady Nolan.

“No. Each and every dressmaker on that list has been contacted by me. I will need my notes so that I may telephone them and explain that the War Widows’ Fund is no longer interested in supporting them because, while the ladies of the committee are perfectly happy to have dressmakers make up their clothes when they cannot afford to buy more than the occasional dress from one of the more prestigious designers, they are not willing to include one in their ranks.”

“Mrs. Pearsall, you are being rather unfair…”

“I think you will find that I am not the one who is being unfair. I will take my case and go,” she said.

Lady Nolan lifted her nose. “I think that would be for the best.”

“At least in that we are in agreement. I suppose I will be allowed to exit via the front door, or would you prefer that I use the tradesmen’s entrance?”

“Really, there is no need to become spiteful, Mrs. Pearsall.”

“Isn’t there?” Sylvia gave her a tight smile. “Why don’t I see myself out?”

She strode out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her. Her heels clicked on the polished wood floor, drawing the attention of Lady Winman and Mrs. Hunt, who were shedding their summer coats. As she caught Lady Winman’s eye, she could see the confusion in the other woman’s expression, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she wrenched open the Nolan front door and stepped out into the road.

“Mrs. Pearsall!” she heard Lady Winman call out after her. “Mrs. Pearsall, wait!”

It was the concern in the other woman’s voice that stopped Sylvia, despite her desire to flee. When she turned, she saw Lady Winman trot down the steps, her coat still in her hand and her handbag swinging from her wrist.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” asked Lady Winman. “I had hoped that I wouldn’t have to face them all alone this time.”

She gave the countess a grim smile. “I’m afraid I won’t be attending meetings any longer.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been invited to step down from the committee because apparently I’ve ‘misrepresented’ myself or some such tosh.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lady Winman, but the countess’s eyes flickered over Sylvia’s shoulder. “Mrs. Monroe.”

Sylvia’s hands clenched as she turned to face Claire, who stopped abruptly in the middle of the pavement.

“Mrs. Monroe, listen to this absurdity. Lady Nolan has asked Mrs. Pearsall to resign from the committee,” said Lady Winman with disbelief.

Instead of the surprise and indignation Sylvia had expected to see in Claire’s eyes, she saw something else. Relief.

“That is a shame, but I’m sure our chairwoman has her reasons. Now, I really must go in or risk being late,” said Claire, dipping her shoulder to round them.

“But Mrs. Pearsall—”

“What reasons would Lady Nolan have to ask me to resign, Claire?” Sylvia cut across the countess.

“I don’t know,” said Claire, a few shades paler than she had been the moment before.

“How did you find out about the shop?” she pushed. “Did you follow me one day because I wouldn’t take tea with you? Or was it just the fact that you had to know? You are, after all, one of the most shameless gossips I know.”

Lady Winman began to edge away. “I think perhaps I should leave you both to speak.”

Claire squared off with Sylvia. “I don’t think I like what you’re accusing me of.”

“I’ve always been so very careful,” Sylvia said.

Claire scoffed. “Careful? You forget that when I met you your accent would still slip after two glasses of wine. You should know best, Sylvia, that a well-made dress does not make a shopgirl any less of a shopgirl.”

There it was, the crack in Claire’s resistance.

“Why did you do it?”

Claire lifted her chin. “I simply did what I thought was best.”

“What is best?” She laughed bitterly. “Best for whom? You?”

“Hugo.”

When Claire said Sylvia’s husband’s name with such tenderness and pain, the final missing piece fell into place and at last Sylvia knew.

It was Claire.

Claire was the woman who had written those letters. Claire was the woman Hugo loved.

How stupid Sylvia had been. What an absolute and utter fool.

“But you’ve been my friend for years,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t your friend ,” spat Claire. “Why would I ever be friends with you?”

“But all of the luncheons, the teas, the dinners,” she said, scrambling for words as her entire world shifted. “You were so kind to me when Hugo and I first met. You were the bridesmaid at my wedding.”

“I loved him from the moment I met him. Can you imagine the irony of it?” Claire laughed. “Newly married and I fall in love with Rupert’s best friend because Hugo happened to be abroad during our engagement. But what could I do? I couldn’t leave Rupert without creating a scandal, so I pretended that everything was wonderful. That nothing could be better than sitting next to Rupert at every dinner and concert while Hugo was just out of reach.

“I watched women flit around Hugo, but none of them really caught his eye. Until you. Then I had to watch him fall in love with you. What a ghastly time that was! Rupert and I tried to warn him away, but like an idiot, Hugo went after you.” Claire narrowed her eyes. “He knew he was marrying beneath him, but you were the one he wanted so I made a choice. I would help you because it would mean I could be close to him. I knew it wouldn’t be too long before he realized the mistake he’d made.”

“How long has the affair been going on?” Sylvia asked, horrified but unable to stop herself.

“Years,” hissed Claire with obvious satisfaction. “Since the summer before the war. Every time Rupert went away for a sailing trip or some other such nonsense, Hugo would find a way for us to be together. Then the war broke out and it became easier. Then he could use his leave.”

Everything Sylvia had known to be true rearranged itself into a new reality. She’d thought it strange at first that Hugo seemed to have far less leave than some of the other men she knew who were serving, but he’d told her how important his role was and that he couldn’t be spared. She’d believed him because… because she supposed it had been easier than to wonder why her husband hadn’t wanted to come home to her.

“Does Rupert know?” she asked.

“No,” said Claire.

“Are you certain of that?” she asked, remembering the strange conversation she’d shared with Rupert while dancing.

Her former friend’s hand shot out to grip Sylvia by the wrist. “You cannot tell him.”

Sylvia shook her off. “It’s a bit late for you to begin making demands of me, Claire.”

“If he knew…”

“He would divorce you? Is that what you’re frightened of? Claire, you really should have thought about that before committing adultery with my husband,” she said, making her disgust obvious.

Claire lifted her chin. “He said you would be small-minded about this. You would not believe how we laughed at you and your prim little ways, trying so hard to pretend as though you belonged.”

How deeply those words would have cut Sylvia once. They hurt, but now they were only flesh wounds, just scratching the surface of who she was.

“Do you know, Claire? More than anything else, I pity you and your sad, sorry little life spent judging everyone but yourself. Good afternoon.”

She brushed past Claire, knocking the other woman’s shoulder as she went. She was furious—not only because of Claire and Hugo’s betrayal, but at herself and her willful blindness.

No more. Claire, Rupert, Hugo—she owed these people nothing.

Ahead of her on the road, the door to a black cab opened and Lady Winman stuck her head out.

“Mrs. Pearsall, can I offer you a lift?” the countess called out.

Sylvia supposed that she should have felt humiliated that Lady Winman had witnessed so much of her social undoing and the crumbling of her marriage, but in that moment, she found that she didn’t really care.

“Thank you, I would appreciate that very much,” she said, and slid into the car next to the Countess of Winman.

After Lady Winman gave the cabdriver an Eton Square address, silence fell over the cab. It was just long enough for uncertainty to take hold of Sylvia. First she lost her husband. Then her closest friend. She could see her world shrinking before her.

As though sensing Sylvia’s weakening resolve, the countess leaned over and said, “I’m very sorry.”

Heat crept up the back of Sylvia’s neck. “I take it you heard all of that.”

“Enough to understand the gist of it,” said Lady Winman. “Am I to understand that you knew something of your husband’s infidelity?”

“Yes. And a little over two weeks ago, I walked out of my home and haven’t seen Hugo since.”

“How did that feel?” asked Lady Winman.

“Liberating and embarrassing in equal measure.”

Lady Winman nodded. “Well, I’ve never met your husband, but I have met Mrs. Monroe and I can honestly say that I’ve never liked the woman.”

Startled, Sylvia twisted in her seat to look at Lady Winman, who watched her with a quirked brow. Suddenly a bubble erupted in Sylvia’s chest, and she fell back laughing.

She laughed so hard that her eyes began to leak tears. “Oh, Claire is wretched. She’s mean-spirited with hardly a good word for anyone. Even being her friend was like tiptoeing around a sleeping lion. One false move and she might swipe at you.”

“Mrs. Monroe reminds me of the dowager countess and all of her friends who turned their noses up at me when I first married Alistair,” said Lady Winman.

Sylvia started laughing again, shaking her head as she did. “I’m very sorry, it’s just that Claire would be devastated to hear that a countess disapproves of her.”

“I’m not much of a countess,” said Lady Winman.

“Oh, I’m not sure I’d say that.”

The countess gave her a little smile as the cab pulled up to the curb and the driver hopped out to open their doors. “Anyway, we’re here.”

Sylvia looked out of the window and up at the imposing white facade of the huge Eton Square mansion they’d pulled in front of.

“I thought you might like a cup of tea on neutral ground before you have to face the world again,” Lady Winman added.

“That would be lovely.”

“Good,” said Lady Winman, “because I have a proposition for you. But first, tea.”

Sylvia followed the countess out of the cab and up the steps to the mansion’s front door, where they were met by a tall, slender woman in housekeeper’s black.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Teaks. I’m afraid I’m back rather sooner than I expected, and Mrs. Pearsall and I are both in need of refreshment,” said the countess, handing the housekeeper her things.

“Very good, madam. Would tea in the drawing room suffice?” asked Mrs. Teaks with a small but warm smile for Sylvia.

“I think we’ll be more comfortable in my study, actually, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Pearsall?” asked Lady Winman.

“Not at all,” she said.

“Good,” said Lady Winman as Mrs. Teaks disappeared to arrange for tea. “Right, then. I’ll show you the way.”

However, before they could move off, a door opened behind them and a tall man with wildly curling dark hair and a pair of dark-framed glasses perched on his nose strode in. Immediately, everything about the countess seemed to soften as the man’s face lit up at the sight of her.

“Darling, I thought you were at the ministry for the rest of the day,” said Lady Winman.

“Goodness, you look beautiful today.” The earl stooped to kiss his wife. “I’m afraid this is just a quick stop for me. I left some papers behind and I need them for my next meeting. I could have sent a courier, but I decided I could do with the walk.

“Hello,” said the earl, letting go of his wife’s waist as he seemed to realize for the first time that Sylvia was there. “I hope you don’t mind a horrible display of affection between two married people.”

Sylvia laughed. “Not at all. It’s rather refreshing actually.”

“I’m Winman,” said the earl, sticking out his hand for her to shake before his wife could make an introduction. “How do you do?”

“Darling, this is Mrs. Pearsall,” said Lady Winman. “I’m about to try to convince her to defect from Lady Nolan’s committee with me.”

Sylvia shot a glance at Lady Winman, who grinned at her.

“That won’t take any convincing. I’ve been given the boot,” said Sylvia.

“Better and better,” said Lord Winman. “You two can be rebels from stodgy old Mayfair and set the world on fire.”

“That is the plan,” said Lady Winman.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your scheming,” said the earl.

“I’ll see you for supper, darling,” said Lady Winman.

The earl kissed her again and sprang up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Lady Winman turned back to Sylvia with an indulgent shake of her head. “That man is a boundless ball of energy. I sometimes wonder if he leaves papers at home simply so he can have an excuse to race out of the endless ministry meetings.”

Sylvia suspected that it had far more to do with the earl wanting an excuse to see his wife during the day, but she kept that to herself.

Lady Winman led her to her study, a restrained room painted pale blue, with bookshelves lining one wall. There was a large light-wood desk facing a window trimmed in cream curtains and a pair of armchairs set up in front of an unlit coal fireplace.

“Welcome to my favorite room,” said Lady Winman as Mrs. Teaks followed them in with the tea tray. “I claimed it when I came to live at Winman House. I wanted a place to work.”

“Work?” asked Sylvia as the housekeeper closed the door.

“I gave up editing and magazine work when I married Alistair, but I still write. I’m always working on something. It’s been a novel for about two years now, for my sins,” said Lady Winman as she set about pouring the tea.

“And Lord Winman is supportive of your working?” she asked, taking a cup.

“Yes. Both of us are always happiest when we’re occupied. Now,” said Lady Winman, settling back in her chair, “how are you really feeling?”

“Well,” she said slowly as she stirred her cup of tea, “I’ve just found out that the woman I thought was my closest friend has been having an affair with my husband since at least 1938. I’ve been unceremoniously invited to leave a committee I’ve given more than five years of work to. I believe my entire social circle is about to vanish, and I am currently living above a shop that I own half of, sleeping in my sister’s bed in the room we shared when I was eleven.”

The countess tilted her head to one side. “Then you’ve had better days.”

“Days? Weeks? Months?” Sylvia sighed. “Do you know what the worst part is? I’m upset about Claire and Hugo, but in some ways I’m most disappointed I’m going to have to let down all of the dressmakers.”

“The dressmakers?” asked Lady Winman.

Sylvia quickly explained about Lady Nolan’s unilateral decision to select the fashion show as their next fundraiser and the work that she’d already done to make the arrangements.

“Without the committee, there’s no fashion show,” she finished. “I promised these women the chance to showcase their clothes and hopefully bring everyone more business. But now…”

“I suppose this is the time for me to present my proposal,” said Lady Winman.

“Please do,” she said.

“It’s an evolving plan as I keep learning new things, but the latest iteration is this. How would you feel about putting on the fashion show as a fundraiser without the involvement of the committee?”

She frowned. “I don’t really know how I could.”

“You have the dressmakers,” said Lady Winman. “What else would you need?”

“So many things,” she said.

“Tell me,” said Lady Winman.

“I suppose I would need space,” she started. “Then there are the models—the committee members were supposed to serve that role, if you recall—and refreshments. And, of course, there would be the press invitations. I was also hoping that the committee members might lean on their connections and invite whichever well-dressed friends they had to use their coupons on the designs in the show.

“But how can I possibly do all of that without the committee? It gives the event more weight having a name like the War Widows’ Fund behind you, especially when you’re asking for a hotel to donate the space, a restaurant to give refreshments gratis. That sort of thing.”

“What if I act as sponsor?” asked Lady Winman.

“You?” she asked with surprise.

“You said you needed a name,” said Lady Winman. “The proceeds could still go to the war widows—or you could focus on another charity if you wish—but I imagine it would be helpful to approach a charity with the Countess of Winman behind you.”

Having the backing of a countess with an influential husband… Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt their efforts.

“But where will we have it?” she asked, doubtful even as she warmed to the idea. “I’d hoped to tie the fashion show into the new coupon books coming out, but that was assuming the same hotel the committee always uses would agree to it. The owner is a friend of Lady Nolan’s, so there is a possibility that they will be reluctant to help on such short notice.”

“Have it here,” said Lady Winman.

“Here?” Sylvia asked, looking around.

“Well, not this room, but in Winman House. We have a ballroom that isn’t being used for anything at the moment. It’s a wretched waste of space and, quite frankly, I’m shocked the government hasn’t requisitioned the house yet. It might as well be put to good use.”

“Won’t the earl object?” she asked.

Lady Winman smiled. “The earl would be more offended if I didn’t offer up the house for the good of war widows or whichever worthy cause we think suits. You and I can split the responsibility of running the show. I’ll take on the press, promotion, and sale of tickets. You can take care of all the dressmakers and models. We’ll be co-chairwomen. What do you say?”

Sylvia blinked a couple of times. “Are you certain? I wouldn’t want you to lose your friendship with Lady Nolan.”

Lady Winman laughed. “Friendship? The only reason Lady Nolan invited me onto the committee is because her husband was trying to place himself in Alistair’s good graces for a business deal that never went anywhere. Then Lady Nolan found herself stuck with me, much to her chagrin. Trust me, Mrs. Pearsall, I would much rather be in business with someone whose company I enjoy than with Lady Nolan.”

Sylvia flushed a little and said, “Well, if you’re certain.”

“If you still have your notes, we can take a look at them this afternoon,” said the countess.

She had to suppress a smile. “Oh, I still have them. I refused to hand them over to Lady Nolan even after she asked for them. Why should she benefit from my hard work?”

That earned her another grin. “Mrs. Pearsall, I suspect that you and I are going to be great friends.”