The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The room might have looked like pandemonium, but there was order if only one knew where to look. Sylvia, clipboard in one hand and pencil firmly gripped in the other, was ticking things off, making sure everything was in its rightful place, because in ten short minutes her fashion show would start.

“Lance Corporal White,” she called out to a girl who was struggling to reach around her back and zip up the chocolate-brown wool dress Mrs. Moss had made. “You’d better let me help you with that.”

The young woman gave her a grateful smile and turned to show Sylvia her back. Setting down her things, she zipped the young woman up and said, “There you are. Now, do you know who you’re meant to walk after?”

The young woman, who Sylvia had learned that morning was usually in the mechanic shop working on transport vehicles in her capacity in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, nodded.

“Good. Then good luck and enjoy the show.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw Lady Winman approach. The countess, who was wearing the dress she’d ordered from Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, was sporting the little satisfied smile that Sylvia had learned over the past weeks was the equivalent of a whoop of joy.

“How is it looking out front?” she asked.

“Standing room only,” said Lady Winman triumphantly. “And it isn’t just Alistair’s connections either. I don’t recognize half the members of the press who are all packed in.”

“But the Vogue people are in the best seats?” she asked anxiously.

“Right next to Edward Molyneux.”

“Edward Molyneux?” she gasped. Molyneux had made the navy silk gown she’d worn on her last evening out with Hugo, Claire, and Rupert. It would forever have memories of her husband, and she wasn’t certain she would be able to bring herself to wear it again, but she couldn’t deny that it was utterly gorgeous.

“Apparently he has a keen interest in promoting British fashion,” said Lady Winman, pulling Sylvia’s attention back to matters at hand. “I think Audrey Withers invited him.”

“Well, that’s all rather exciting isn’t it?”

“It is. How are the dressmakers?” Lady Winman asked, nodding to several women who were calmly making final tweaks and alterations while helping models into their dresses.

“They’re ready,” she said.

“Excellent. Oh, there’s one more thing,” said the countess with a wicked smile. “Don’t be surprised when you see the film cameras.”

“Film cameras!” Sylvia couldn’t keep the shock out of her voice.

“Yes. I didn’t want to raise our hopes too much because film people can be so finicky, but Alistair spoke to a fellow at the Ministry of Information who spoke to someone else, and the news of our little fashion show landed with the department that produces newsreels. There’s no guarantee that they’ll use it, but if they do…”

“Our fashion show could be in every cinema across the country,” she breathed.

Lady Winman’s eyes sparkled as she nodded.

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “I suppose we should start.”

Sylvia poked her head around the wide double doors of the Winman House ballroom. Lady Winman had instructed that chairs be set up in a semicircle, creating a stagelike area where the models would walk out, pause, and then retreat, showing off all angles of the creators’ craftsmanship. Now all of those seats were filled with people, some with notebooks out on their knees, all murmuring among themselves, the buzz of their voices filling the room.

Goodness, she wished Izzie could see this.

“Nervous?”

Sylvia pulled back to give Miss Reid a smile. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to see things underway.”

Miss Reid placed a hand on her arm. “You’ve done a fine job. Mrs. Shelton would be proud.”

A lump rose in Sylvia’s throat. “I’m not certain about that.”

“She loved you,” said Miss Reid firmly. “She could be a hardheaded woman sometimes, but even she admitted that she could have been kinder to you after your father’s death.”

“She did?” she asked.

“From time to time when it was late at night and there were orders to fill, she would open up a little bit. She knew that she pushed you away. She said it had something to do with what happened to your father, but that never sat well with me. You were just a child.”

“Thank you, Miss Reid.” Sylvia gave a weak smile. “You know, for a long time I was convinced you disliked me.”

Miss Reid looked shocked. “Disliked you?”

“When I was a child.” And maybe as recently as that spring.

“I never—” Miss Reid stopped herself and swallowed. “I suppose I found it easier to speak to your sister because at least she could sew.”

“I can sew!” she began to protest until she caught Miss Reid’s skeptical look. “I can sew enough to mend things.”

“Yes, well. I don’t find small talk exactly easy,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia pressed a hand to the other woman’s forearm. “I understand.”

“I know that you wouldn’t have chosen to return to the shop if you hadn’t needed to, but I’m glad you did.” Miss Reid nodded toward the models lining up in the corridor. “Look at what you’ve done.”

Sylvia cast an eye over all the models in their beautiful clothing. “Look at what we’ve done, Miss Reid.”

It was very slow, and at first Sylvia didn’t recognize it for what it was, but eventually a smile bloomed on Miss Reid’s face. “I wish Miss Shelton could be here to see it.”

“I was just thinking the same. Izzie would love this.”

“But perhaps Mr. Gray will be able to tell her all about it.”

“Mr. Gray?” Sylvia asked sharply, twisting to look over her shoulder. Her eyes scanned the crowd before landing on William. He was standing at the very back of the room, hands folded in front of him. Immediately, her heart softened.

“He came into the shop to ask when and where the show would be held,” said Miss Reid from her spot at her shoulder.

“Did he?” Sylvia asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

William glanced their way, eyes locking with Sylvia’s. He lifted a hand. She mirrored the gesture. He mouthed, “Good luck,” and she dipped her head to hide her smile. He was a good man—probably far better than she’d once deserved—and when she was ready, she planned to work her hardest to be worthy of his love.

She would find him afterward and perhaps suggest a place where they could find a cup of tea and chat. They did have so many years to make up for.

“Sylvia,” said Lady Winman, hurrying up, “I think we should begin.”

Miss Reid pressed a hand against Sylvia’s forearm and melted away in the direction of Mrs. Shelton’s assigned model, a tall girl with a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth and beautifully curling dark hair who fitted into Izzie’s claret dress like a dream.

Sylvia drew back her shoulders. “Ready when you are, Felicity.”

Lady Winman nodded. “Then away we go.”

A triumph.

That’s what it was.

An honest-to-goodness proper triumph.

Sylvia could hear the applause before the final model finished her last twirl and exited the floor. She and Lady Winman caught each other’s gaze and smiled.

“Are you ready to say a few words?” she asked the countess.

They’d debated long and hard about who should address the patrons and press once the show was done. Lady Winman had argued that there would be no event without Sylvia, but Sylvia had turned the argument right back around on her and pointed out that the countess had saved the day.

Since Lady Winman was the sponsor and technically the hostess of the day’s proceedings, they’d finally agreed that she would thank everyone for coming and remind those who were in a mood to buy that designs could be commissioned from each of the participating shops.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” muttered the countess.

She watched as Lady Winman, whom she was beginning to think of as a friend, rolled her shoulders back, set her chin, and glided out from around the ballroom’s double doors to a wave of applause.

She was so proud of what they’d done that day, but even more so of everything that Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions had achieved that year. There was hope and light about the place, and it looked as though, if they kept ahead of the Board of Trade and continued to promote, they might just survive the war.

She was proud of Miss Reid, who had thrown herself into every order, creating beautiful things in a time when beauty could feel so rare.

She was proud of Izzie and her designs that kept coming in the post, gorgeous dress after gorgeous dress.

She was proud of herself for finding her way back here, where she belonged.

A light touch on her shoulder made her glance over to find William next to her.

“It was wonderful,” he said, before she could even ask him what he thought.

Something in her warmed the way that it had started to whenever she saw him. “Thank you.”

“I overheard some of the journalists talking about it, and I saw a few women flipping through their ration books to count coupons,” he said as Lady Winman’s speech drifted back to them.

“That is exactly what we need,” she said.

“A few were opening their checkbooks too,” he said.

“All the better for the war widows,” she said with a smile. “It was good of you to come.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he said.

There was another round of applause, and William stepped back, looking at her expectantly. She frowned. “What?”

Lady Winman stuck her head around the door. “They’re waiting for you.”

“For me?” she asked.

“I couldn’t stand up there and pretend this was all my doing,” said the countess. “You should have your moment too.”

She glanced at William, and he nodded.

“But I haven’t prepared anything,” she protested.

“As though a little thing like preparation would ever frighten the likes of Sylvia Shelton,” said William.

With a laugh that was half-exasperated and half-indulgent, Sylvia eased her way around the door and out in front of all of the people. The models stood to the left of her, all lined up in their ensembles. At the back of the room were the film cameras.

She spread her hands out. “I haven’t prepared anything because I thought I had convinced Lady Winman that she should take on the responsibility of speaking today, but I can see that it is impossible to tell a countess what to do.”

Lord Winman gave a hearty guffaw from his seat in the front row.

“I am the daughter of a talented dressmaker, although few outside of our neighborhood would know the extent of her skill,” she continued. “That is a great shame, but it is not unique to my mother. Few of the hardworking dressmakers in our neighborhoods who make clothing that is both beautiful and practical are celebrated in the way that we celebrate the great design houses of London and Paris.”

She scanned the audience, intending to address Mr. Molyneux, but instead her eyes lit on two women in WAAF uniforms standing in the back of the crowd: Izzie and the unmistakable Lady Alexandra.

Sylvia swallowed as Izzie gave her a little wave and a cheeky grin. She pressed a hand to her chest, checking her emotions, and then smiled at the crowd.

“I hope that this display of unsung talent has inspired you to open your minds—and your checkbooks,” she said as people tittered, “to support not only these designers but also the great cause for which we are gathered here today. Thank you very much.”

There was another round of applause, but she could hardly hear it. Instead, she crossed the ballroom floor that had served as their showcase space and threaded her way through the crowd to Izzie.

“Hello, Sylvia,” said Izzie.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvia asked in disbelief.

Izzie tilted her head. “Well, I couldn’t miss your big day, could I?”

Sylvia gave a sob and then fell into her sister’s open arms.