The Dressmakers of London

Epilogue

September 1949

Sylvia stood on the corner of Davies and Bourdon Streets in Mayfair, surveying the shop front with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

It had taken Izzie and her months to find the right spot for their new home. She’d been surprised at how amenable her sister had been when she’d brought up the idea of moving from Glengall Road six months ago, but Izzie had simply put down her newly acquired reading glasses and said, “If you say it’s time, it’s time.”

They’d run the business via the post while Izzie served first in Norfolk and then in Dover. When the RAF had begun winding down the use of balloon units and Izzie had retrained as a telephone operator in Scotland, their letters had continued in just the same manner.

Then Izzie had been demobbed in August of 1945, and the sisters had had to learn once again how to work together in person. There had been growing pains, but everything had been helped by the soothing presence of William, whom Sylvia had married in 1944, a year after her divorce from Hugo had become official.

She smiled up at the shop front, remembering the lean times as the Board of Trade cut the value of coupons again and again. She and Miss Reid had despaired then, wondering how any women would be able to buy anything at all, but their customers, old and new, had continued to come to them with curtains, tablecloths, bedsheets—anything that could be made into clothes.

Steadily, through all of it, their bespoke clients had grown in number thanks to the help of Lady Winman and the women who had attended the first War Widows’ Fund fashion show. It was, Sylvia had to admit, more than a little satisfying to note that the charity’s heads were perfectly content to accept Sylvia and Felicity’s fashion show as a staple on its calendar on the understanding that it be kept at an arm’s length from the usual committee.

The Shelton sisters had both rejoiced after VE and VJ Days, assuming that the end of the war would spell the end of clothing rationing, but austerity measures had crushed that hope. However, on the fifteenth of March of that year, it had finally happened. Clothing was no longer on the ration. William had produced a bottle of champagne out of nowhere to celebrate, and even Miss Reid had taken a glass, a sleepy look settling over her expression by the bottom of it.

The end of rationing had been the push the sisters had needed to finally embark on the second stage of their plan: expansion. Together they’d searched high and low for a shop with the right sort of address for the clients who were now coming through their doors more and more often asking for Izzie’s bespoke designs. Finally, they’d settled on the shop on Davies Street.

Sylvia had taken charge of the lease and fitting out the shop, leaving Izzie to the design and production side of things. They’d discussed everything together, sharing all the decisions—well, all except one.

Sylvia glanced at her watch. William had promised that he would deliver her sister at precisely eleven o’clock, which meant that, in one minute, Izzie would see what she’d done.

While she waited, she touched the collar of her navy-blue jacket and made sure the hem was sitting straight. It was silly to be nervous, but the sisters had promised each other that they would share every decision related to the business, and Sylvia had deliberately violated that agreement. She just hoped Izzie would agree with her that it had been worth it.

Sure enough, one agonizing minute later, she spotted the top of William’s gray felt hat round the corner, Izzie on his arm, blindfolded and looking less than delighted with the situation.

“We’re here!” called William with a wave, as though he didn’t have an irritated Shelton sister hanging on his arm.

“Sylvia, is this really necessary?” asked Izzie. “I’ve seen the shop before.”

Sylvia held back a laugh as William grinned at her.

“You did say she would be angry,” she told him.

“I did,” he agreed.

“I’m not angry, I’m annoyed,” Izzie insisted. “There is a difference.”

“This isn’t a time to argue semantics, Izzie,” said Sylvia.

“Sylvia!”

“Shall we put her out of her misery?” Sylvia playfully asked her husband.

“Yes!” Izzie shouted.

“Fine, you can take your blindfold off,” she said.

William stepped back as Izzie tore at the fabric. “What is the meaning of—”

Sylvia pointed past her sister’s shoulder to the shop front, and she saw the moment that Izzie realized what she’d done.

Painted across the top of the shop wasn’t “Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions” but “Isabelle Shelton.”

“What…?”

“I thought it was time to consider a new name,” she said.

“Consider? It’s already painted up there,” said Izzie, but her annoyance had been replaced by delight.

“Paint can be changed, but I hope you like it. A new name for a new era,” she said.

Izzie stared at the sign, a grin growing across her face. “We’ll have to change all of the labels.”

“I asked the manufacturer to wait to sew anything in until they received word from us. It’s costing us more, but it will be worth it to see labels that say ‘Isabelle Shelton’ on them from the very moment the shop opens. If that’s what you want,” she said.

The ready-to-wear line and shop had been a joint idea, one they’d hashed out over many evenings in their mother’s office. The bespoke business, which had ambitions that reached the level of the still-recovering French couturiers, would continue as it had, but with a ready-to-wear offering, they would be able to dress more women than ever before. It had taken years of saving and research to make it a reality, but they were all ready to take delivery of garments at the end of the month and launch in October.

“Are you certain?” asked Izzie, glancing at Sylvia. “It doesn’t seem very fair that only my name is up there.”

“In this one area, I’m very happy to remain in the background,” she said. “Besides, ‘Mrs. Gray and Isabelle Shelton’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“?‘Isabelle Shelton and Mrs. Gray,’ surely,” said Izzie. “Don’t you think, Willie?”

He held up his hands. “I stay out of all business decisions unless you require legal advice, remember?”

“Well, then, I think that settles it,” said Izzie.

Sylvia held up a key. “Would you like to walk through and see how it’s looking?”

Izzie nodded. “Let’s.”

They crossed the road, and Sylvia unlocked the front door, letting her sister in first. She lingered a moment, watching Izzie take in all the details of the shop. When William’s arms slipped around her and he rested his head on her shoulder, she leaned back against him.

“Thank you for bringing her,” she said.

“Of course. I’m proud of you, Sylvia. Both of you,” he said.

She smiled. “Me too.”

“I think your mother would be too,” he said.

She watched her sister examine the counter where the register would go. “I don’t think she ever would have imagined this when she left us the shop together, but I am grateful she did.”