The Dressmaker of Draper's Lane Read online

  Yet still, after all these years, I know so little about her.

  But at least I have my sister, Louisa. Without her, I would be nothing. Had she not found me when she did, I might not even be alive.

  Our circumstances could not be more different, of course. She lives in a spacious, well-ordered vicarage, performing to perfection the role of a clergyman’s wife. She has no need to earn her own money, nor would her husband ever contemplate allowing her to do so.

  In a few short years she has managed to befriend and endear herself to the squire of her village and his family and I feel sure that it is partly due to her efforts that they have endowed the parish with the greatest of generosity: new kitchens for the workhouse, the extension of the almshouses to accommodate growing numbers of elderly and infirm, the restoration of the church bells. It is she who ensures that when the bishop comes to tea the most delicious of cakes are on offer, containing none of the dried fruit that gives him heartburn, and the tea served in the best bone china.

  She prunes the roses in the churchyard, visits the sick and elderly and runs stalls at fetes and fairs, all the while providing a comfortable home and the best education available for Peter, who, at just ten years old, is growing like a young sapling and seems equally gifted at mathematics and drawing. He is rather handsome these days, with the dark hair and neat features Louisa and I share, but the ready smile and amused glint in his chestnut eyes he must have discovered for himself, for lightness of heart is something that both my sister and I strive to find, at times. Anna frequently chides me for looking too solemn. Life is a serious business, I generally retort, trying to smile just to please her.

  Louisa’s husband, the Reverend Ambrose Fairchild, is an industrious and well-respected vicar who sets about his work with a zeal that would be the envy of many a parish. An older man, tall, overbearing and somewhat stern, he is overly pious for my own taste and wont to threaten the wrath of the Lord upon the heads of those who do not meet his high moral expectations. At times I find him terrifying, although Louisa appears content. At least, that is what I assume, for she never speaks ill of him.

  When he was about eight, Peter asked me what I thought hell was like. He was convinced that he would end up there, because he had stolen another boy’s conker. I tried to reassure him, but he was not convinced. ‘Father says that however small the sin, God will know.’ His little chin began to tremble. ‘I don’t want to burn in everlasting fire, Auntie.’

  I pulled him to me. ‘Dearest boy, God knows that you are sorry. You must look for another prize specimen and give it to your friend.’

  ‘But then he will suspect something.’

  ‘So you must acknowledge your mistake and apologise.’

  Whether he followed my advice I will never know, for it was never mentioned again.

  But I must not cavil about Ambrose, for it is thanks to him that Louisa and I have been reunited after so many years of separation. I am always invited to the vicarage for special occasions: Christmas and Easter, my birthday in June. In between these times she will bring Peter to London, and more often than not these visits coincide with her need of a new gown, some breeches or a waistcoat for Peter or Ambrose. Or some mending, for she has never learned the art of needlework for herself and claims there is no one in the village who does it so well. I never ask her for payment, for I owe her far too much already.

  We have become a proper family, and this is the rhythm of our lives. I have much to be grateful for, and it is all thanks to Louisa.

  It was mid-October and she and Peter were due to arrive in London in a few days’ time. The nights were drawing in, and even here in the city I could smell the scents of autumn. Each morning would rise with a gentle concealing mist, each day the sun would break through with a golden syrupy light. London wears its charms most brightly in spring and autumn, and I was looking forward to showing my country relatives the many pleasures it can offer.

  Although their visits are always much longed for, the preparations are exhausting. I must make up my own bed with clean linen for Louisa and a pallet for Peter. I will sleep on the floor of the cutting room. Peter’s favourite foods must be purchased and prepared in my tiny kitchen. In anticipation of their visit the modesty of my accommodation becomes all too apparent in my eyes, so to compensate I clean and tidy until my fingers are worn to the bone, and spend more than I can afford on flowers and other little touches.

  Why do I feel such a need to court my sister’s approval in this way? She has never shown anything other than complete affection towards me, never remarked upon any perceived shortcoming nor been seen running a sly finger along a mantel or window frame. Perhaps it is my own approbation that I seek: to prove that I am worthy of the life she has helped me find?

  It had been four months since our last meeting and when the day finally arrived I was, as usual, on a knife-edge, thrumming with anticipation. At the coach stop they emerged, white-faced and stiff-limbed from their long journey and, as ever, Louisa and I fell into each other’s arms, pressing our faces into each other’s necks. The ferocity of our embrace and the sweetness of that familiar warmth takes me by surprise each time.

  How I yearn to do the same with my boy: to gather him into my arms and hold him, to kiss his cheeks, nuzzle my face into his sweet neck, to tickle the tender places around his waist as he once used to love. But he believes himself to be so grown-up these days that he will submit only to the briefest contact; an arm over a shoulder, or the shake of a hand. Perhaps later, after we have taken something to eat, he will come to sit beside me on the settle and rest against me.

  At supper I tried not to interrogate him. I would have liked to know every tiny detail, to learn about every sniffle or chilblain, the ebb and flow of his friendships, the winning or losing at sport, his achievements in school and the songs he has learned to sing in his sweet treble voice. But the best I can usually hope for is that this information will be volunteered, slowly trickling out over the course of the few hours we have together without too much prompting.

  Instead, I began to chatter away about Christmas. It was still two months away but already my thoughts were turning to gifts, in particular for Peter.

  ‘Heavens, Charlotte, it is not yet November. Let us not begin to consider those things so soon,’ Louisa said. ‘We’ve Advent to get through yet.’

  ‘I will need time to sew something,’ I countered. ‘Let me take some measurements while you are here and you can look at some silks. You are growing into such a tall young man.’

  He blushed sweetly, embarrassed by the attention, but after a few moments did allow that his best jacket was a little tight. Even before Louisa had time to indicate with a nod that she approved the notion, my mind was already spinning ahead: what colour fabric would I use, what design, what small details might I add to make the garment distinctive for my special boy?

  I cleared away the plates and stoked the fire. This is the best time of all, when they are recovered from the rigours of the journey and we are able to relax in each other’s company once more, settling into the informal ease you can only find between family and close friends. How would they like to spend the following day? I asked. Would it be a walk down to the Thames to see the great ships unloading, or a visit to St Paul’s Cathedral? Peter favoured the former, Louisa the latter. I declared that they would have to decide between themselves. It was their visit, after all. I could enjoy these wonders at any time.

  While they were discussing the merits of each activity my mind turned again to Peter’s new jacket, and recalled the oak leaf fabric we’d found at the auction. I went next door to the showroom to retrieve the parcel Anna had wrapped for me.

  I untied the string and took out the oak leaf silk, holding it up for Peter’s approval.

  ‘Oaks are my favourite trees,’ he said. ‘The very best for climbing.’

  So absorbed were we in our discussion of the jacket design that I barely noticed the brown paper wrapping that had slipped to the floor. Loui
sa gave a small gasp.

  ‘Wherever did you get this?’ In her hands was the short length of Chinoiserie design that Anna must have included in the parcel. Now, as the silk unfolded, its silver threads began to shimmer as before, glinting and reflecting the firelight. And, just as before, the room seemed suffused with the scent of lavender.

  I was about to explain when she gave a harsh little ‘oh’ as though she had been pricked by a needle, and dropped the fabric to her lap.

  ‘Did something hurt you?’ She shook her head, but there was something wrong. I went to her side and just as I reached her she fell against me, heavy as a log.

  ‘Quick, Peter, take her other arm.’

  For a second he seemed too shocked to move.

  ‘Come on. She’s taken a faint.’

  Taking one arm each, we laid her down as best we could on the rug in front of the fire. I placed a cushion beneath her head and began to fan her with a fold of the wrapping paper.

  ‘Run to the kitchen and bring a cup of cold water.’

  By the time he returned, her eyes had begun to flutter open.

  ‘What . . . where?’ she muttered.

  ‘Just rest, dearest, and see if you can take a sip of this,’ I said, putting the cup to her lips.

  To our great relief she was soon able to sit up. We lifted her to a chair, where she slowly regained her colour and her appetite: two home-made shortbreads disappeared in quick succession, washed down with a cup of my best tea.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Much better, thank you. What happened?’

  ‘You cried out as though you’d been hurt. Did something in the silk prick you?’

  She looked at me vaguely. ‘The silk?’

  I pointed to the table, where Peter had thoughtfully placed it. ‘This one, with the silver threading.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Charlotte. It is nothing. Just a touch of exhaustion from the journey. I shall be right as rain in the morning.’

  ‘Listen, Louisa. I believe it was something to do with the silk. It was the same for me, when I first saw it. I feel sure I have seen it before somewhere, but however hard I try, I cannot remember.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s weird,’ Peter interjected, in a silly voice. ‘Is it haunted? There’s a house near us where they say . . .’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Louisa cut in sharply. ‘You know your father forbids you to talk of that place. Any mention of ghosts is an abhorrence to God. They are the fabrication of the devil, he says, and if you speak of them you are pandering to the devil’s ways.’

  He gave a sulky frown and took up the poker, prodding the log till the flames began to flicker up the chimney once more.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with ghosts or hauntings,’ I insisted. ‘It’s just that you and I obviously both have some shared recognition of this silk. I’m curious, that’s all.’

  Her face was closed now. I knew that look: not in front of Peter. I put away the silk, wrapping it once more in the brown paper. I would save my questions for later.

  After supper Peter went off to read and I took out the small bottle of port kept especially for these occasions. There is never any alcohol at the vicarage because Ambrose is so fiercely opposed to it, but Louisa often enjoys a little tipple with me when they visit.

  I told her about the young woman I had met in the street a few weeks previously. ‘She was trying to give me her baby. I bought her some food and gave her the address of the Hospital,’ I said. ‘Let us hope they were able to take him. It broke my heart, seeing her walking away like that,’ I went on. ‘It made me think about how our mother must have felt when she was forced to give us up. I still can’t help wondering what happened to her.’

  Louisa seemed deep in thought. ‘We can never know, Agnes. What is done is done, dearest.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it doesn’t stop me wondering. Tell me again what you remember about her.’

  She sighed. ‘I recall so little of those days, and it pains me to dig up the past.’

  ‘Having such scant knowledge of her feels like an empty space in my heart. Even just a little information would be better than nothing,’ I said.

  She took a breath, as though she was about to say something, but fell into silence again. At last she began. ‘They are not happy memories, dearest sister, which is why I have always sought to protect you from them. I think I have already told you that I was only three when I was taken from our mother. It was a cottage, somewhere in the east of the city.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Not precisely, for I was still young; but it was towards Stepney Green, as I recall. All around, clinging in the air, was the foul smell of human waste, because it was close to a place where they removed clay for making bricks and as soon as the holes were dug, the night-soil men would empty their buckets into them. I have no memory of our father, nor was I ever told what happened to him. All I know is that for some reason our mother had encountered great misfortune and had become destitute, spending what pennies she could get on gin to ease her pain. So she sent me to live with her sister.’

  ‘What do you remember of that?’

  ‘At first it was like paradise, because at least there was food on the table.’

  ‘I suppose our mother wanted the best for you?’

  ‘Our aunt was not a bad woman in her heart, but she already had five children, two of them sickly, and soon enough she was fit to burst with a sixth, which died almost instantly. She was worn out with grief and her husband, who was a journeyman, was short of work. So I became a skivvy, an unpaid servant, and I was determined to get away. My plan was to find a paid position in a prosperous household, but I tried and tried with no success. That is when I heard that Ambrose was seeking a maid. You know the rest, dearest.’

  Soon after we’d been reunited, Louisa had told me how, as she put it, Ambrose had ‘rescued’ her. After hearing tell that the new vicar, lately moved to the parish, was seeking staff for the vicarage, she had gone to apply. At first she was taken on as a maid and then, when the old housekeeper became too infirm to work, he’d offered her the post.

  That very first day, he asked her to do some shopping and dictated a list so long that she could not remember them all, so that she returned without several important items. Falling into a rage, he asked why she had not written them down, and she was forced to admit that she could neither read nor write. From then on he’d made it his mission to teach her the basics needed for her job.

  It was during one of these lessons that he’d astonished her by declaring, without preamble, that he was determined to seek a wife, and would Louisa consider it? He is a decade older than her and she had always been a little afraid of him, but he had been so patient over the reading and writing that she didn’t hesitate. They were married just as soon as the banns were read.

  ‘Whatever happened to our aunt, do you know?’

  ‘We lost contact. To be honest, she never showed me much love, so I wasn’t overly concerned; but I did go back once, after we were married, only to find that she had moved. She disappeared without trace. But none of that mattered to me any more, because we found out about you.’

  ‘You didn’t even know that I’d been born?’

  ‘How could I? You have to remember, dearest, that I was sent away when I was only three and my aunt would never speak of her sister. All she would say was that she’d been a disgrace to the family.’

  Whatever had happened in those years, I wondered. If our mother had been destitute, what was her life like, having already given up one child? I refilled Louisa’s glass.

  ‘But however did you find out about me, if you were already estranged from our mother and our aunt?’

  ‘It was one of Ambrose’s parishioners who told us,’ she said.

  ‘She knew of your connection?’

  ‘I don’t believe she ever explained, but she must have been in touch with our mother, somehow, because she told us that she’d given birth to another child – that was you – who
she’d taken to the Foundling Hospital. And that soon after that, she’d passed away.’

  ‘Were you sad?’

  She shook her head. ‘To be honest, I remember so little of our mother that I felt almost nothing. Far more important was learning about you. Ambrose agreed that I could write to the Hospital, and that is how we found you.’

  ‘And I am so pleased that you did, my dearest,’ I said.

  She looked up and smiled. ‘Now look at the pair of us. We might have had a rocky start, but we’ve both survived.’

  ‘More than survived,’ I said. ‘We found a family.’

  4

  Petticoat: a garment covering the lower body, often decorative and flounced, designed to be seen beneath an open robe.

  Peter’s choice of activity prevailed and the following morning we set off for the Tower of London and the wharves of Tower Docks, just forty minutes’ walk from my shop. The weather was dry and bright, just as I had hoped, although a chilly breeze whipped off the water once we arrived. We found a place on a small mound below the Tower from where there is a vista of the dockside and the business of sea trading that continues day and night, through every season of the year.

  The tide was reaching its highest point and out on the river we were treated to the magnificent sight of three square-riggers arriving in full sail. On their decks sailors scurried about, hauling on ropes and lowering sails as their captains manoeuvred the vessels with great skill despite the sprightly winds.

  Once moored, these great ships seemed to loom over the wharves, tall as church towers and wide as palaces. Below them the dockside was a hive of activity, colour and noise: cargoes of all description being offloaded, winched up into the sky on ropes as thick as a man’s thigh before being deposited onto one of the many carts and carriages waiting below. Further cartloads of goods waited, ready to be hauled into the emptied holds.