by Liz Trenow
‘Dearest Charlotte,’ she said, beaming beneath the hood and shawl. ‘I hope this is convenient?’
‘Of course. Come in. I am always delighted to see you,’ I said. ‘Let me take your cloak.’ As she put down the basket to disrobe, the dog raised its head and gave a disgruntled growl.
‘It is a pleasure to see you too, Pug,’ I said. ‘Will you take tea, Jane? I have a fire in my room, if you think you can manage the stairs?’ She is broad of beam and close to her sixtieth year.
‘I’m sure I’ll manage. I was only planning to collect my new gloves and muff, but if you are not too busy, a cup of tea would be most welcome.’
By the time I returned with the tea she had puffed her way up the two flights of stairs and was settled into my most comfortable chair, with the dog nestled contentedly in her lap. ‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing this old thing? I find it a great comfort, you know, like having a part of him with me.’
In his later years William had rarely left their country retreat, claiming that he could not leave his precious dog. ‘Hates the noise and the cobblestones in the city, poor old boy,’ he used to say. I did not realise it then, but William had become increasingly melancholic after a very public row over one of his satirical prints, and was already beginning to suffer ill health. Since his death, Jane had rented out the London house and retired almost permanently to the countryside.
I poured and she took a sip. ‘Hmm, this is delicious tea.’
‘It’s a Pekoe. A present from my sister.’
‘What a generous gift. And she has good taste, too.’
‘Ambrose buys from a special trader he met working in the London parish.’
‘Indeed. Vicars have to drink a lot of tea,’ she said, laughing as she accepted a shortbread biscuit – another gift, this time from a satisfied customer.
‘I have missed you, Jane. How is Chiswick?’ I said.
‘All is well, dearest,’ she said. ‘We love it there. I only come up to town to shop. But today I had a few hours to spare, so I also dropped in to the Hospital – they persuaded me to take William’s place on the committee, you know, and they do such good work.’
I nodded. It may have been a hard childhood, but I knew they had probably saved my life.
‘When I arrived, I found a baby on the step – we often do, you know. When mothers aren’t lucky in the draw and get turned away, they are so desperate they just leave them.’
‘The poor things,’ I said, thinking of the young woman I’d seen in the street.
‘It was alive, just about. And when they unwrapped him, they found this.’
As she reached into her pocket, took out a scrap of paper and handed it to me, my heart jumped in my chest. It read: Lamb’s Conduit Field, Bloomsbury. And then, below, Miss Charlotte, Costumière, Draper’s Lane.
‘You don’t think . . .’ I began to gabble. ‘It’s not mine, you know?’
‘Of course I know that, you silly,’ she said. ‘But I assume you are somehow acquainted with the mother?’
‘It was a young girl I met in the street some weeks ago. She was so desperate. I told her about the Hospital and gave her my address so that she could tell me how she got on.’
‘Well, her ploy worked. The baby was skinny but otherwise healthy, so I persuaded them to take him in and he’ll be sent to a foster mother for feeding up. With a bit of luck he will survive.’
I hugged her. ‘Thank you so much, Jane. Oh, I would so like to be able to tell her that her baby is safe and well.’
‘She knows where you are. Perhaps she will call in one day, when she has recovered from her sorrow.’
How could I explain that giving away your child is something from which you never recover? Although I had agreed to the arrangement for Louisa and Ambrose to adopt my baby – there being no other option – I had never really acknowledged in my heart that I would, quite literally, have to ‘give him up’. I was sent away to a convent to give birth and from the very instant of seeing him, my love was utterly overwhelming and he never left my arms. Those first few days were perfect, just him and me in our own little world in the sparse cell, the nuns bringing me food and drink. I had no thoughts of the future. The present moment was all that mattered.
Handing my baby over to the wet nurse sent by Ambrose to collect him four days later felt like having a knife thrust into my heart, a genuine physical pain that I still experience even now, whenever I think about that day. There was nothing the nuns could do to console me. My empty belly remained round as though nature was mocking me, my breasts burned with unwanted milk. Returning to my cell without him was the purest agony, and the only relief to be gained was through the distraction of exercise. For three whole days and nights I walked, almost without ceasing, along the gloomy cavernous convent corridors, until one evening they found me collapsed and half-frozen in a remote, unfrequented corner.
In my delirium I believed that my baby was back in my arms once more. I crooned to him, sang him lullabies, put him to my breast. Perhaps in an attempt to bring me back to reality, the nuns read me Louisa’s letters, in which she described how well he was faring and how grateful they both were for my allowing them to adopt him as their own. Slowly I began to recover my physical strength, but my mind was broken. I had no idea who I was any more.
‘This has been most pleasant, dearest Charlotte,’ Jane said. ‘But it is already growing dark and I must be on my way.’ She gathered her shawl around her shoulders and bent down to retrieve the dog, who growled sleepily as she lifted him into his basket.
‘I have your muff and gloves parcelled up, ready. Please send my best wishes to your sister-in-law, Ann. I hope you will call again before too long?’
We made our slow way down the first flight of stairs to the landing, where she paused to look into the sewing room. ‘It is so reminiscent of Ann’s shop, it makes me quite nostalgic,’ she said. ‘But how well I recall our first visit here. We were all so excited for you.’
Just a few days after the shop had opened, Jane and her sister-in-law Ann had arrived with orders: a brand new waistcoat for William and a cape for Mary Lewis, her dear cousin and constant companion who lived with them, as well as some garments for alteration.
‘You were my first real customers. I was so excited.’
‘William cherished that waistcoat until the day he died,’ Jane said. ‘In fact, we buried him in it.’ The sorrow etched on her face turned to a sweet smile. ‘I have known there was something about you ever since I first met you as a little girl, Charlotte, but I never imagined that you would have your very own business, and at such a young age.’
When her own business closed, Ann had given me the addresses of three seamstresses, with wise words that have stayed with me ever since: ‘Never scrimp on staff, Charlotte. Choose good people whom you trust, and pay them well. They will reward you with fine work and bring customers back again and again.’
‘Mrs Taylor is still with me, also Elsie and Sarah.’
‘The redoubtable Mrs T.,’ she laughed. ‘Ann will be pleased to hear it. She has instructed that I must not leave without finding out how your business fares.’
‘I could not manage without her.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘I could never have done it without you. You have been like the mother I never had.’
‘And you the daughter who was never truly mine. We are all so proud of you.’ She placed her hand over mine, pressing it affectionately. What good fortune had brought me to this place, and surrounded me with the best of friends.
We continued downstairs to the showroom where, as I retrieved her parcel and her cloak, she went to examine the gowns on the dressmakers’ dummies in the window – ‘what charming styles they wear these days’ – and then turned to embrace me. Then something made her halt, her eyes fixed to the counter where I lay out silks for inspection. In the corner lay the pagoda silk.
‘Great heavens,’ she said, with a little gasp.
She went to the counter and took up the silk,
unfolding it and examining it, the silver threads glinting in the last rays of light from the windows, looking at it for a very long time without a word.
‘It is that silk,’ she murmured. ‘Wherever did you get it from, my dearest?’
‘It’s just a short reel-end my friend bought at auction, and there is something about it that makes it familiar to me,’ I said. ‘But perhaps it was at your house?’
‘My dear,’ she said, gently. ‘I have indeed seen this silk once before. There is something I need to explain.’
9
Sackback: a formal style of open gown worn over a hooped petticoat with box pleats stitched at the neckline and allowed to hang free from the shoulder to the floor, often with a slight train.
‘My dearest Charlotte . . .’ Her eyes were lowered, uncharacteristically, for Jane is the most direct person I know. ‘You ask me whether I might have seen this silk before.’
‘You have?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, Charlotte. I have indeed seen it before.’ Her voice was soft as though she did not want anyone to overhear, even though there was no one else in the building.
‘And . . .’ My stomach fluttered with anticipation.
‘My dearest, it is a matter of much delicacy. You must promise never to divulge what I am about to tell you, for fear that it might bring the memory of my dearest William into disrepute.’
‘Heavens, what mystery is this, Jane? Please, tell me at once before I die of curiosity. My lips will be sealed on the matter, I promise.’
She refolded the silk and placed it carefully back onto the counter, smoothing it with her hand. ‘You know that you were a foundling, delivered to the Hospital as a new baby? And that they gave you a new name – Charlotte Amesbury – when your birth name was Agnes Potton?’
‘I learned this on meeting my sister.’
‘The governors believed that being a foundling could bring shame to a child, and that this could be washed away by giving them a new identity.’
‘I never felt any shame, just sorrow,’ I said. ‘And confusion, as though I am two people in one.’
‘It is done for the very best of reasons, believe me, and the hospital has a system for ensuring that the child’s original identity is secretly preserved, just in case.’
‘And what is this system you speak of?’
‘You already know it, dearest, for you told your young beggar woman. The tokens that the mothers leave are attached to the paper records the Hospital keeps on each baby, the birthdate, the sex and size, their birth name, the names of parents or relatives and any distinguishing marks.’
‘This was how Louisa . . .?’ I imagined her turning up at the hospital, waiting at that grand gate with Ambrose by her side, so full of hope and anticipation.
‘Exactly so,’ Jane went on. ‘William knew you were a favourite of mine so when it looked as though you were about to be reunited with your family, he told me, in strictest confidence. Then, when I was with him at the Hospital one day, he showed me your record and the scrap of fabric your mother left as a token.’
The scrap of fabric. Could it have been . . .?
‘Are you going to tell me?’ I faltered, hardly daring to hear the answer.
She nodded slowly. ‘The token held with your records was a piece of silk with a pagoda design brocaded in silver. I have never forgotten it, for it is one of the most distinctive in all of the records.’
The information was dizzying. It all seemed so unlikely. Questions crowded my mind. ‘Did my sister bring a matching piece?’
‘William did not relate exactly what happened. She may have had other forms of proof. But she would have seen it pinned to your records when she came to claim you.’
‘My mother was destitute. Wherever did she get hold of a piece of that valuable fabric? When I showed it to Louisa she denied all knowledge,’ I said, still struggling to make sense of this curious revelation.
‘You will have to ask her. It may just be an interesting coincidence; who knows? But I beg you, please do not divulge what I have told you. William always impressed on me the confidentiality of the records, and he was most adamant that no one must ever know that I had seen it.’
‘I just fear she is protecting me from something . . .’ I couldn’t imagine, let alone put into words, what that might be.
‘She’s a good and honourable woman, Charlotte, who went through much to find her sister. She’s shown you nothing but kindness and generosity and it is perfectly plain that she loves you, so I’m sure there is a simple, rational explanation.’
She bent down to pick up her precious pug. ‘And now I really must be on my way. I wish you and your family a very happy Christmas, and you must come to see us in the country in the New Year, dear girl. You look a little pasty-faced, if you don’t mind me saying so. The fresh air would do you good. Don’t work so hard, and make sure you eat enough, please?’
After Jane left I tried to return to my work, but the light had gone. I made myself a plate of bread and ham for supper but I could taste nothing. Her news had thrown my thoughts into disarray.
As she told it, the story seemed straightforward: my sister gained proof of my existence and sought to find me. This was perfectly natural; anyone would have done the same, and the story had a happy ending when two sisters met each other for the very first time.
But now, sitting here in the gloom of the evening, I recalled the silk unfurling, my sister’s face turning deathly pale. Why had she denied recognising it? What could possibly be so mysterious? She had described almost everything else about the circumstances leading to my discovery. Was she not also curious about how our mother had come by such a precious piece of fabric? What shame could there possibly be from sharing the truth, now we had experienced the good fortune of our reunion?
My imagination began to invent wild scenarios: what about the rest of her story? If she chose to be so secretive about the silk, what else was she hiding? There was no sign of a Potton anywhere in Stepney. Had she, for some unknown reason, decided to claim me falsely? I could not imagine why, for she and Ambrose had been so generous, with little else that was obviously to their advantage.
Except, of course, they had gained Peter, my son and now theirs. For a few horrifying moments I imagined that they might have planned everything this way, before pulling myself together, berating myself for such ridiculous fancies. I had not even known that I was expecting until several weeks after we’d been reunited, months after they came looking for me.
I went to bed and must have drifted off to sleep, for I woke remembering that I had dreamed of vividly coloured birds flying through forests of misshapen trees. Again, there was a distant memory I could not quite pin down: like grasping for a soap bubble that bursts as soon as your hand touches it.
In the kitchen, I set a fire and boiled the kettle. The presence of everyday things was reassuring: all was still in its place and the world had not turned upside down. Warmth and candlelight brought me to my senses: there was bound to be a simple explanation. I would be seeing Louisa in a few weeks’ time. All I needed to do was ask her.
10
Pocket: single or paired pouches of fabric tied with tapes around the waist beneath the petticoat or gown, accessible through hidden slits in the seams of the overgarments.
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the carriage was packed with people travelling to join relatives for the festivities. Happily I had, as usual, paid in advance to secure a seat. Nonetheless, being squeezed in with nine other adults – all of them amply built and carrying large quantities of luggage, or holding babies and small children on their knees – never makes for a restful journey.
Since I first took the journey to Westford Abbots much of the highway has been paved, so it now takes just four hours. Louisa and Peter always wait at the cross to greet me, and that first embrace with my boy erases in a moment the discomforts of the journey. Then we walk the two hundred yards along the street to the vicarage, past the butchers and the bakery,
the marketplace and the Moot Hall, and climb the small hill on which the church sits, on the site of the old medieval abbey, standing proud over the otherwise flat Essex landscape.
Lining the gravelled pathway to the church and the vicarage are ancient yews that creak and groan like old men, especially in high winds. Ambrose told us that because they are evergreen and do not lose their leaves in winter they are considered by the Church to be a symbol of the Resurrection. They were probably planted when the Abbey was here, six hundred years ago, he said. I find it almost impossible to contemplate this span of time, but those trees give the place a reassuring sense of permanence. It will always be here.
Along one side of the churchyard is a high red brick wall and a gate through which you can glimpse the imposing frontage of Westford Hall, grander even than the Manor in Gloucestershire. The Pettisford family have lived there for generations, they say, having been granted the Lordship by Queen Elizabeth. The latest Lord P. is a go-ahead man, keen to introduce the latest farming techniques that, although not always popular with his workers and other village folk, certainly seem to be successful in improving his fortunes. Craftspeople have been busy at the Hall and throughout the village ever since I first began coming here.
All these scenes were running through my mind as we travelled the last few miles until, at last, we arrived at the Cross. As we pulled to a halt I peered through the window, feverish with anticipation. Louisa was there, but alone.
Fear clutched at my throat. ‘Where is Peter? He is not unwell, I hope?’
‘It is nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘Probably just a chill. It is such a bitter day Ambrose said he must stay in the warm.’
Although he was cheerful enough when he greeted me, he appeared very pale and at dinner displayed little appetite. Louisa sent him to bed early, and for once he did not complain. After the meal was over I climbed the stairs to wish him goodnight, but he was already fast asleep. As I kissed him, his forehead felt strangely hot and clammy.