by Liz Trenow
Dear brother-in-law,
Your letter filled me with remorse. How could I have written so carelessly when you and Louisa have shown me nothing but love and generosity? My only excuse is that my deep concern for all of you must have muddled my brain. Please believe me that I never meant, in all the world, to imply any failure on your part, nor of your care for your son.
Please accept my sincere apologies. I long to see you all again, so please let me know when I can visit, soonest.
Your loving sister-in-law, Agnes
Now my fate rested entirely in Ambrose’s hands. Although the fear of rejection and the terror of being denied contact with Peter – and indeed my sister – was agonising, apologising left me feeling a little better. All I could do was hope the apology would be accepted. Even then, I knew it would take a while to recover good relations and Louisa would feel constrained from writing to me once more until her husband had decided to forgive me.
As usual I threw myself into work, cutting out, sewing and embroidering at such a fevered pace that Mrs T. felt compelled to say something: ‘Forgive me, Miss Charlotte, but if you continue this way we shall be sitting here idle-handed.’
But little could distract me from my fears. My relationship with Ambrose has never been an easy one. It is entirely one-sided; I am wholly dependent upon his will. Louisa appears to adore him even though he is often unkind to her. He is powerful and unforgiving, and has always held my fate in his hands.
The truth is that I owe the man a great debt of gratitude. Were it not for him, I would never have been able to set up this shop, nor would I be running the business as it is today. I would probably still be a lowly seamstress, working for another. But what I had never anticipated even in my most fearful moments was that he would, without warning, decide to call in that debt.
That very afternoon I received a visit from my landlord, Mr Boyson, with shocking news that threatened to throw all of my dreams, and the past years of hard work, into jeopardy.
14
Feather stitch: a variety of chain stitch resembling a bird’s feather commonly used for decorative borders.
Seed stitch: a good filler stitch which looks like small pills, or seeds.
Yes, I have worked hard to build my business, but luck was on my side, too. I would never have achieved it without the help of others. It is almost impossible for a young woman to gain an apprenticeship or to run her own establishment, unless she inherits it. So it was my extraordinary good fortune to have not just one, but two mentors: Ann Hogarth, to whom I was apprenticed, and Ambrose Fairchild, my brother-in-law, who would help me set up in this shop.
Eleven years ago, in those dark days in the convent after the baby had been taken from me, a wise old nun spent much time with me in my cell; or, as I recovered and if the weather permitted, walking in the grounds. She was too old and frail to take part in the domestic activities of the house, the cooking and cleaning and gardening, so instead she had become the counsellor, the confidante. In that low voice, tinged with an accent – French, or Belgian? – she posed gentle questions. Then she would listen to my rambling answers without interjection, simply affirming with the gaze of her kind brown eyes that she understood.
She had lived in the convent for many years, but her knowledge was surprisingly worldly. The wisest advice she gave me, which I treasure to this day and to which I frequently return when feeling sad, is that the best way of recovering from low spirits is to start making plans. As I waited out the lonely, painful weeks after Peter’s birth, she brought pen and paper and told me to write to anyone who might be able to offer me employment.
The notion of returning to service filled me with despair. But I recalled what Jane Hogarth had told me about her sister-in-law Ann, how she ran her own business as a costumière in London. I’d had to ask what a costumière was, and she had promised to take me there one day. She had shown me a leaflet with an ornate masthead that William had designed for his sister:
Ann Hogarth, costumière, it read.
At Little Britain Gate at the sign of the King’s Arms. Ye
best and most fashionable readymade frocks, suits of fustian,
ticken and holland, stript dimmity and flannel waistcoats,
blue and canvas frocks, and bluecoat boys drawers.
By Wholesale or retale at reasonable rates.
Now, following the nun’s advice, I wrote to Jane to ask whether her sister-in-law might be in need of a good seamstress at her shop? Almost by return, she replied that although Ann had no vacancies at present, I should come to stay with her in London and we could visit the shop. Although nothing could dull the agony of giving up my baby, at least now I had something to look forward to.
Meeting Ann Hogarth was a revelation. Her rather plain appearance – short and round, like her brother – belied a powerful personality. Although possessed of little natural beauty, she radiated confidence and charm along with a warmth of character that must, I thought, have stood her in good stead dealing with customers and suppliers alike.
She showed us around her premises, on which I have modelled my own: showroom on the ground floor, workshops on the first, and her personal apartments in the attic. When a customer called, Jane and I were left to chat with her senior seamstress, Mrs Taylor, who spoke of her employer in respectful tones: both kindly and fair, she said, informal in her dealings without being overfriendly, and always expecting the highest of standards of work. So it was a dream come true when, just a few weeks later, I received a letter from Ann to say that one of her seamstresses was retiring, and would I consider taking up the post?
Although Louisa tried to persuade me that a job in service would be more secure and that I would be able to visit them more frequently, the thought of being a housemaid for the rest of my life was more than I could bear. The prospect of starting a new life in the city was thrilling; the sorrow of leaving Peter eased by the thought that, in time, I would earn enough to buy him little luxuries I had never enjoyed.
As a novice, the work assigned to me at first was relatively dull, consisting usually of straightforward cutting out and sewing simple utility garments, one much the same as the next. But before long Ann was giving me more complex tasks: cloaks, for example, were in great demand that cold winter, and soon I was allowed to measure up, cut out, piece and sew a beautiful brocade for a gentleman’s waistcoat. It took me an entire fortnight, often working into the night, but I was determined to make sure that it was as perfect as possible, the stitching so tiny that it was barely visible, the seams so strong that they would never part even after too many large dinners.
My customer was a man of the middling sort in his middling years, not so arrogant as some of the young bloods tended to be. Trying on the finished garment after just a single fitting earlier in the week, he beamed from ear to ear.
‘This is utterly charming, my dear,’ he proclaimed, turning from side to side to regard himself in the long glass. ‘Perfection. I do declare it makes me look slimmer and younger than I have felt for many a year. My dear wife will be astonished. I shall persuade her to attend here in future rather than the establishment she currently patronises, where even a bonnet seems to cost a small fortune.’
The pride that I felt in that moment, the realisation that I had accomplished something worthwhile, something of quality, was entirely new and unexpected. As a foundling and as a domestic servant, you are expected to do your duty but no one compliments you on the quality of your work. Now, my skills had earned a customer’s genuine respect, and given him pleasure. All at once it was clear what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
It was after I had been apprenticed to Ann Hogarth for eight months, and had finally managed to save up enough to rent my own rooms, that she announced she was closing the business. She invited myself, Mrs Taylor, Elsie and Sarah to put down our work and listen to the important news she had to impart.
‘You have all, all four of you, been the best seamstresses anyone could ever have wished fo
r,’ she began. We shared glances; she was not usually so free with compliments. ‘And you have helped me build up this business from a simple millinery service to what we can now, with great justification, call ourselves: costumières.’
She went on, ‘However, you are all aware of my advancing years, and recently even what little input I can offer has become too much to manage. In addition, our landlord has just informed me that he wishes to take back the premises for redevelopment and the prospect of moving once more is, as you can imagine, simply too daunting.’
Beside me, Sarah gave a small sigh; we all sensed what was coming, and Ann spelled it out kindly and carefully, watching our faces all the while. She had tried to sell the business as a going concern but it appeared no one could be persuaded that it was a sufficiently profitable venture. The shop would close at Christmas, in just one month’s time. We would all be provided with excellent references and she was sure we would experience no problems in finding new posts.
When Ann’s shop finally closed, I returned to Westford Abbots with a dreary heart. I had failed to find a new post as a seamstress, and the prospect of going back into domestic service, with long days of drudgery, cleaning and waiting on my employers’ every whim, became frighteningly real once more.
Over supper I explained to Louisa and Ambrose my predicament, describing the difficulty of finding regular employment now that Ann had closed the shop, and how my hopes of saving enough to set up my own business were now well out of reach.
At first, my brother-in-law ate silently with his usual impassive, unreadable expression, and I imagined that his mind was elsewhere as usual, perhaps preparing Sunday’s sermon. But once he had emptied the plate he began to ask questions: how much would I need to rent premises in a decent area? How long would I expect it to take before I was making a profit, and was there really enough trade to support a new business? I tried to answer as best I could, but under his grilling it soon became clear how little I knew or understood about the world of commerce. By the time he finished I was close to tears. But as he left the table his words – just seven sparse syllables preceded by a grunt – left me with a glimmer of hope: ‘Humph. Let me see what I can do.’
‘What do you think he meant?’ I asked Louisa the following day. We were sitting in her drawing room watching Peter as he scurried about like a large and clumsy beetle, practising his new crawling technique.
‘Long ago Ambrose worked as a curate and then as a vicar, in East London,’ she said. ‘It was a very poor area, but he was much respected there for the work he did trying to help people to help themselves. Perhaps he knows someone.’ Christmas was upon us, and nothing more was said until, on 29th December, as I was sitting at the bureau once more penning requests to the housekeepers of large houses and Louisa was building brick towers with Peter, Ambrose burst in with a letter in his hand.
‘It’s from that old rogue Boyson,’ he declared. ‘He’s come up trumps.’
‘Boyson? The man who was accused of . . .?’
He put a finger to his lips. ‘That matter is over and done with, remember? When he was finally released he told me that if I ever needed a favour, I should come to him. And he’s responded with a splendid offer, a property near Cheapside which might just make a good location for a dressmaker. In Draper’s Lane.’
‘What an appropriate name. But what will he charge?’ she asked.
‘He’s offering it rent-free for a year. Rate by negotiation after that.’
Rent-free? I could scarcely believe my ears. According to Ambrose, this Mr Boyson was in the property business and would know what he was talking about. ‘If he thinks it’s a good location for a dressmaker’s, then it surely will be,’ he said.
‘May I be so bold as to ask why he is being so generous?’ I asked.
Ambrose brushed away my question, so I asked Louisa when he’d gone.
‘I don’t know the detail of what happened,’ she said. ‘But Boyson fell foul of some crooked businesspeople who accused him of fraud or theft, claiming hundreds of pounds in compensation. The poor fellow was locked up in Newgate facing transportation, or worse, when his wife came in desperation to Ambrose. For some reason my dearest husband believed him and set out to prove that he had been wronged. He laboured over it night and day – that much I knew, because at the time I was his housekeeper. When it came to the trial the judge believed the testimony of a vicar over that of the tricksters, so Boyson was set free.’
‘My goodness, he should have been a lawyer.’
‘We would be living in greater luxury had he done so,’ she said, laughing. ‘But that is one of the things I so admire in him: always driven by a strong sense of what is just. But the call of God is too great, and the two vocations are not so incompatible, it seems.’
‘Ambrose said Boyson was a rogue. Is it safe to take up his offer?’
‘If he says it is so, then it will be so and he will accompany you to visit the place as soon as possible. If you like what you see, then it will be yours, of that I am sure.’
I rushed to embrace her. ‘Dearest sister, I am so touched by your generosity, the both of you.’
She held me at arm’s length, and looked into my eyes. ‘You are the generous one, dear Charlotte. Every day I give thanks for Peter, your wonderful gift to us. This is the least we can do in return.’
Good as his word, Ambrose accompanied me to London to meet the man he continued to call ‘that old rogue’. Mr Boyson was certainly old, his face wrinkled like a walnut, his back bent as a shepherd’s crook, rendering him no taller than a child. As for the ‘rogue’ epithet he certainly had a twinkle in his eye, and he appeared to own a number of buildings in the area, so he must have made a fair bit of money somewhere along the line, legitimately or otherwise, but in his responses to Ambrose he was meek as a child.
The location turned out to be ideal for my kind of business, being equidistant between the weavers of Spitalfields and the wealthier sorts living west of Holborn. There were several other shops in the street, but no other dressmakers – or costumières, as I had decided to call myself in recognition of Ann Hogarth’s aspirations. Although in the meantime they had all secured other positions, Mrs Taylor, Sarah and Elsie agreed to join me, excited to be part of a new venture.
The property sat on the sunnier side of the street, the ground-floor room already sporting a fine bay window from its previous occupancy as a general store. The basement had served as a storage space, but had the elements of a rudimentary kitchen. Boyson remained downstairs, blaming his creaky knees, as Ambrose and I climbed to the two airy rooms on the first floor, both blessed with large windows that made them perfect for cutting and sewing.
But where would I sleep? I couldn’t afford separate lodgings. It was then we noticed the small door leading onto a narrow, winding stair and together climbed upwards to discover two smaller attic rooms with dormer windows overlooking the roofs of nearby houses.
‘This is perfect,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much, brother-in-law.’
As he smiled, clearly pleased to have arranged this place for me, there was a glimmer in his eye that I came only later to understand: it was a look of triumph. Ambrose is a man who desires above all things to hold power over those around him and granting favours, appearing beneficent, was one of the ways that he wielded that power.
So, after years of what had appeared to be a perfectly amicable arrangement, years in which I had always paid the rent on time and it had risen each year by mutual consent in line with what I could afford, what Mr Boyson said now came as a blow that threatened to knock me off my feet.
‘I feel I must warn you, Miss Charlotte, that I am shortly going to have to impose a significant increase in your rent.’ I must have gaped at him in disbelief, for he continued to gabble on for a few moments: ‘I’m afraid it cannot be helped, what with the price of everything going up, and the growing demand for properties like these.’
At last I found my voice: ‘This is something of a surprise, Mr
Boyson. Do we not have an agreement that we would discuss rent rises according to what I could afford? It seems to have worked perfectly well up until now. Was that not what we arranged through the Reverend Fairchild?’
It was not until that moment that I fully understood what must have prompted him to visit. At the mention of Ambrose the old man’s gaze slid to the floor, his eyes refusing to meet mine, and I realised with a powerful certainty that this visit was no coincidence. It was a warning initiated by my brother-in-law, a threat designed to bring me to heel, to remind me in whose hands my future lay. He was calling in that debt.
How dare Ambrose resort to threatening me through his lackey? Yes, my letter had been hasty and ill-considered but they were only words, after all, a minor impertinence, a petty sin. And now he was threatening the very survival of my business. Perhaps I should have expected it; so long as everything went his way Ambrose could be perfectly kind and patient, but cross him for an instant and he would exert his power once more.
Anger made my voice tremulous. ‘Do you have in mind a sum, Mr Boyson? And when this might happen? Custom has been very slow of late and my business could not sustain any large increase.’
‘That will have to be for you to consider,’ he said, turning away. ‘I shall write to advise you.’
15
Corsage en fourreau: a flattering design for the fuller figure with the rear bodice seams stiffened with cane.
Each morning I rushed anxiously to the post, waiting for letters from either Louisa or Boyson, on which my future happiness seemed to depend. Day after anxious day passed with no further news.
To make matters worse, a particularly demanding customer to whom we all referred as ‘the dreaded Lady S.’ arrived at our door on a Tuesday afternoon, bearing a large parcel. When I tried to explain that it was early closing day she simply barged past me into the shop.