by T T Thomas
Abruptly, the woman closed her book—Sabina’s book—and stood up.
“Felicity West,” she said, hands at her side. Miss West remained motionless, as if her name alone were sufficient introduction.
Chapter 2
“I must say you look a sight better than a few hours ago. How is the child?” Sabrina glanced at the woolen socks on the woman’s feet. Sabrina’s socks, actually.
“Sophia is perfect,” she said, indicating her head toward the large gift box sitting empty on the nearby table. “Walters was quite resourceful and put together a makeshift bassinet, and Cath, bless her, made it all pretty and warm. You must be quite a wonderful woman to have such a thoughtful, talented staff.”
“Festive,” Sabrina muttered, noting her Piccadilly box had been put to the good use she intended but for which she’d receive no credit. She blinked a couple times before remembering her manners.
“Sabrina. Sabrina Blissdon. We’re happy to accommodate you until—well, we’re pleased to have you as our guest.”
Sabrina felt she must have blurted that out because the stranger smiled at her. Again. A smile that took its slow and knowing way down the length her body. Peculiar and more than a little unnerving.
“Were you in need of a solicitor? Because I happen—”
“Oh, I’m in no position to afford actual legal counsel,” she said. Her direct and plain answer was, for lack of a better word, refreshing, but Sabrina frowned because…because one did at such directness.
Her smile was winsomely, worrisomely stunning. Sophia had a pretty mama. Sabrina expected her manner of speech to be…coarse, her accent broad, her diction and elocution less…refined, her vocabulary…limited. She saw the flash of amusement in the woman’s eyes as she watched Sabrina trying to figure it all out. As Felicity West wasn’t forthcoming with much more than an inappropriate amount of good humor this early in the morning, Sabrina suggested she join her for breakfast. Sabrina could read her newspaper, at least, and, if she were not mistaken, the mysterious guest would no doubt ask for a section to read.
“Oh, thank you, I’ve read it—while breakfasting with Cath and Walters.”
Sabrina nodded, then left. She felt the intruder’s eyes on her back as she made her way across the parlor hall. Her own personal walk across the Bridge of Sighs. A bit dramatic, that, but, the woman was quite bold in how she looked at one.
Once seated, she opened her newspaper. Walters served her coffee, tepid, and then a boiled egg, slightly overcooked and a plate of toast, darker than usual. He added a ramekin of berry jam to the table, which was odd as she always had orange marmalade. She heard the rest of the household traipsing upstairs to what was now being called the nursery.
Before dipping her spoon into her over-boiled egg and free from the fear of offense, she spoke to her invisible audience. “Feck it, then.”
She didn’t know how long she’d been reading her newspaper before she sensed another’s presence.
“Jeremy, what on earth? How did you know I was going to call you over today? Happy New Year, darling friend. Come in, come in.”
Doctor Jeremy Wintermere hesitated in the doorway, a smile on his face. “I didn’t know, your Grace.” He walked toward her, leaned in to give a hug and then pulled out a chair. “Happy New Year to you, too.” He placed his medical bag on the chair next to him.
She poured him a cup of coffee. “It’s bog water, but you look as though you could use a jolt. What brings you here, dear friend?”
He added a sugar lump and some cream to his coffee, took a sip and set the cup down as his visage turned serious. He stared at her.
“Jeremy, you’re making me nervous.”
“Ah, sorry, luv, preoccupied with an earlier call,” he said. “There’s been a homicide. A lady from one of the tolerated houses.”
“A prostitute killed? Anyone I know?” She held her breath.
“Fortunately, no,” he said. He reached over to touch her hand. “Believe you me, that was my first worry when they called me in. The coroner is on a long-term medical leave and returned home up north, so some physicians from The London Hospital are filling in, and Lord knows for how long. We’re told it could be as long as a year. My luck.”
“Oh, Jeremy, I’m so sorry your day has begun this way. Which House was she from?”
“Mrs. Janzek’s place.”
Sabrina nodded. Mrs. Janzek ran a small house, five or six women. Never any trouble with the law or the clients.
“Her name was Annie Bishop. From over Cornwall way.”
“Long way from home, eh, Jer? I don’t know her.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t think you did, but here’s the thing. She was wearing one of your corsets when they found her.” He paused. “That’s all she was wearing. It was brutal, Sabrina.”
She set her cup on its saucer. An uneasy feeling blew through her. “You sure it was mine? I’ve not fitted any ladies of the night since…forever. Anything I made for them would have been sewn years ago. Three years at least.”
“Well, it had your House of Bliss monogram in blue on the lower side panel.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s mine, but how the devil did she get it, I wonder? I have given a couple to Miss Thornbrook, but I embroidered the monogram with pink thread.
“Hmm, I wonder if Miss Thornbrook knew Miss Bishop?” he asked.
Sabrina doubted it and told him so. Lena Thornbrook no longer worked as a prostitute and certainly didn’t mix socially with the other working women. Rarely, anyway. She had two older women friends with a steady and private clientele. They didn’t accept new clients. All, however, had once been on the tolerated house circuit.
Jeremy stood up. “Well, I wanted to tell you about the corset, in case the coppers come around asking questions. And I wanted to let you know it wasn’t anyone you knew.”
She walked him to the front door. “Thank you,” she whispered and hugged him.
He looked at her closely. “Did you need something?” he asked as she opened the door.
“Oh…nothing, right now. A houseguest of mine has a baby I wanted you to examine. They were both out in the elements too long, yesterday, so I’d like to make sure everything is as it should be.”
“A houseguest? First, that doesn’t sound like you, and second, even if it did, the guest would not have a baby.”
“Can you come back this afternoon?” she said with a grin. “Well, foundlings, then, both the mother and child. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow evening. Come late and have dinner with us.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Bring a friend, if you’d like.”
“I’d like to,” he said, “but I don’t have one anymore.” He stepped out onto the porch looking lost.
“Oh, Jeremy. Sorry, sweet friend. I hadn’t met him, of course, but he sounded perfect for you.”
“He was,” Jeremy said, looking at the ground. “Until he stole my pocket watch and most of the laudanum I had locked away.”
“Oh, no. You deserve better, Jeremy. And you will have better.”
He hopped off the last couple of steps and turned. “But he didn’t steal all of my drugs,” he said. “I’ll bring your weekly allotment tomorrow evening.”
They looked at one another the way close friends do, neither of them having to explain anything to the other. She closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed.
Her weekly allotment. It wasn’t much, but Jeremy allowed as how it would help her with the opium addiction. “We’ll wean you off the bad stuff,” he had said, “with the less bad stuff. And eventually you’ll need nothing at all.”
That was two years ago. Lena had saved her life and loved her back to some semblance of who she used to be, and Jeremy had her on a maintenance program. There were days she didn’t use laudanum. Weeks even.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the drifting, popping starbursts of intense light that signaled a migraine headache coming on—and Miss West exiting the hall c
loset.
“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping on the first step of the stairs and pausing there as if afraid to move in either direction. “I had come down to ask you a question, and I overheard a man talking about a prostitute’s murder. It scared me so I hid in the hall closet.”
Sabrina blinked a few times and decided then and there to go find her laudanum. “That was Dr. Wintermere,” she said, “a friend of mine who will come by later this afternoon to give you and the baby a little checkup.”
“We’re neither of us ill,” she said.
“Well, he will make sure of that. I can’t have my guests coming down with the croup after standing in the snow for who knows how many hours.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered. Sabrina felt she wanted to say more, but she turned to walk up the stairs. Sabrina started to follow her upstairs to her own bedroom but seeing Felicity West’s hips sway made Sabrina dizzy, or confused, so she decided against it. No reason to agitate her already throbbing head.
Sabrina busied herself at her father’s old barrister’s desk in the library. She was restless, moving papers, rearranging a couple books, straightening her inkwell to line up perfectly with her desk blotter. It was her desk now, but she hadn’t changed much atop it. Finally, she made the inevitable reach into the lower library table drawer and retrieved her medically prescribed poison. She took a few swigs of the laudanum, then moved to her reading chair and closed her eyes.
The headache began to lift after an hour. She thought of the woman who died wearing one of her corsets. Had to have been given away by one of her society ladies. She recoiled in bewilderment at how a corset made for a wealthy woman of social standing ended up on the poor woman with no standing at all. Her eyes flew open. She needed to see that corset.
She wondered if the newspapers would know or reveal the House of Bliss brand. She would ask Jeremy tomorrow how she might see the garment.
Another quarter hour, maybe less, and this headache would leave. Maybe she dozed. Maybe she dreamed. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she’d go visit Lena for a while this afternoon, if the headache continued to subside. If it lifted a bit more…yes, she’d go see Lena.
Chapter 3
January 1906
Although Sabrina returned home early the following morning from her night of joy at Lena’s, there were no fittings scheduled for the day. On rare occasion, before the social season got into full swing, House of Bliss might do the odd Saturday fitting for a rush order. But life was several months away from the High Season, having finished the Holiday Season of society’s engagements.
She left her clothing in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the hot, steamy porcelain tub filled with the scent of gardenia bath salts. As she soaked, thoughts of Lena filled her languid reverie. Lena was good for her. A stabilizing influence.
Twice a month, she officially spent the night with Lena, but, lately, she’d added several more nights. Last night was one of them. Lena…motivations pure, passions exuberant, devotion undeniable. And yet…Sabrina kept Lena hidden, the relationship a secret to all except Jeremy. She wondered why but was too diminished physically to pursue the thought to conclusion.
She had mentioned to Cath that she might be out overnight, knowing the good woman would see to dinner for their houseguests. If Cath and Walters were curious, they kept their questions to themselves. She told them that if she ever went missing to advise Jeremy.
Only Jeremy knew where Lena lived—a bright and pleasant townhouse, small but with a terrace and full garden out the back door. On a street with similar residences, pricey but not damnably so, safe but within walking distance of shopping, the house was perfect. Perfect for her secret life. Sabrina bought it, added Lena’s name to the title and while Lena lived there all the time, Sabrina stayed often. She told herself she must keep her predilections and tendencies to herself because of her business—it would not do to have it known or confirmed that your corsetiere is a devotee of Sapphism.
Still, she dressed most often in men’s clothing, as a woman though, not as a man, and her clientele seemed to find it perfectly normal. She imagined they thought of her in some vague Bohemian category as they made over her like a beloved and favored relative. Sabrina was neither “in” society nor out of it entirely. Because of her father’s wealth and upper crust connections, or because her mother was exceptionally beautiful and rumored to be the daughter of once landed gentry to whom the fates had been unkind, she had benefited from her social position. Sabrina was well educated, well spoken and damn near invisible. This seemed to suit everyone, including her.
Perhaps it was as Jeremy had suggested: Few were fooled, a couple intrigued and most too self-possessed to care so long as their corset was from the tony House of Bliss. She was a member in good standing of the merchant class, so despite her elbow-rubbing proximity to the elevated classes, to which she might authentically claim membership if she wished, she was instead that Society-adjacent entity that caused no harm and discreetly provided a much needed service and product. Invited to the finest social events, she rarely accepted and never intruded. Nor did she cause discomfort when a client was reduced to near nakedness in her presence as she tweaked the garment that would enable the woman to ennoble her worth by her diminishing her girth.
She stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a thick Turkish cotton towel. The smell of Cath’s fresh coffee brewing wafted upstairs as clicking sounds of the cast iron radiators heating up played a dissonant percussion piece. Another forward thinking move on her father’s part was to have the house updated with central heating fifteen years earlier.
She skipped breakfast. She would come in for an early lunch, so went directly to the kitchen to get her coffee. She made her way through the back of the main house, out the French doors and onto the stone path that led to her sunny office at the back of the studio. The snow had melted, but it was still cold in the breezeway between the two buildings. She pulled her neck scarf tighter.
There were two entrances to the studio, and the society clients used the first one. Everyone else used the second entrance, further round to the rear of the studio. The studio house, a large former servants’ quarters, sat behind the main house and a covered walkway separated the two buildings.
Once inside, Sabrina put two logs and some kindling in the fireplace to warm up the cottage. She retreated to her glassed-in room elevated on a one-foot-high dais. She could look out onto the floor of the compact but efficient sewing room or draw a curtain and have privacy in her office. She left the curtain open. The changing area room off to the side of her office was a smallish affair most like a walk-in closet. Her clients, wearing a loose-fitting light robe, would be measured, draped, fitted and spared no courtesy as the pattern maker, Josie, with her help, cinched, pinched and measured every curve from her clients’ lovely necks to their blushing thighs. Inevitably, the robe would either come off or be opened and held up in such a way as to mock modesty but ensure perfect measurements.
Corsetry is an exacting science and an art, and nothing would dowse a vibrant business faster than some ever-expanding society hostess taking one’s product down a peg in semi-polite conversation with other women. Conversely, whispered recommendations that touted the comfort of the corsets and the discretion of the establishment making them could send one’s stock soaring.
Nevertheless, it was a lie all around because there was no such thing as a “comfortable” corset. There were only harrowingly painful garments and less painful ones. Her clients swore that wasn’t true—hotly proclaimed that their restrictive body slimmers were nearly like a second skin, were wearable for a complete day and evening of social events and held up to repeated washings for years.
Again, two lies: these ladies had no idea how often their corsets were washed, nor did they know how long the garments lasted as each new year brought the women to House of Bliss studios for “the latest” style even when the garments at home were perfectly useable. Many a lady’s maid or housekeeper or
second-hand charity shop was the happy recipient of cast-off House of Bliss corsets.
Although Sabrina found it prudent to refrain from disabusing her clientele of its clear delusions, she was proud of her products. Her workers, her ladies of the thread, her brilliant connoisseurs of the fabric, her perfect stylists of the wrapped female body were well compensated for their skills, their sense of taste and style and, of course, their unquestionable discretion. It was a small firm, five women plus Sabrina, and although each woman had her specialty, all but one worker was capable of several jobs.
Lizzie, Colette, Bridie and Phoebe were her primary seamstresses. Josie could sew and often agreed to add the embroidered “B” to the garment, but her contribution to the sewing arts was minimal. Sabrina sighed. Still, Josie’s skills were vital because nothing happened unless Josie made the perfect pattern and precisely cut the cloth. She was the Cutter. Sabrina could do it, but her talents shone in design and client satisfaction, reflecting her preferences.
Everyone, including Sabrina, thought Josie was an odd duck—a stern demeanor mismatched with a soft voice. One never knew if she approved or disapproved of anything.
Her apprenticeship had been served at one of the tailors who followed The West End system of measuring and cutting, and thus her secret weapons were mathematics, an unerring hand and an uncanny aptitude for anatomy that seemed to inform her precision. Thus, Sabrina allowed her a great deal of leeway in the assignments she accepted. Josie was her one diva, which is to say, she knew her worth.
House of Bliss workers were happy and so were its clients.
As for the other intimate garments, House of Bliss had been forced, basically, to add various items relating to a lady’s undergarments and lingerie to its catalog beyond the de rigueur corset. One would be surprised how many variables of personal comfort must be considered when making women’s knickers, for example, or camisoles and bloomers for young girls.