The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Edie . . . I will tell all, but to jump to the end, I only remembered who I was last night when your friend, Ben Levi, paid me a visit.’

  ‘Ben? You saw Ben?’

  He nodded and gestured towards his blackening eye. ‘Amongst other things he felt he owed me,’ he began dryly. ‘He filled in the gaps that had been missing since I was knocked over in Savile Row. You see, my darling, when that part of my memory returned it replaced what I had before, which was my life with you.’

  She gulped back another sob.

  ‘Hear it all and then judge, but first —’ He stopped suddenly, his attention fully distracted as Tommy approached with two acorns proudly held out. He stared in shock, first at the small boy who plonked his prize into his lap, and then to Edie. ‘Our son?’ His voice shook.

  She gave a watery-eyed nod. ‘Say hello, Tommy,’ she choked out, unable to help herself crying now. ‘Here’s Daddy.’

  ‘Da,’ Tommy said with a gummy smile.

  Edie saw Alex Wynter gaze with teary wonder at the little boy who yawned and reached out his arms to his mother.

  She lifted him up, glancing at her husband shyly, feeling her emotions colliding – from joy to disbelief and a sense of grateful unravelling . . . of letting go. He was here. She didn’t have to be so strong any more. She wouldn’t cry herself to sleep again or, as she woke to another empty day without him, rely on Tommy to always refill her well. And Edie wept to see the man she loved – who’d survived so much atrocity and despair – undone at the sight of his son.

  She watched him dragging the back of his shaking hand across his damp eyes. ‘Forgive me. I am grieving for Pen but Edie, this is also the happiest moment of my life. May I?’ Edie nodded and the man she loved opened his arms to Tommy. She watched with a sense of overwhelming love as their son allowed himself to be held for the first time by his father.

  ‘How about a hello, Tommy?’ she half laughed, half wept. ‘You know the way you kiss Mummy when I come home?’ And in true Tommy style he planted a wet kiss on his father’s nose and beamed him a smile bright enough to chase away all the gloom of winter.

  ‘Tommy,’ Alex whispered and hugged his boy close. ‘This is what my dreams were telling me, Edie,’ he said, his voice muffled as he held his child. ‘To search for you both.’ He drew Edie into his embrace and that’s how they remained until their child wriggled to be free.

  Edie laughed. ‘He wants to get to the pond. We can talk there.’

  They walked in a strangely comfortable silence following Tommy’s half run, half walk to his favourite place.

  And as Tommy babbled at the fish, Edie sat and listened to Alex Wynter, not noticing the cold or even whether anyone passed them by. In that hour she relived both their lives since 1920 and wept at the most painful part of hearing how Penelope Aubrey-Finch finally won the man she had loved since they were children. Edie had taken his hand as his voice had become small as he told her of the previous night.

  ‘So she knew about me?’

  He nodded, hanging his head in regret. ‘I think somewhere deep in her soul Pen had always known there was someone else.’

  Edie recalled how she’d noted Pen’s curious wistfulness when she’d spoken about her fiancé only days earlier. ‘She loved you so much,’ was all she was able to say.

  He let out a long, slow sigh. ‘She did. I let her down. The truth is I felt like a ghost. I was moving through this life as Alex Wynter; I was there in body, but rarely in spirit. Do you know, Edie, the only time I felt really alive and connected was when I was trying to hunt down the owner of this?’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a red handkerchief.

  Edie gasped softly.

  ‘I’ve carried it with me always – I look at it every day, hoping for inspiration. I knew someone was out there. I’ve been searching for you blindly; I could feel you.’ He edged closer on their seat. ‘Edie, I can say that I have never loved another woman as I love you.’ He hung his head again. ‘I am ashamed for what’s occurred. I will grieve for Pen but I would have made her miserable, Edie, because I loved you even when my memory stole you away. I loved you in my dreams – I could hear the click of your heels and smell your perfume and almost, but not quite, touch your skin, your hair. Your hair! I like it, by the way,’ he said, smiling helplessly, and she laughed softly through her tears, remembering that bright smile; realising she too must look different to him.

  ‘Be my wife again, Eden Valentine . . . you can even call me Tom, if that’s easier. I’ve always liked it – it’s my father’s name.’

  Edie gave a watery laugh, sniffing. ‘No, there’s Tommy now. Alex,’ she said, testing it. ‘I’m glad you found your name.’

  ‘If you reject me now, I have to accept it, but I want you to understand that I will never marry again, for there will never be anyone else for me.’ He stroked Tommy’s dark head.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Do you?’ he asked, his voice sounding desperate.

  She nodded.

  ‘Tell me – tell me how you truly understand that I have no future without you.’

  Edie slipped off her glove and offered him her open palm, where a small scrap of red cotton unfurled. ‘Because I believed if I always held your heart close, you would find me again,’ she whispered and leaned in to kiss her husband long and deeply until their son’s fingers, wet from reaching through iron railings to splash in the pond, grabbed theirs.

  And as they set off to face the world beyond this momentary sanctuary, Eden Valentine felt the love she craved wrap itself around her heart again to send her spirits soaring alongside their son’s giggling squeal of pleasure as his father swung him high onto his broad shoulders and pulled her close.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Where do ideas for stories come from? Writers are asked this constantly and more often than not it’s hard for us to explain the inspiration that can originate from a series of ideas or coincidences. But for this novel I know precisely what triggered the tale. Our son, Jack, since taking on his casual sales role in the suiting department of a major store, has become passionate about bespoke tailoring. I think if he wasn’t four years into his five-and-a-half year Law and Business degree, he might just disappear to Europe to learn more about this side of the fashion industry. While I was researching in the UK for The Lavender Keeper, Jack sent me on a garment-seeking mission to a particular gentleman’s fitters in London and I found myself on Savile Row.

  I must admit to becoming captivated by Gieves & Hawke at No.1 and my fascination intensified as I began to stroll the Row marvelling at the windows full of livery and hunting pinks, glorious tweeds and sumptuous tuxedos, plaques attesting to royal patronage, not to mention the general hush and whisper of the gentleman’s domain that I’d dared to enter. It wasn’t a leap for me to move from intrigued tourist to inspired storyteller.

  I read a tower of books on life on the Western Front during the Great War to life in the early 1920s in Britain and yet it’s the help from eager, generous others that always seems to unlock the greatest chest of information. Joanna Legg, thank you for all that vital information on the Great War. Thanks to Derek Killen in the US for his amazingly well-timed information on the financial pressures of that era, Tony Berry for walking me around London and sharing vignettes of life as a tailoress’s son in the 1950s.

  Special thanks to Ali Watts, my great champion and brilliant publisher of women’s fiction at Penguin Books, who on reading the first draft gleefully rang to assure me I’d delivered ‘exactly’ what she’d hoped I might but then set me to work rewriting. Saskia Adams, thanks again for taking time from your snorkelling holiday to entertain me with your daily anxiety and despair for my characters as you read and copy edited in between dives. Heartfelt thanks to all the Penguins – my cheering squad, who work so hard behind the scenes – especially that fabulous and often unheralded sales and marketing team.

  Thank you to Ian, for sourcing the mountain of research material required, and to my enthusi
astic draft readers – Pip K, Judy B and Nigelle-Ann B. I never imagined writing such an outrageously romantic story but what an immensely satisfying journey this novel has been. I do believe it’s my favourite. Thanks to all the booksellers for their ongoing support and to my wonderful, loyal readers.

  Enjoy this one.

  Fx

  NOTES FOR BOOK GROUPS

  Do you understand Eden’s reasons for helping Jones escape from the hospital? Do you think she did the right thing?

  Is Eden Valentine the only female character in the novel to show an incredibly strong will?

  Discuss the emancipation of women during this period.

  In what ways did family duty play a part in the lives of these characters?

  Which hero did you prefer – Jones or Alex Wynter?

  Whose world do you think would offer Eden Valentine greater happiness?

  Discuss Benjamin and his role as the bad guy in this novel. Do you think he was harshly done by?

  Did you come to hate Penelope Aubrey-Finch, or love her?

  In a previous draft of this novel, the author killed off young Tommy in childbirth. Do you think it would have made for a stronger or weaker story without him?

  How important to your reading enjoyment was the time period for the setting of this novel?

  What role did fashion play in this book? Discuss the changes in clothes and décor as the Edwardian era gave way to the interwar period and the roaring twenties.

  Consider what life might have been like for soldiers returning from the Front – having lost relatives, mates, limbs, perhaps even their minds like our lead character – only to encounter Spanish flu, women who refused to return to being seen but not heard and the looming Depression.

  Do you like happy endings or can you stomach a bittersweet conclusion? Fiona writes to no structured plan and as she approached the end of the novel she realised that it was highly likely that Eden Valentine would never meet Alex Wynter. She thought that they would miss seeing each other by a heartbeat and go their separate ways, never knowing how close they had come to being reunited. How would this ending have affected your reading experience?

  Do think this story would make a good movie and if so, who should play Eden, Alex, Madeleine, Benjamin and Penelope?

  1

  12 July 1942

  Luc loved this light on the lavender in summer, just before sunset. The field’s hedgerow deepened to glowing emerald and finally to dark sentinels, while the pebbly rows between the mounds of purple blooms became smudges of shadow. The lavender spikes, so straight and tall, never failed to mesmerise him. His gaze was drawn to the bright head of a wild scarlet poppy. No wonder artists flocked to the region in summer, he thought … or used to, before the world went mad and exploded with bombs and gunfire.

  The young woman next to him did up the top button of her frayed summery blouse. Stray wisps of her long red hair fell across her face to hide grey-green eyes and her irritation. ‘You’re very quiet,’ Catherine said.

  Luc blinked out of his reverie, guilty that he’d briefly forgotten she was there. ‘I’m just admiring the scenery,’ he said softly.

  She cut him a rueful glance as she straightened her clothes. ‘I wish you did mean me and not your lavender fields.’

  He grinned and it seemed to infuriate her. It was obvious Catherine was keen for marriage and children – all the village girls were. Catherine was pretty and much too accommodating, Luc thought, with a stab of contrition. There had been other women in his life, not all so generous, but Catherine obliged because she wanted more. She deserved it – or certainly deserved better. She knew he saw others but she seemed to have a marvellous ability to contain her jealousy, unlike any other woman he’d known.

  He brushed some of the tiny purple flowers from her hair and leant sideways to kiss her neck. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘You smell of my lavender.’

  ‘I’m surprised I haven’t been stung by the bees as well. Perhaps we should consider how nice a bed might be?’

  He sensed she was leading up to the question he dreaded. It was time to go. He stood in a fluid motion and offered her a hand. ‘I told you, the bees aren’t interested in you. Ask Laurent. The bees are greedy for the pollen only.’ He waved an arm in a wide arc. ‘It’s their annual feast and they have a queen to service, young to raise, honey to make.’

  She didn’t look, busy buckling the belt that cinched her small waist. ‘Anyway, Luc, it’s not your lavender. It’s your father’s,’ she said. She sounded miffed.

  Luc sighed inwardly, wondering whether it was time to tell her the truth. It would be public knowledge soon enough anyway. ‘Actually, Catherine, my father has given me all the fields.’

  ‘What?’ Her head snapped up, as the expression on her heart-shaped face creased into a frown.

  Luc shrugged. He wasn’t even sure his sisters knew yet – not that they’d mind – but his annoyance had flared at Catherine’s hostile tone. ‘On his last trip south he gave them all to me.’ He knew he shouldn’t enjoy watching her angry eyes dull now with confusion.

  ‘All of them?’ she repeated in disbelief.

  He opted for a helpless grin. ‘His decision, not mine.’

  ‘But that makes you a main landowner for the whole Luberon region. Probably even the largest grower.’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘I suppose it does,’ he replied casually. ‘He wants me to take full responsibility for cultivating the lavender. It has to be protected, especially now.’ He began to amble away, encouraging her to start the walk home. ‘My father spends more time in Paris with his other businesses than he does down here … and besides, I was raised in Saignon. He wasn’t. This place is in my blood. And the lavender has always been my passion. It’s not for him.’

  She regarded him hungrily. Now she had even more reason to secure him. But the more she demanded it, the more he resisted. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Catherine; she was often funny, always sensuous and graceful. But there were aspects of her character he didn’t admire, and he disliked her cynicism and lack of empathy. As a teenager he could remember her laughing at one of the village boys who had a stutter, and he knew it was her who’d started a rumour about poor Hélène from the next hamlet. He’d watched, too, her dislocation from the plight of the French under the German regime. For the time being her life was unaffected, and it bothered Luc that her view was blinkered. She never spoke about dreams, only about practicalities – marriage, security, money. Catherine was entirely self-centred.

  ‘I can’t think about anything but making these fields as productive as I can. These aren’t times to be planning too far ahead,’ he continued, trying to be diplomatic. ‘Don’t scowl.’ He turned to touch her cheek affectionately.

  She batted his hand away coldly. ‘Luc, Saignon may be in your soul but it doesn’t run in your blood.’

  When things didn’t go Catherine’s way she usually struck back. Hers was a cruel barb but an old one. Luc had been an orphan and most of the villagers knew he was an interloper. But he might as well have been born to the Bonet family – he had been only a few weeks old when they took him in, gave him their name and made the tall, pink stone house in the village square his home.

  His lighter features set him apart from the rest of his family, and his taller, broader frame singled him out in the Apt region. All he knew was that his ageing language teacher had found him abandoned and had brought him to Saignon, where Golda Bonet, who had recently lost a newborn child of her own, welcomed his tiny body to her bosom, and into her family.

  No one knew where he had come from and he certainly didn’t care. He loved his father, Jacob, his mother, Golda, and his grandmother, Ida, as well as his trio of dark-haired sisters. Sarah, Rachel and Gitel were petite and attractive like their mother, although Rachel was the prettiest. Luc, with his strong jawline, slightly hooded brow, symmetrical square face and searing blue gaze stood like a golden giant among them.

  ‘Why are you so angry, Catherine?’ he as
ked, trying to deflect this attack.

  ‘Luc, you promised we would be engaged by —’

  ‘I made no such promise.’

  He watched her summon every ounce of willpower to control herself; he couldn’t help but admire her.

  ‘But you did say we might be married some day.’

  ‘I responded to your offer of marriage by saying that “one day we might”. That is not an affirmation. You were spoiling for an argument then, as you are now.’

  Her large eyes were sparking with anger, and yet again he watched her wrestle that emotion back under control.

  ‘Let’s not fight, my love,’ she said affectionately, reaching to do up a couple of buttons on his shirt, skimming the skin beneath.

  But he did not love Catherine … nor want a wife in this chaotic world they found themselves in. If not Catherine, then Sophie or Aurelie in nearby villages, or even gentle Marguerite in Apt would grant him a roll in the hay – or the lavender.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ Catherine asked.

  He couldn’t tell her he was amused by her manipulative nature. ‘Your flushed cheeks. You’re always at your prettiest after —’

  She put a hand to his lips. ‘Please, make an honest woman of me.’ She smoothed her skirt. ‘We don’t even need an engagement; let’s just be married and we can make love in a bed as Monsieur and Madame —’

  ‘Catherine, stop. I have no intention of marrying anyone right now. Let’s stop seeing one another if it’s causing you so much grief.’

  Her expression lost its mistiness; her eyes narrowed and her mouth formed a line of silent anger.

  ‘We are at war,’ he reminded her, a plaintive tone in his voice. ‘France is occupied by Germans!’

  She looked around her, feigning astonishment. ‘Where?’

  Luc felt a stab of disappointment at her shallow view. Up this high, they were still relatively untroubled by the German soldiers, but his father’s letters from Paris were becoming increasingly frantic. The people in the north – in the occupied territories – were suffering enormous economic and social pressure, and those in the capital were bearing the brunt of it.