The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  Father came to stand before me. ‘My dearest girl, won’t you come home? Even if it’s only for a few days. I’ve just found you. Please don’t deprive me of that pleasure.’

  His expression was so imploring I couldn’t have denied him, even if I’d wanted to. ‘I’d be very happy to stay with you until I return to Italy,’ I said, ‘but first I must thank Lady Hamilton for her hospitality.’

  ‘We shall go together,’ said Father, picking up my hat from the carpet.

  Over his shoulder I saw Aunt Maude watching us. Just for a moment I thought I glimpsed an expression of distress, or was it annoyance, on her face?

  ‘Aunt Maude,’ said my father, ‘will you instruct the housekeeper to make up the best guest room?’

  She bowed her head.

  As I left on my father’s arm, I glanced back at her. There was no doubt in my mind then that she was looking at me with animosity.

  Later, when my father and I returned to Grosvenor Street, the servants were lined up in the hall, waiting for us. The butler, the housekeeper, the cook, two footmen, two housemaids and a scullery maid all bowed or curtseyed as I walked past them. Hot with embarrassment under their curious glances, I was relieved when the housekeeper stepped forward.

  ‘Welcome home, Miss Langdon,’ she said.

  I glanced behind me and then realised she was talking to me.

  ‘Shall I take Miss Langdon upstairs to the guest room, sir?’ Her voice was quietly modulated and her narrow figure as rigidly upright as if she had a steel rod sewn into her stays.

  ‘By all means, Mrs Hope.’ Father smiled at me. ‘Come down to the drawing room when you’re ready, my dear.’

  A footman, carrying my travelling bags, followed us upstairs but I couldn’t help pausing to look at the paintings that lined the staircase wall.

  On the first floor the housekeeper opened one of the panelled mahogany doors. ‘The drawing room, Miss Langdon.’

  I glimpsed an ornate gilt mirror over a chimneypiece of white marble before she closed the door again. We ascended to the next floor and Mrs Hope led me into the guest room.

  It was luxuriously appointed with blue velvet curtains and a silk bedspread heaped with cushions. My feet sank noiselessly into the carpet.

  The footman placed my bags on the chest at the end of the bed and silently withdrew.

  ‘If you wish to refresh yourself there’s hot water in the ewer,’ said Mrs Hope. ‘I apologise that we do not have a lady’s maid to attend you but I shall send up one of the housemaids to unpack for you.’

  ‘Please don’t trouble,’ I said. ‘I have so little luggage I shall put it away in a trice.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said the housekeeper, bristling. ‘We shall make the proper arrangements by tomorrow but we weren’t aware of your impending arrival. Is there anything else you require?’

  I ran my fingers over the soft towel on the washstand and bent to sniff the hothouse flowers perfuming the air by the dressing table. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I have everything I need.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Langdon.’ Mrs Hope inclined her stately head and silently left the room.

  Once the door had closed I toed off my shoes and bounced on the bed. I doubted I’d ever slept on a mattress so soft or in a room so lavishly appointed. Lying on my back and looking at the ceiling, I let out my breath in a sigh of contentment. This would do me very well for the few days before I returned to Italy. Best of all, my father really wanted me to stay. Lady Hamilton, however, had appeared relieved I’d no longer be a burden to her and agreed to send me a note when she was ready to travel. Meanwhile, I had to discover what kind of reception might face the Princess when she arrived on these shores.

  There was a soft knock on the door and a housemaid entered. Small and slight, she stopped dead when she saw me on the bed. ‘Sorry, miss! Shall I come back later?’

  ‘No, come in, though really there’s no need for you to unpack for me.’

  Her grey eyes widened and she appeared genuinely shocked. ‘You can’t do it yourself, miss!’

  I opened my mouth to say I’d unpacked my travelling bags more times than she’d had a hot dinner but thought better of it. She’d probably tell Mrs Hope, who would then inform my father that I didn’t show proper consideration for my position. ‘What is your name?’ I asked instead.

  ‘Daisy, miss.’

  ‘Then please unpack my bags for me, Daisy.’

  She hurried to oblige before I changed my mind.

  After she’d placed the last of my shifts in the drawer and arranged my hairbrush on the dressing table, she said, ‘Will that be all, Miss Langdon?’

  ‘I wonder, where is the nursery?’ I asked. ‘I should like to see the room where I slept as a child.’

  Daisy gave me a curious look. ‘If you’ll follow me, miss?’

  I hurried behind her up to the third floor. The stair carpet was of coarse drugget, worn in places, and the walls were painted rather than papered.

  Daisy opened a door. ‘This was the nursery, miss. It’s not been used since…’ She looked away.

  ‘Since I left,’ I finished. ‘Thank you, Daisy. You may go now.’

  She hurried away down the stairs.

  The nursery was in semi-darkness. I pulled up the blind, exposing safety bars fixed to the windowframe. The walls were painted a faded primrose colour and there was a multicoloured rag rug on the floorboards. I sat in one of the armchairs placed to either side of the mantelpiece. Something hard pressed into my thigh and I put down my hand and retrieved a silver rattle. I shook it gently and wondered if it had belonged to my little brother. It saddened me to have no memory of him. If he’d lived he would have been seventeen or eighteen now.

  A brass fireguard was fitted securely over the grate and it was then that I had a fleeting recollection of a stout woman leaning over the flames and remembered the smoky aroma of toasting bread. In my mind I heard the faint echo of a child’s voice, my voice, saying, ‘Corky, it’s burning!’ I sat very still, listening, but the memory had gone.

  I stood up to spin a globe standing on a nearby cupboard. Opening the cupboard doors, I saw jigsaw puzzles, chalks and a slate, gaily painted wooden bricks and a spinning top. I didn’t remember any of them.

  There was another door and I pushed it open to find the night nursery. I pulled up the blind and hesitated before opening a chest of drawers and peeping inside. It was filled with neatly folded small items of clothing, from flannel petticoats and a tissue-wrapped christening gown to frilled and tucked cotton dresses. I imagined for a moment how Victorine would squeal with delight at the sight of such treasures. Perhaps my father would allow me to take them back to Italy for her.

  My eye was caught by a beautiful doll with a delicately painted wooden face, lying on the white counterpane on the bed. I examined the doll’s tiny kid slippers and her old-fashioned dress with panniered skirts. Her blonde hair smelled dusty and was slightly rough under my fingers. Something tugged at my memory. Crying. An all-consuming misery and a tearing sense of loss as I sat in a coach jolting through the dark. Suddenly I was four years old again and sobbing, desolate at having left my beloved Annabelle behind. Now, after all this time, I had found her again and she was a precious link to the life I’d once had.

  I kissed the doll’s painted face and, still clutching her in my hand, investigated the rest of the night nursery. A curtained alcove contained another bed, a row of wall hooks and a chest of drawers. I wondered if that was where the nanny had slept. There was no sign of a cradle. I pulled down the blinds before returning to the guest room. Carefully, I laid Annabelle on the pillow. Perhaps, one day, Alessandro and I would have a little girl who would love Annabelle as much as I had.

  On my way downstairs I stopped on the staircase to take a closer look at the paintings I’d noticed earlier. There were several pastoral landscapes and a number of portraits, some very old, judging by the ruffs, doublets and hose the subjects were wearing.

  Fathe
r stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘There you are!’

  ‘I was admiring the paintings,’ I said.

  ‘You like art?’

  ‘I’m not very good at drawing,’ I said, ‘but I like to look at good paintings.’

  Father beamed. ‘There! Blood will out. As a young man I had pretensions of becoming a famous artist but, try as I might, the beautiful pictures I saw in my head never materialised on the canvas when I applied my brush to it.’

  I laughed. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

  Father looked up at me, shaking his head sorrowfully but with a smile in his eyes.

  ‘Many of the churches in Italy have wonderful frescoes,’ I said. ‘It’s easy to lose yourself for an afternoon looking at them. One very hot day, when I was no more than ten or twelve, we reached the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua. We went inside to escape the heat and I was entranced by Giotto’s fresco cycle of the Life of the Virgin Mary.’ I paused. ‘That day was the first time I truly believed that God existed.’

  ‘Because no earthly hand could paint anything so glorious without God’s guidance?’

  ‘That’s it exactly.’ I smiled, a warm feeling growing inside me because we’d found common ground. ‘Ever since, whenever I had the opportunity, I’d find out if there were any treasures in the town we were visiting and make a point of going to see them.’

  ‘I’ll show you my art collection later but we can’t stand on the stairs all day talking about Art and God,’ said Father. ‘Come into the drawing room.’

  I’d failed to appreciate the full magnificence of the room I’d glimpsed earlier. Three tall windows flooded it with light, even on such a grey and miserable day. The high ceiling was richly decorated with intricate plasterwork, and softly coloured carpets floated like jewelled islands on a sea of golden parquet flooring.

  Aunt Maude sat straight-backed in an armchair. She glanced up at me from her embroidery but didn’t return my tentative smile.

  Cream damask drapes with muslin under-curtains framed the windows, concealing us from the inquisitive stares of pedestrians in the street below. It was all so sumptuous that I felt completely out of place.

  I sat down carefully against the plump cushions on the sofa and Father offered both Aunt Maude and myself a glass of ratafia from a silver tray.

  I took a sip and then said, ‘Father, who is Corky?’

  He started and spilled a few drops of ratafia. Wiping them off the side of his glass with the tip of his finger, he said, ‘I thought you remembered nothing from your time here?’

  ‘I don’t. Not really. I glanced into the nursery a moment ago and recalled an old lady called Corky burning toast on the fire.’ Aunt Maude, I noticed, had put down her embroidery and was watching me with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Miss McCorquordale was your nanny,’ said Father, his lips tightening. ‘She was an utter disgrace to her profession!’

  ‘How so?’’

  ‘On the morning you were discovered to be missing, she was fast asleep in a cloud of gin fumes.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Turned off without a reference, of course.’

  ‘Did she usually drink?’ I asked. ‘Or was she given the gin so that she wouldn’t notice when I was taken?’

  ‘Whichever it was,’ said Father dismissively, ‘she failed in her duties with the most terrible result.’

  I sipped my ratafia reflectively. Either my mother or Sarah must have led the poor woman down the path to oblivion.

  ‘Tell me, Emilia,’ said Father, ‘did you receive any kind of education at all whilst on your travels?’

  I bristled at the implication. ‘Sarah taught me to read and write…’

  ‘I suppose we must be grateful to her for that, at least,’ he said.

  ‘I went to school sometimes,’ I said, ‘but we always moved on just as I began to make friends. We were never in one place for more than a few months. I loved to read and often, when we had work where we lived temporarily on the premises, I’d be allowed to borrow books from the owner’s library.’

  ‘What did you read?’

  ‘Poetry, art and philosophy. Botany. Anything I could find on art, architecture and antiquities. I even picked up a little Latin.’ I was pleased to note that Father’s eyebrows had risen. It appeared that travelling about the continent with a mere maid had allowed me to acquire a surprisingly respectable education.

  He nodded. ‘What about mathematics?’

  ‘Well, there was the practical side of dressmaking. I learned to estimate quantities of dress material required and do the bookkeeping and place orders. And I can sew, of course, and speak French and Italian fluently.’ I didn’t mention that I could swear as well as any stable lad in both languages, too. ‘I was the one who arranged our lodgings and booked our coach tickets since Sarah found anything other than her native tongue very difficult.’

  ‘Astonishing,’ said Father. ‘Most girls cannot claim to have learned as much at their schools. Can you dance?’

  I shrugged. ‘There were village fiestas sometimes.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘There will be deficiencies in your education but nothing, I believe, that we can’t remedy. What do you think, Aunt Maude?’

  The old lady put down her embroidery. ‘It sounds to me as if Harriet, I beg your pardon, Emilia, has as much education as she needs for her position in Princess Caroline’s household.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s something to discuss in the future,’ said Father. He stood up and offered me his arm. ‘Shall we look at my paintings, my dear?’

  ‘I should be delighted.’

  ‘Of course, only a part of my collection is here,’ he said, as we went into the hall. ‘I shall take you to Langdon Hall to see the rest. Now that is something I look forward to.’

  What a pity, I thought, that there wouldn’t be time to visit the family seat in Hampshire before I returned to Lyons and thence to Italy.

  Chapter 14

  The candles guttered in the draught as the footmen, James and Edward, brought more dishes to the dining table. Soames the butler watched as the domed covers were lifted with a flourish to reveal a dozen spatchcocked game birds, a great rib of beef and a haunch of venison. My mouth watered at the delicious aroma of roasted meat. After a fortnight in my father’s house in Grosvenor Street I was already becoming accustomed to the rich food, which was far more plentiful and of higher quality than in the Princess’s household in Pesaro.

  ‘Tell me more about your travels, Emilia,’ said my father. ‘Where did you go after Florence?’ he asked, proffering me a slice of beef.

  Every day he asked me to tell him all the places Sarah and I had visited, encouraging me to reminisce about even the smallest villages and towns.

  ‘Once we stayed in a hill-top monastery near Castellina in Tuscany,’ I said. ‘We mended the altar cloths and turned all the monks’ sheets sides-to-middle.’

  ‘A monastery near Castellina?’ said Father, putting down his knife and fork. ‘And what did you see there?’

  I smiled. ‘It was more a case of what we didn’t see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was a painting of the Last Supper on a wall in the refectory,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t very good and I asked if one of the monks had painted it. Brother Anselm told us the original had been stolen some years before and the thief had left the poor copy hanging on the wall instead.’

  ‘An audacious thief, indeed,’ said Father with a snort of laughter.

  ‘After that we stopped in Siena for a few weeks,’ I said as the footman refilled my glass with claret. ‘Long enough to find and complete two commissions.’

  ‘Did you see any antiquities or frescoes there?’ asked Father. ‘And did you by any chance visit an art dealer who has premises just off the square? He writes to me sometimes if he buys a particular treasure he thinks might interest me.’

  ‘You seem to have art dealer acquaintances all over Italy,’ I said.

  ‘I buy and
sell art and antiquities to my friends and acquaintances. It’s my passion,’ he said. ‘And why not, when I’ve had no wife or child to spend my fortune on?’ He smiled at me. ‘Until now, that is. That reminds me… I saw a pretty shawl in the window of a shop in Cheapside. We’ll go and look at it tomorrow and, if you like it, you shall have it.’

  ‘Father, you spoil me! It was a fan last time, even though I don’t have any occasion to use it.’

  ‘Just a few trifles, my dear. And, pretty though it is, you cannot go on wearing that same dress every day. I shall take you shopping.’

  Sometimes I awoke in the night, wondering if the last two weeks had all been a dream, but then I touched the finely woven sheets and the silk bed curtains and remembered that I was in my father’s house. Such luxury was unimaginable after the penny-pinching life I’d lived with Sarah. I hadn’t imagined I’d be so readily welcomed into Father’s life. I could only wish that Aunt Maude would accept me more readily.