The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  Langdon Hall

  The fountain in the centre of the knot garden splashed gently beside us as Aunt Maude and I drank our tea. Bees hummed on the lavender and the sun was warm on my arms. Langdon was a different world from London.

  ‘Take care not to burn, dear,’ said Aunt Maude. ‘You don’t want freckles for your wedding day, do you?’

  I reached out and trailed my fingers in the cool water of the fountain. I didn’t want to think of my wedding day. Meeting Alessandro again had thrown me into turmoil. I thought endlessly about the dreadful accusation he’d made. Despite our differences I trusted Alessandro, but I was sure he’d come to a mistaken conclusion about Dolly.

  ‘You’ve been lost in thought for quite five minutes,’ said Aunt Maude.

  I withdrew my hand from the water. ‘Am I making a terrible mistake in marrying Dolly?’ I enquired.

  She gave me a sharp glance. ‘Do you think you’re making a mistake?’

  ‘I don’t love him,’ I said, ‘but that’s not unusual amongst my acquaintances. Father tells me how advantageous the marriage will be…’

  ‘But your heart isn’t in it?’

  I shook my head.

  Aunt Maude put down her teacup and squeezed my wrist. ‘You mustn’t marry Dolly if you dislike him.’

  I shrugged. ‘He’s presentable and well-mannered. I agreed to marry him because he said he loved me. But there’s little sign now of the passion he showed for me at Christmas. It seems familiarity breeds complacency.’

  ‘Love may grow once you’re married,’ said Aunt Maude, but her expression was full of doubt.

  ‘I thought, if I married him, soon I’d have children to love.’

  ‘What if there are no children?’ said Aunt Maude.

  I pictured Alessandro’s big, noisy family and there was a hollow feeling in my heart. ‘Then I should be very lonely,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘Do you still yearn for Alessandro?’

  ‘He doesn’t love me anymore,’ I said, ‘and he thinks I lied to him.’

  ‘Emilia…’ Aunt Maude hesitated. ‘An unhappy marriage is worse than no marriage at all, however difficult it is to be a spinster. Your parents’ marriage was a disaster.’

  ‘I know. He told me about Mother’s affair.’

  ‘Affair?’ Her expression was outraged. ‘There was no affair!’

  ‘Perhaps she hid it from you so you didn’t think ill of her?’

  ‘Rose was as honest as the day,’ said Aunt Maude, ‘and utterly transparent.’

  I didn’t want to argue with an old lady but I’d seen Father’s misery when he told me about my treacherous mother. While I didn’t yet love him, his unhappiness had moved me.

  A cloud passed over the sun and I shivered. ‘Shall we walk?’

  We ambled along the gravel paths, stopping to smell the flowers, while all the time I recalled with misery Alessandro’s last words to me.

  ‘I wish you remembered Rose,’ said Aunt Maude. ‘You’d know then how honourable she was.’

  ‘I’m still hurt she abandoned me, a small child, to fend for myself in the world,’ I said. ‘If she’d really loved me she wouldn’t have taken her own life.’ My steps faltered as I remembered Alessandro saying, ‘If you loved me you wouldn’t leave me.’

  ‘I don’t know what happened,’ said Aunt Maude, ‘but I know she loved you above all else.’

  Except for her lover. The pain of losing him had made her turn her back on my needs. ‘All those years I thought Sarah was my mother,’ I said, ‘there was something missing. Perhaps I blotted out memories of Mother because they were too painful. Sarah tended to my physical needs but there was never any real connection between us, except that we were bound by our mutual need for survival.’

  We walked silently through the avenue of clipped yews and rested on a bench beside the moat. The water level was lower than usual and it was green and turgid, giving off a foetid smell in the summer warmth.

  ‘Frederick usually tells the gardener to open the sluices when the water is so low,’ said Aunt Maude. ‘The moat refills from the river.’ She stared at the water, her brow furrowed.

  ‘Rose kept a diary,’ she said. ‘I wonder what became of it?’

  My interest quickened. Mother’s diary might answer my questions, even if it made me unhappy. ‘Might it be in the library, where you found her entertaining notebook?’

  ‘Shall we go and see?’ said Aunt Maude.

  The diary wasn’t in plain view in the library.

  ‘She kept it private,’ said Aunt Maude, ‘and out of your father’s way. She wrote in it when we were sitting together sometimes. She often concealed it in her sewing basket but that is long gone.’

  We searched the library more thoroughly, taking down each book from the lower shelves in turn. Hours later we brushed dust from our hands and conceded defeat for the day.

  The following morning Aunt Maude sat in the wing chair while I used the library steps to investigate the upper shelves. Now that I knew of the diary’s existence it had become a matter of vital importance to me to find it.

  At last I’d searched all the shelves, rummaged through the library tables, the cupboards and the desk. Frustrated, I came to the conclusion that the diary simply wasn’t there.

  ‘Where else might she have hidden it, Aunt Maude?’ I asked.

  ‘Your father has kept Rose’s bedroom locked ever since she drowned.’

  A tiny thrill of anticipation shivered down my back. ‘If the room’s been undisturbed since she died,’ I said, ‘then there’s a chance it’s there.’

  ‘Frederick wouldn’t like you going in there,’ said Aunt Maude. There was a worried crease between her eyebrows. ‘I really don’t want to make him angry.’

  ‘I shan’t disturb anything.’

  ‘I’d rather not know what you intend to do, in case he questions me. I shall take a turn around the garden.’

  I rang for the footman and Aunt Maude left the library by the French windows.

  ‘Robert,’ I said, ‘will you ask Mrs Bannister for the key to the locked bedroom?’

  Five minutes later the housekeeper appeared, her stout figure neat in a black bombazine dress and white collar. ‘Robert tells me you requested the key to Lady Langdon’s bedroom?’

  ‘I did,’ I said.

  ‘Sir Frederick gave express orders for that room to remain locked,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I’m permitted to enter only twice a year to dust.’

  ‘I shall not require you to enter the room,’ I said, ‘only to unlock it.’ I looked down my nose at her in my best imitation of Lady Hamilton’s haughty expression.

  After a moment, Mrs Bannister dropped her gaze. ‘Very well, Miss Langdon, if that is your instruction.’

  My breathing quickened at the thought of what I might discover as we walked upstairs together. Mother’s diary might be the key to unlocking the family mysteries that troubled me.

  In the Long Gallery the housekeeper stopped outside the locked room, selected a key from the chatelaine around her waist and opened the door.

  ‘That will be all,’ I said, outwardly calm. ‘I’ll send for you to lock it again later.’ I stepped over the threshold and closed the door firmly behind me.

  It was shadowy dark inside the room and I opened the faded silk curtains and folded back the shutters. Sunshine flooded in, illuminating delicate satinwood furniture, an Aubusson carpet and embroidered bed drapes in soft shades of green, rose pink and violet. The panelled walls were painted the same pale green as the curtains. Something about the room, the restful colour perhaps, was extraordinarily calming. It felt like a safe haven from dangers I didn’t even know existed.

  I sat on the bed, my fingers stroking the silky coverlet, and watched dust motes drifting lazily in the sunlight. Something teased my memory. Counting. Little hands… my hands… clapping. A clear voice singing. I closed my eyes, willing myself to remember as my fingertips caressed the roses and violets embroidered on the coverlet. I g
asped as all at once I heard the song in my head.

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue

  Sugar is sweet

  And so are you!

  Mother’s hair silky against my face as she snatched me into her arms and kissed me. The warm, sweet scent of her violet perfume. Giggling and squirming as her lips tickled my cheek. Begging her to sing me the nursery rhyme again. And then the memory was gone.

  I reared to my feet but the happy echo from my past had disappeared, taking my mother with it. My pulse raced as I wondered if I’d been wrong about her. Perhaps she’d loved me after all.

  Systematically, I began to search the room. The chest of drawers remained full of her clothes; lacy shifts, embroidered nightgowns and silk petticoats, still faintly perfumed with violets. Dresses hung in the wardrobe, too full-skirted for today’s fashions but all exquisitely finished. Shoes were arranged in pairs and I slipped on a yellow silk dancing shoe decorated with a tulle rose. It cupped my foot as if it had been moulded to me. Shivering, I took it off and replaced it where it belonged.

  I sat at the dressing table and opened the drawers to find a box of fine-milled powder and a half-used bottle of Olympian Dew. A chased silver cachou box held pink lip salve, shrunken and cracked now but still scented with Otto of Roses. I dipped my forefinger into the waxy compound and looked in the mirror while I rubbed the salve on my lips. It made me shiver, with pleasure rather than sadness this time, to think my mother would have been the last person to touch the salve.

  I began to look for the diary in earnest. The back of the drawers yielded only a few hairpins and a handkerchief. I searched under the bed, feeling along the frame, I climbed on a chair to reach up to the top of the wardrobe, rolled back the carpet searching for a loose floorboard and, finally, felt inside the chimney.

  I stood in the centre of the room. ‘Mother,’ I whispered. ‘Tell me where to find your diary.’

  Nothing.

  Disappointed and inexpressibly sad, I closed the shutters and drew the curtains. The room was full of shadows again and I tip-toed to the door and left the ghosts to whisper in peace.

  The following days passed in outward tranquillity. I retrieved Mother’s portrait from where I’d concealed it in the back of my wardrobe and propped it up on the chest of drawers. Her eyes seemed to follow me wherever I went but now that didn’t unnerve me. I gazed at her painted face for hours at a time, trying to read her expression. Sometimes I fancied she was trying to speak to me and I sat, motionless, listening for memories of her voice.

  Aunt Maude and I visited the pretty Queen Anne dower house on the estate, which was to be my home after the wedding. As I walked through the echoing hall I thought I might be as happy there as anywhere. It had been closed up for years and I’d relish choosing new curtains and wallpaper to my own taste. Living in the house with Dolly as my husband was another prospect entirely and panic fluttered in my breast.

  That night I paced up and down while dread made my chest constrict so tightly I could barely breathe. Again and again I wondered about Alessandro’s accusation. Soon Dolly would be my husband and England my permanent home. For evermore I would have to forget about Italy and the man I still loved there, despite our difficulties.

  In the light of day, I dismissed my night fears and simply avoided thinking about the wedding. Aunt Maude and I drove into the countryside and enjoyed a picnic on the banks of the River Test. I was happy to see her animated when we visited the local churches, explored the churchyards and the tea shops in the nearby towns. She appeared less frail when she was happy.

  Mrs Digby, the wife of Father’s solicitor, heard that we were staying at the Hall and called upon us. The weather was delightfully warm and we sat on the terrace overlooking the knot garden and the moat.

  ‘It must be eighteen months since we first met, Miss Langdon,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘And here you are,’ she said, ‘happy in the bosom of your family and engaged to be married.’

  ‘Two years ago I could never have imagined it,’ I said. But then, two years ago I’d been in Italy, the country I loved, anticipating a happy future with Alessandro.

  ‘I’m delighted for you,’ said Mrs Digby. Her smile was sincere. ‘And, if you won’t think me presumptuous, may I say how proud of you your mother would have been?’

  ‘Do you not think Emilia is so very like Rose?’ said Aunt Maude.

  Mrs Digby nodded. ‘The picture of her.’

  ‘I don’t recall her,’ I said. ‘Although, here at Langdon Hall, I’ve experienced momentary flashes of childhood reminiscences.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear that, dear,’ said Aunt Maude. She patted my wrist. ‘I very much want you to remember Rose as she really was.’

  ‘Sometimes I hear her singing a nursery rhyme,’ I said. ‘And I was standing on the bank of the moat the other day when I recalled her snatching my hand with a warning to be careful.’

  ‘She was always anxious you’d fall in,’ said Aunt Maude. ‘The water smells dreadful in hot summers like this. Rose worried that if the river flooded, the moat would rise, too, and come into the house.’

  ‘What an unpleasant thought!’ I wrinkled my nose, imagining the stinking water seeping under the doors.

  ‘Don’t be concerned,’ said Mrs Digby, ‘the river hasn’t flooded in fifty years. And, as far as I remember, Rose was more worried about the thefts of paintings from some of our friends and neighbours.’

  ‘Father mentioned the art thefts to me.’

  ‘We have no valuable paintings since Mr Digby has no interest at all in art.’ Mrs Digby smiled. ‘So I never had any anxiety that a thief would break in to take them. But Rose fretted that the thief might be someone we knew, someone who might steal Sir Frederick’s collection from Langdon Hall. Thankfully, that never happened.’ Mrs Digby gathered up her reticule. ‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you both again and hope I shall see more of you when you’re living in the dower house, Miss Langdon.’

  ‘I hope so, too,’ I said.

  After Mrs Digby had gone, Aunt Maude went inside to rest as was her habit in the afternoons. I wandered through the house, looking again for somewhere Mother might have hidden her diary. Of course, it was possible Father had destroyed it after she died. One place I hadn’t searched was his study and I plucked up the courage to enter his private sanctum. I waited until the servants were elsewhere and slipped inside.

  The shutters were closed and I dared to open them only a crack to admit some light. One wall was covered with built-in bookshelves but these contained only old ledgers and folios pertaining to estate business and his parliamentary affairs. The remaining walls displayed paintings and the desk was locked. I didn’t dare to force it open. I would search the townhouse when I returned to London the next day, I decided. Dejected by my failure to find the diary, I closed the shutters again.

  ‘That’s everything packed, miss,’ said Daisy. She closed my travelling bags and tightened the straps.

  ‘Will you ask Edward to carry the luggage down?’ I said.

  ‘Very good, Miss Langdon.’

  I dreaded returning to London. Father’s ball was in a couple of days’ time and afterwards I’d have to endure making the final arrangements for my impending wedding. Heavy-hearted, I went to look at my mother’s portrait for the last time before we left. ‘Where is your diary, Mother?’ I whispered. I fancied she watched me as I left the room.

  I went down to the little parlour to check I hadn’t forgotten anything. Sun streamed in through the window and a wood pigeon cooed outside. Suddenly I was four years old again. I remembered kneeling on the window seat watching the pigeons billing and cooing on the lawn outside while Mother worked on her embroidery beside me.

  That was it! I raced up the back staircase to the attics. Lighting the candle from the shelf outside the storage room where Father had kept Mother’s portrait, I opened the door. Inside was a cradle and various trunks amongst dust-sheeted furniture. I heaved up the lid of the first trunk to find fo
lded curtains and then another packed with children’s clothing. I shook out a little muslin dress and there was something so familiar about the sprigs of yellow primroses and the pattern of the lace trimming that I could only believe I had once worn it myself. I fumbled hastily through layers of dresses, vests and tiny nightgowns until I was sure that the trunk contained only clothes.

  Throwing back the lid of another trunk, I rummaged through ladies’ shoes, a box of paints and a bundle of brushes. My heart nearly stopped when I found a leather book but it was a sketchbook of indifferent landscapes and not a diary at all. Delving deeper into the trunk my fingers scraped against something rough. My spirits soared when I saw it was a wicker basket.

  I dragged it out of the trunk with trembling hands. Needle cases, scissors, pins and a small tape measure were arranged in the top tray. A second contained serried ranks of embroidery silks. Underneath that was an embroidery hoop containing a half-finished work of blue tits nestling amongst wildflowers. I burrowed beneath, amongst folded pieces of canvas, and then became very still as I felt smooth leather under my fingertips.