The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  ‘What was that?’ said Francis.

  I held my breath.

  ‘Nothing of importance,’ said Dolly after a moment. ‘A fox or a cat, perhaps.’

  Francis nodded and the two men kissed again and returned to the house.

  Trembling, I untangled my hair from the prickly stem of the rose. So much was explained now. Of course Dolly didn’t love me! He never had and never would. His taste lay in another direction entirely. I leaned back against the trellis feeling the tears seeping from beneath my eyelids. How could I bear this terrible discovery so soon after the other?

  I don’t remember how I endured the last hours of the ball. Dolly partnered me in the final dance and I flinched away from him when he touched my hair.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Emilia?’ he said, frowning. ‘You’re not going to faint?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said and forced a smile. ‘I’m simply a little tired after all the preparation for the ball.’

  He didn’t speak after that while we danced, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  I was relieved to be spared having to make polite conversation while I dwelled on what I’d seen in the garden.

  Thankfully, the guests finally left. When it came to saying goodnight to Dolly, I became rigid when he pecked my cheek.

  At last only Father and Aunt Maude remained.

  ‘You must go straight to bed,’ I said to Aunt Maude. ‘It’s very late for you.’

  ‘I will, dear,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ she whispered. ‘Goodnight, Frederick.’ She leaned heavily on her stick and looked very frail as she slowly mounted the stairs.

  ‘You will be pleased to hear,’ said Father, rubbing his hands together in delight, ‘that I managed to have a word with the King regarding my contacts in the art world. He said he’ll call on me next time he’s looking for a particular piece.’

  ‘So the ball achieved its purpose,’ I said, knowing that the King would never buy anything from my Father if I exposed him as a thief.

  Benevolent in his triumph, he kissed my cheek. ‘You’ve earned a day of rest tomorrow, my dear.’

  I said goodnight and retreated to my bedroom.

  Bone-weary, I allowed Daisy to undress me and slip a fresh nightgown over my head. I slid in between the sheets and once Daisy had closed the door behind her, I pinched out the candle. I couldn’t bear any more heartache and reading the rest of Mother’s diary would have to wait until the morning.

  Confused and miserable, I felt under the pillow until my fingers found Peggy’s woolly plaits. Hugging her against my chest, just as I had so many times as a child, I curled into a ball and shut out the world.

  Chapter 32

  Sleep had come quickly to me but I awoke before dawn and relived, over and over again, the passionate embrace between Dolly and Francis. As the sun rose, I tried to understand my disturbed feelings. Occasionally I’d overheard people talk of love affairs between men, in hushed and scandalised whispers, but I’d never seen any evidence of it before. Such a thing upset the natural order of life and bewildered me quite as much as if I’d discovered water flowing uphill.

  One thing was certain now, though. I could not and would not marry Dolly. I had never deluded myself that I loved him, it was only his declaration of love that had allowed me to believe there was a chance of making a marriage between us successful. In the light of what I’d seen, Francis would always occupy the first place in his heart and Dolly and I could never have a true marriage.

  I pulled myself up against the pillows, thinking about Alessandro’s accusation that Dolly had caused Sarah’s death. Supposing this was right, what possible reason could he have had? I rubbed my fists against my eyes, trying, and failing, to comprehend. Deep regret for the happiness Alessandro and I might have shared if I’d never left Pesaro nearly choked me.

  I slid out of bed and opened the curtains before padding barefoot to the wardrobe to lift the muslin cover from my wedding dress. It was made of the finest ivory silk with a ravishing guipure lace bodice and train but I shuddered when I looked at it. I’d never wear it now. Closing the wardrobe door, I went to the writing desk and took out a fresh sheet of paper to write to Alessandro.

  Fifteen minutes later I blotted the ink dry, folded the note and sealed it. Two sheets of crumpled paper lay by my feet, the ink smudged from my tears. I gathered them up and stuffed them into my reticule to dispose of later. I had no intention of allowing them to fall into Father’s hands.

  My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and I rubbed them as I pondered again on what I was to do about Father. If he was the Picture Frame Thief and I made this known, disgrace and ruin would fall on us all. I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to face that. If I was, the future for Aunt Maude and myself appeared very bleak.

  Sighing, I took Mother’s diary out of the chest, hoping it would shed more light on the mystery.

  I’ve barely slept for worrying about what to do. Harriet climbed onto my knee to kiss away my tears and brought me Annabelle to cuddle. I love my daughter beyond life itself. Whatever I do, I must keep her safe.

  Mother’s dilemma had been similar to my own. Her words didn’t sound like those of a woman who was prepared to abandon her own child and there was still no indication she’d had a lover. If that were true, I couldn’t understand why she had drowned herself.

  Harriet and I return to Grosvenor Street today and I have made a momentous decision. I am going to ask Frederick to agree to a legal separation. He won’t like it but he must see that we are both so unhappy this cannot go on. My very existence irritates him and he lashes out at the smallest thing. I rarely dare to initiate conversation and creep about the house trying not to attract his violent attentions. I have written to my old friend Anne-Marie in Paris. When she last came to London, after Piers died, she noticed my bruises and promised that Harriet and I would always have a home with her if we needed it. And now we do.

  I rested the diary on my knee. So Mother’s friend in Paris wasn’t a lover and Father had lied to me.

  I have taken the miniatures. Frederick is unlikely to visit Langdon Hall for a while and won’t know they are missing. I shall return them to Lord Beaufort on my way to Paris and leave it to him to decide what to do about Frederick.

  Mother hadn’t intended to steal the miniatures herself, then, but had packed them in the luggage that Sarah later conveyed to the inn at Dover. I turned back to the diary and saw that a week had passed before the next entry.

  My mistake was to believe Frederick would ever be reasonable. He became a madman when I asked for a separation. Only now can I hold a pen again. He has locked me in my room. It would be too shaming for him if anyone saw my terrible bruises. The beating was severe and I heard my fingers and ribs crack. It’s still hard for me to breathe and he will not let me see Harriet. We must escape.

  Shocked, I reread the passage. My inclination was to believe Mother’s account but I couldn’t help remembering Father’s distress when he’d told me of her apparent infidelity. I rested my head in my hands, wondering if he could have been so cold-bloodedly deceitful.

  The diary was nearly at an end and I gripped it tightly as I read on. There were a few entries about Mother’s anguish at not being allowed to see me and then, this final paragraph:

  It will be tonight. Sarah will give Miss McCorquordale a sleeping draught and fetch Harriet to come with us. I pray that by this time tomorrow we will be free.

  The remaining pages were blank. If what Father had told me was true, he’d caught her trying to escape and sat up with her all night. In the morning, after he’d left, she’d escaped and drowned herself. Despair must have driven her to take her own life, knowing Sarah would take me to safety abroad and that Father would never let her go. I ached with pity for my mother. Carefully, I wrapped the diary in a clean shift and hid it again at the bottom of my chest underneath Sarah’s quilted petticoat.

  Father had abandoned his newspaper on the breakfast table before going ou
t. I read the latest account of the Queen’s ill health and was sad to see that she was worse.

  While I was reading, Aunt Maude came downstairs. ‘What happened last night to upset you?’ she asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder as James carried in a fresh pot of coffee. ‘I wondered if you’d like a ride in the country this morning. To Fulham perhaps?’

  Aunt Maude gave me a sharp look. ‘That would be very pleasant, dear.’

  Half an hour later we were in the carriage. I had asked Dobson the coachman to stop in Great Marlborough Street at the house where Alessandro worked. The butler informed me that Signor Fiorelli was not at home but had taken the young masters out for their morning walk. Reluctantly, I entrusted my note for Alessandro to the butler and returned to the carriage.

  ‘The Queen is very unwell,’ I said to Aunt Maude as we set off for Fulham, ‘and I want to offer my best wishes for her recovery.’

  ‘I assumed that was the reason for this visit.’

  I nodded. ‘And I must tell you what I read in Mother’s diary. I thought we wouldn’t be overheard in the carriage.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said, ‘but Dobson may report back to your father where we go today.’

  ‘Father has no reason to suspect I’ve read the diary so I don’t believe he’ll be spying on me,’ I said, ‘but I’ve discovered some terrible things and I don’t know what action to take. If the Queen is going to return to Pesaro once she recovers, then I may need to ask her if she’ll make room for me in her retinue.’

  Aunt Maude pressed a hand to her mouth, her rheumy eyes wide and anxious. ‘You’re not leaving? But what about your wedding? It’s only three weeks away.’

  ‘My discoveries have changed everything,’ I said. ‘I cannot and will not marry Dolly now. And then there is what I’ve found out about Father.’

  ‘I knew something had happened last night!’

  Once I had recounted my story, Aunt Maude shook her head in dismay. I was relieved she’d understood the particular nature of the friendship between Dolly and Francis and I hadn’t had to embarrass myself or her by being too explicit.

  ‘You can’t possibly marry him now,’ she said, her mouth pinched with distaste, ‘unless you believe you can use all your womanly wiles to make him suppress his unnatural impulses?’

  ‘Aunt Maude, I saw how tender he was with Francis,’ I said. ‘I think he really loves him and, even if I wanted to, I don’t imagine any woman could seduce Dolly.’

  ‘That sort of behaviour is against the law,’ she said, ‘but I suppose it does explain why Dolly wasn’t more in love with you. I couldn’t understand it. You’re so pretty and clever, any man should be proud to be your husband.’

  ‘Dolly is very handsome but I didn’t fall in love with him,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I’m bewildered as to why he proposed to you in the first place.’

  I gave a wry smile at the thought that he most probably hadn’t wanted this wedding either. ‘Perhaps because society expects him to have a wife and then he’ll be free to continue his association with Francis.’

  ‘When will you break the news that the wedding is not to go ahead?’ Aunt Maude asked. ‘There will be terrible ructions. Your father…’

  ‘I daren’t say anything yet,’ I said. ‘To be absolutely sure of the truth about Father, I must go to Langdon Hall and find the hidden gallery. If I call off the wedding now, after what I’ve read in Mother’s diary, I don’t trust Father not to imprison me in my room. Without proof that the chapel exists, I’m sure he would laugh off Mother’s diary entry as the wanderings of a disturbed mind. Once I have proof, I can report it to the local magistrate.’

  ‘And what will happen to us afterwards?’ said Aunt Maude. Her lower lip trembled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. I felt as if a deep pit had opened at our feet. I was young and could work as a dressmaker; Aunt Maude had no such reserves to fall back on and I wasn’t confident I could earn enough to keep us both. ‘If the Queen doesn’t take us with her, I suppose I might find someone to marry who would give us both a home.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘Or, of course, I could blackmail Father.’

  ‘Emilia!’ said Aunt Maude, shocked. ‘Although he’s my nephew,’ she said, ‘and I’ve tried very hard, I cannot care for Frederick. At best, he’s two-faced and self-serving.’ She leaned towards me. ‘It makes perfect sense to me that he is the person who stole all those pictures but, if you did blackmail him, I wouldn’t trust him to keep any bargain that is not to his own advantage.’

  ‘Do you believe that what Mother wrote in her diary was true?’ I asked.

  ‘I should like to read the diary, if I may, but I have no reason to doubt Rose’s account.’ My great-aunt looked close to tears. ‘When you came to Grosvenor Street it was as if Rose had returned to me. I was so frightened for you and did everything I could to make you feel unwelcome. I wanted to drive you away.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said.

  ‘It was to protect you. Frederick is unreliable, perhaps even dangerous if he doesn’t get his own way. I believed… still believe… he wanted you back only to serve his own ends, whatever they may be.’

  I thought about this as the carriage jogged through the streets. ‘He had two reasons for encouraging me to stay,’ I said. ‘Firstly, I’m the most recent lead he has to the miniatures. I’d already guessed that but thought his reasons were altruistic and he wished to return them to Lord Beaufort. Having read Mother’s diary, now I think he wants to keep them himself.’

  ‘Surely, if they are found, he must know you would want them to be returned to their rightful owner?’

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps he thinks he can tell me they have been returned but then keep them in his secret gallery. Or maybe, because he knows I’m interested in art, he believes he can persuade me to share his illicit pleasure in them.’

  Aunt Maude sighed. ‘And what do you think is his other reason for wanting you to stay?’

  ‘He’s never liked Dolly very much but, since it’s not possible to change the entail, at least Langdon Hall would stay within his direct bloodline if I had children with Dolly.’ I smiled briefly. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t realised that his heir might not care to give him a grandson since his proclivities lie elsewhere.’

  Aunt Maude reached for my hand and we spoke no more until the carriage drew up outside Brandenburgh House.

  The steward told us that the Queen was indisposed and I asked if we might speak instead to Lady Hamilton. A few moments later she came downstairs to receive us.

  ‘We came to pay our respects to the Queen, Lady Hamilton,’ I told her, ‘but we understand that she is still unwell?’

  ‘She is,’ said Lady Hamilton. Her eyes were deeply shadowed and her fingers plucked anxiously at her skirt. ‘Dr Holland is with her now. She has a great deal of pain in her stomach and, despite being bled and taking heavy doses of magnesia and laudanum, can find no relief.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Her spirits are very low,’ said Lady Hamilton, ‘and I’m terribly afraid she has lost the will to recover.’

  ‘I was outside Westminster Abbey when she was so shamefully turned away,’ I said. ‘I daresay that affected her greatly?’

  Tears made Lady Hamilton’s eyes glitter. ‘She shut herself in her bedroom for four hours afterwards and would speak to no one. Then, at supper, she put on the semblance of unusual gaiety but, however hard she tried to hide her distress from her friends, she deceived only herself. Tears of anguish rolled down her face, even as she laughed and joked.’ Lady Hamilton was unable to say more while she struggled to regain her customary control.

  ‘She has a good friend in you, Lady Hamilton,’ I said, ‘and she’ll be relieved that you are at her side to support her.’

  ‘The Queen has made her will and I fear…’ Lady Hamilton broke down again. ‘I don’t know how to ease her grief!’

  ‘Please convey to her our sincere best wishes,’ I said, at a loss for what else to sa
y.

  ‘Pray for her, won’t you?’

  ‘We will.’

  Lady Hamilton nodded without saying more and Aunt Maude and I left.

  The following days passed quietly. Aunt Maude and I sat in the morning room while she read Mother’s diary. Frequently she would stop to wipe her eyes and we discussed particular passages in an undertone.

  ‘Aunt Maude,’ I said, ‘I’ve been wondering about something.’

  She closed the diary, marking the place with a piece of silk ribbon. ‘What is it, my dear?’

  ‘Something occurred to me and I can’t get it out of my head.’ I swallowed. ‘Do you think it possible that Father drowned my mother?’