The Dressmaker’s Secret

by Charlotte Betts

  Aunt Maude bowed her head over the diary and then looked up at me, her expression bleak. ‘I’m very much afraid I do.’

  I nodded and returned to my confused and wretched thoughts. All the while I listened for the doorknocker, hoping there might be a response from Alessandro to my note. I sat by the morning-room window for hours at a time, in case he was outside, trying to catch my attention, but as the days passed without word from him, I finally lost hope of any reconciliation.

  At breakfast one morning Father picked up the newspaper James had placed beside him. Then he banged his cup down on the table, slopping coffee onto the starched tablecloth, and laughed. ‘At last!’ he said.

  I mopped the stain with my napkin. ‘What is it, Father?’

  ‘She’s dead! The King is free at last!’

  The jubilation in his expression made my stomach turn over. ‘The Queen is dead?’

  Aunt Maude gasped.

  ‘Isn’t that what I said? Listen to this!’ Father rustled the paper and began to read aloud.

  ‘The Queen had suffered terrible pain all the previous day. Dr Holland, who was attending her, felt her pulse at twenty-five minutes past ten at night and then closed her eyelids. He declared, “All is over.”’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Father, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Now there’ll be celebrations in certain quarters.’

  ‘How can you be so cruel?’ I said.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Emilia!’ He frowned at me and rose to his feet. ‘It’s time you saw the truth about that woman.’

  I stood up, clenching my fists in fury. ‘You don’t know the first thing about her.’

  He strode from the room and slammed the door behind him.

  I shed tears for the Queen’s turbulent and misunderstood life, reliving those moments when our paths had crossed in Pesaro. I remembered her kindness when Sarah died and how she’d taken a fancy to me when I’d comforted her after she spoke of her daughter’s death. I remembered her romping on the floor with Victorine and that perfect, sunny day when Alessandro and I had joined her for a picnic on her yacht. She may have been anathema to her husband and much of society but I had seen another side of her character. All she’d wanted was to be loved for herself. I supposed that was no different from what most people wanted, myself included.

  Chapter 33

  On the morning of Queen Caroline’s funeral a week later I looked out of the window to see grey skies and rain. I still hadn’t heard anything from Alessandro. I’d hoped desperately we might have made a fresh start together and I tried not to think about how empty my life would be as the last vestiges of that dream faded.

  Daisy came to help me dress and I defiantly chose to put on my old mourning gown as a mark of respect for the Queen, despite what Father would say.

  ‘Mr Soames says half the shops and businesses will be shut today,’ said Daisy as she buttoned my cuffs. ‘And a crowd’s already gathered at Hyde Park Corner, waiting in the rain to follow the funeral procession.’

  ‘I understood the Prime Minister had insisted on sending the procession north of the city?’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Daisy, ‘but the people want to say goodbye before her body is returned to Brunswick. They won’t put up with the procession being hurried out of sight.’ She nodded with satisfaction. ‘They’ll block the road if Lord Liverpool tries to send the procession north.’

  I reflected on how fickle the populace was. They had abandoned the Queen during the Coronation and, now she was dead, wanted to show their support again.

  After my maid had gone, I sank down on the window seat and miserably watched raindrops running down the glass. Aunt Maude had finished reading Mother’s diary and agreed with me that nothing could be done until we knew for sure that the secret gallery existed and that it contained stolen paintings. We would all travel to Langdon Hall the day after tomorrow since the wedding was set for ten days’ time. It made me queasy with anxiety to contemplate not only calling that off but also telling the authorities about Father. And then what would Aunt Maude and I do? I had some money saved from my allowance but it wouldn’t keep us for long.

  One good thing had come out of the bad. I was now sure my mother had loved me. I took the diary from its hiding place under Sarah’s quilted petticoat, to comfort myself by rereading Mother’s loving words.

  A while later, I tucked the diary under the petticoat again. I’d given the residue of the gold coins to Father to keep in his safe. I wondered how long Sarah had kept them concealed. If I knew that, I might be able to work out in which town she’d sold the miniatures and then be able to trace them. Of course, she might have sold them one by one as we had need of the money. Hurriedly I ran my fingers all over the petticoat, double checking each coin pocket. Nothing. Sighing, I replaced the petticoat in the chest and went downstairs.

  Father was in the dining room finishing his breakfast. ‘I shall be out until early evening, Emilia,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Kingston to view an auction of Dutch paintings. I expect to purchase an addition to my collection and we shall take it with us when we go to Langdon Hall.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘And the happy day of your wedding is fast approaching now. You will have final arrangements to make.’

  ‘I plan to do all that is necessary,’ I said, non-committally.

  ‘I must leave now if I’m not to be late. The roads are likely to be congested with that wretched woman’s funeral procession.’

  ‘My maid tells me that crowds have turned out to pay their respects to the Queen.’

  ‘You see, she’s still causing trouble even after her death,’ said Father. ‘Is that why you’re all dressed up in black like a crow this morning?’

  I lifted my chin and gave him a defiant look. ‘She was kind to me,’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘You know nothing about what she was really like.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I lived in her household and probably know her a great deal better than most, including you.’

  Father pushed back his chair abruptly. ‘I’m not going to argue with you and make myself late.’

  I sighed in relief when the front door banged behind him. Since Aunt Maude hadn’t come downstairs I went to tap on her bedroom door.

  She lay back against the pillows with her white hair in a thin plait over one shoulder. ‘Are you unwell?’ I asked, distressed to see her like this.

  She shrugged. ‘I feel very old today,’ she said. Her bony fingers plucked at the sheet. ‘My heart flutters so.’

  ‘May I bring you something?’

  ‘I was thinking about dear Rose,’ she said. ‘I keep wondering if there was something I could have done to save her.’

  ‘You cannot blame yourself for what happened.’

  She turned towards me, her milky blue eyes full of anxiety. ‘You must be careful, Emilia. Your father is unpredictable.’

  I enfolded her trembling hand in mine. ‘Having read Mother’s diary I’m forewarned of how quickly his mood can turn,’ I said. ‘But I must find out the truth about the hidden gallery.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Once I tell Father I have no intention of proceeding with the wedding I suspect he’ll attempt to coerce me into marrying Dolly. As for what action to take over the stolen paintings…’ I sighed. ‘I don’t know yet. Will you be well enough to travel to Langdon?’

  Aunt Maude nodded.

  ‘There’s something I must do today,’ I said. ‘I shall pay my last respects to the Queen when her funeral procession passes on its way to Harwich. Her body is to be conveyed to Brunswick for burial.’

  ‘You can’t go out alone, Emilia!’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll take Daisy.’ I had no intention of doing any such thing. ‘I shouldn’t be longer than an hour or two. In my ancient travelling cloak, no one will take me for a lady.’

  ‘If you really must go, come and see me as soon as you return.’

  ‘I will.’ I kissed her forehead. ‘Rest now.’

  I
went to my room to fetch my cloak. It was at the back of the wardrobe as I hadn’t used it since Father had provided me with clothes suitable to my position as his daughter. My fingers brushed against my old travelling bag and something occurred to me. I dragged the bag out of the back of the wardrobe and then delved in it again to find Sarah’s bag. One after the other I turned them inside out. I fetched the embroidery scissors from my work basket and ripped open the seams in the linings. Quickly, I searched between the lining and the scarred and worn leather of each bag, hoping there might be a hidden pocket for the miniatures, but there was nothing. Sighing, I returned them to the wardrobe.

  As I was tying the ribbons of my cloak, I paused. Where else might Sarah have hidden the miniatures? It must have been in something we always carried with us, somewhere that no one would think of looking. Slowly, I turned to face the bed. Peggy, faithful companion of my childhood, lay on my pillow, her familiar woollen smile still slightly crooked. I squeezed her but she was so well stuffed that her body was hard. I unbuttoned her dress and reached for my scissors.

  I hesitated, finding it difficult to cut open my old friend, then carefully snipped the stitches down her calico back. Pulling out the stuffing I recognised the shredded fabrics, each one reminding me of one of our commissions: Signora Donati’s afternoon dress, Maria Lagorio’s first Holy Communion dress, my own lawn shift, the Conti bride’s wedding dress… I fingered the white silk gauze. I hadn’t restuffed Peggy for years and the Conti wedding had been in Florence shortly before we arrived in Pesaro. Could Sarah have put those scraps inside Peggy more recently? I dug my fingers more deeply inside the cavity. And then I found it. A small silk bag. I teased apart the drawstring. Catching my breath, I extracted an exquisitely painted miniature portrait in an oval gold frame. The Spanish Infanta.

  I stared at it in horrified fascination. Had I carried the priceless miniatures around with me everywhere I went? I remembered Sarah being sharp with me once or twice when I was a child when I’d nearly left Peggy behind. And, more recently, I’d forgotten all about the doll and left her with Victorine when I came to London. Sarah had used me, an innocent child, to conceal stolen goods. I could only assume she had sold the other two miniatures and that accounted for the gold coins in her petticoat. A bubble of hysteria welled up inside me and I hugged the remnants of the doll against me and laughed and laughed until I cried.

  Once I’d recovered my equilibrium, I replaced the miniature, re-stuffed Peggy and sewed up the seam. I left the doll in her usual place on my pillow and went to see Aunt Maude again.

  When I told her of my discovery, she pressed her fingers to her breast, her expression horrified.

  ‘I wanted you to know where the miniature is hidden,’ I said. ‘It’s a precautionary measure, to give you some proof to take to the authorities if anything should happen to me.’

  Aunt Maude gripped my wrist. ‘We cannot let it! I couldn’t bear that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m going to see the funeral procession now before it’s too late but I shan’t be very long.’

  She nodded, her eyes wide and troubled.

  I kissed her cheek and hurried downstairs.

  The hall clock struck eleven. I waited until there were no servants in the hall and then let myself out of the front door. It was raining, that fine but persistent drizzle that always finds a way to trickle down your neck inside your collar. I pulled down the brim of my bonnet and scurried down Grosvenor Street towards Hyde Park.

  A moment later I heard running footsteps from behind and then someone caught my sleeve. I gasped and whirled around, thinking it was a pickpocket. Shock made me stumble. ‘Alessandro!’

  He gripped hold of my hands. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ The shoulders of his coat were dark, saturated with the rain, and his curly hair plastered to his head.

  The flash of joy I’d felt on seeing him was mixed with disbelief. ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘You didn’t answer my letter,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been loitering outside all morning hoping to catch you. I thought you might want to see the Queen’s funeral procession.’

  ‘I do.’ I frowned. ‘Your letter? I wrote you a letter but you didn’t reply.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ His expression was grim. ‘I gave it to your footman. It must have been intercepted. And it’s not the first time, either.’

  Anger seethed in my breast. ‘My father must have taken them. He admitted he’d taken your earlier letters.’

  A group of pedestrians jostled us as they hurried past.

  ‘There’s no time to talk now,’ said Alessandro. ‘Let’s walk towards Hyde Park Corner, we should see the procession there.’ He turned up his coat collar against the downpour, took my arm and set off at a brisk pace.

  I splashed along beside him, my shoes sodden from the puddles.

  He didn’t slow his pace as we crossed Grosvenor Square and turned into Upper Grosvenor Street. Already we could hear the noisy crowd ahead.

  ‘Hurry or we’ll miss the procession. Afterwards we’ll talk.’

  As we neared Hyde Park the streets were crammed with pedestrians. We turned into Park Lane and Alessandro took a fierce grip on my wrist as we were swept along with the boisterous crowd making its way towards Hyde Park Corner.

  People of all classes had turned out to follow the procession. Many wore mourning dress whilst others had tied on black armbands or waved batons with a flutter of black crepe at the tip. Men on horseback and numerous carts and carriages edged forwards amongst the horde, bringing howls of abuse from those who had their toes run over.

  Wagons had been set across the street to form a barricade and the hubbub of the crowd echoed all around. The throng pressed so close around us I was fearful I’d lose my footing. I was relieved to have Alessandro hold my hand so firmly and didn’t want ever to let him go. Ahead, men carried banners and shouted out repetitively but the hum of the multitude was too great for me to hear what they were chanting.

  I turned to a man beside me, tightly pressed against my arm as we shuffled along. ‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘Is the funeral procession nearby?’

  ‘It was stopped at Kensington about half past nine,’ he said, wiping rain off his face. ‘Lord Liverpool wanted it to go past the gravel pits and up northwards.’ He grinned. ‘But the people weren’t having it and blockaded the road with wagons. Carts and carriages piled up behind and the procession couldn’t go neither forward nor back.’

  The horde ahead of us in the park began to chant, ‘Through the city! Through the city!’

  ‘Sounds as if the procession’s on the move again,’ said the man. ‘There was talk last night of bolting the park gates so it couldn’t cut through there and go up New Road.’

  After a while we reached Hyde Park Corner and discovered a contingent of mounted Life Guards waiting there. Some of the mob shouted insults at them and an apple core sailed over their heads to resounding laughter from the spectators. All the while the Life Guards, resplendent in their scarlet and gold uniforms, stared straight ahead, ignoring the rain and the affronts to their dignity.

  ‘I can’t see that it’s possible for the procession to make its way through so many people or the barricades,’ said Alessandro.

  By now we were near the gates to the park and pressed flat against the railings. ‘The poor Queen!’ I said. ‘Even in death nothing is straightforward for her, but she would have been pleased the people turned out to support her at the end.’

  A boy perched on his father’s shoulders shouted, ‘They’re coming! They’re coming along Knightsbridge.’

  I peered along the road and through the haze of rain saw only the crush of people, men on horseback and a line of gigs and barouches along the side of the carriageway.

  There was a muttering in the crowd and a few men climbed onto the gates for a better view. A ragged cheer rose, swelling to a roar as a dozen soldiers on horseback appeared, riding two by two, along Knightsbridge. All the while, r
ain continued to fall from the leaden sky.

  The progress of the cavalcade was slow. At last the soldiers drew level with us and then passed, followed by three mourning coaches, each drawn by six black horses and interspersed with eight marshals riding in pairs, a troop of mounted soldiers and a dozen pages in black cloaks and headbands.

  ‘Here comes the hearse,’ said Alessandro. Like most men around us, he took off his hat and bowed his head.

  The people fell silent as the Queen’s hearse, decorated with the Royal Arms and drawn by eight matched horses with black plumes on their heads, trundled slowly forward, led by black-clad mutes.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as I imagined the Queen inside her coffin, cold, lifeless and alone, wrapped in a shroud, hands folded across her breast. I preferred to picture her slightly crooked smile and the love in her eyes as she’d dandled Victorine on her knee.