18

Décolletage: the French word referring to the upper part of a woman’s body, comprising her neck, shoulders, back and upper chest, that is exposed by the neckline of her clothing.

The discount flyers had done their work more effectively than I’d ever dared to imagine. Ten new customers had called on us within the first two weeks, four of whom placed orders totalling nearly a hundred pounds, including a fine Easter day gown and a gentleman’s waistcoat in silk brocade. The discount they received seemed a fair price for this new business.

Other callers seemed genuinely impressed by the examples displayed in the shop window, and we sold six pairs of ready-made gloves and eight muffs. At last there was reason to feel more optimistic. In addition, just as Ann Hogarth had predicted, acceding to Lady S.’s demands seemed to have worked miracles. Although she herself did not reappear until a few months later, some of the customers we knew to be her associates returned for new business.

The shop was suddenly busier than ever.

Among our new customers was a Mrs Arbuthnot and her sixteen-year-old daughter Amelia. From their address I surmised that they were ordinary sorts of people, determined to launch their daughter into high society. Perhaps they had come into an inheritance, or were spending their savings, but it was clear Amelia Arbuthnot must have nothing but the best.

‘We are invited to so many exciting events, are we not? And we have simply nothing to wear, do we, Amelia?’ her mother shrilled as I measured them for new ball gowns, two apiece.

‘There’s the May Ball at the Inns of Court, Charles wants to take me to the pleasure gardens now the weather has improved, and his family has invited us to Inworth Court for the weekend in the last week of the month,’ her daughter tittered in response.

‘And if we are satisfied with these gowns we shall surely return for our summer outfits,’ her mother added. ‘As we are invited to Bath this August.’

‘I could faint with excitement,’ her daughter sighed, as we pored over dress designs. Her mother refused to be swayed by her daughter’s demands for a revealing décolletage following the latest fashions, insisting that the bodice lines should be modest. ‘It is better to be demure, dearest. The young men will find you all the more attractive as a consequence.’

To my delight they each chose Anna’s new designs for their fabrics, her more naturalistic styles showing real flowers against a white or cream ground, perfect for a young lady of Amelia’s simple beauty and charm.

‘So appropriate for spring and summer,’ I purred.

That evening I reflected on how mother and daughter had responded to each other in the way that friends do, laughing and teasing as they engaged in the important task of ensuring a successful entry into society. While pleased for them, I couldn’t help feeling a little envious. What would it have been like to enjoy such a close relationship with my mother, to have had her support as I entered adult life? With no one to advise me, I’d had to learn my lessons the hard way.

To keep up with orders, we interviewed for temporary seamstresses and took on two youngsters, Alice and Abigail, who brought a new liveliness to the shop, to Mrs T.’s consternation. ‘Elsie and Sarah know my ways,’ she said. ‘I like a peaceful workroom. But these two give me a headache with their unceasing chatter.’

‘But how is their work? Do they complete their tasks competently and neatly?’

‘Oh yes, madam, they are good little seamstresses.’

‘Then try to think of their chatter as a sign that they are enjoying themselves. You know as well as I do that everyone delivers their best work when they are happy. This might even have been one of the lessons you taught me yourself when I first came to Ann Hogarth’s shop, if I remember correctly?’

She tipped her head, a nod of reluctant acknowledgement. ‘But it does not ease the pain in my head, madam.’

‘You never know, there might be something of interest in their chatter – tips on the latest fashions, or suggestions for potential new customers, perhaps? And the rest of the time you will just have to shut yourself away in the cutting room, or learn how to close your ears.’

‘I do try,’ she said, unconvinced.

‘Perhaps it will be easier when I tell you that as a consequence of all the new business we are getting, and for the added responsibilities of managing four seamstresses instead of two, I am able to offer you an additional two and sixpence a week?’

‘That will certainly help to ease the headache, Miss Charlotte,’ she said, smiling now. She’s a good sort, thoroughly reliable and highly skilled. I cannot afford to lose her.

‘And for my part I will have a word with the girls, and ask them to chatter a little more quietly.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ she said. ‘And now, about that lace for Lady Fothersgill’s gown . . .’

We worked solidly for two whole weeks throughout all the hours of daylight, barely even stopping for mealtimes, to fulfil the rush of orders on time. The sequence of final fittings, one each morning and afternoon for a whole week, was our reward.

These appointments can often be difficult: there will always be one who complains about the shape of the bodice – usually a lady who enjoys too many rich dinners – the scoop of the neckline, the length of the petticoat, or the ruffling on the sleeves, which can result in many hours of extra work for no additional remuneration. Happily, nearly every single customer declared themselves delighted with the results, and there were barely any alterations to be made. One even remarked that my name was on the lips of many in her circle, and that I should expect further orders from her friends in future.

My suppliers were content with the additional custom, and I was soon able to start paying back the credit they had advanced me to pay off Lady S. There was still no further word from Mr Boyson, and for the first time in several months I allowed myself to believe that the business would survive.

I was exhausted, which made Jane’s invitation all the more welcome.

Dearest Charlotte,

Remembering what we discussed at your previous visit, I have someone I would like you to meet: an old friend of ours staying nearby who may be able to organise an invitation to Marble Hill. I have invited him and his wife to dine with us on Saturday evening. They are great fun.

I hope you will be free to come and celebrate Easter with us, and stay the night, too.

If you are agreed, I will send our gig at one p.m. on Saturday.

Your ever-loving Jane

I accepted at once.

‘Dearest girl,’ she said, welcoming me in. ‘You are just in time. Our other guests will be with us in about an hour.’

‘May I be forewarned of their identity, or is it a secret?’

‘Did I not say? It’s David Garrick and his wife, Eva Marie.’

‘David Garrick, the actor?’ I said, alarmed. ‘I should have worn a smarter gown had you warned me that we would be in such exalted company.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t you worry, my dearest, you are perfectly attired. They are the most informal people you could hope to meet, and such good friends of ours,’ she babbled on as we went upstairs to the parlour. ‘William painted a wonderful portrait of him, which he says helped him become famous. Eva is such a beauty, I’m sure my Will was also just a little in love with her.’

‘Alas, I know so little about the theatre.’ Apart from the fact that I had no money to spend on such diversions, a playhouse was not a place one would attend alone.

‘But you will surely know of his reputation, dearest? He seems single-handedly to have turned around the fading fortunes of the great Drury Lane theatre.’

‘He sounds utterly terrifying.’

‘Don’t be a goose. You are my friend, they are my friends. There are no differences in this house,’ Jane retorted. ‘You will adore them. Eva was once a dancer, in Vienna. We can expect a delightful evening. Now, will you take a small glass of something before they arrive? Port, perhaps?’

David Garrick blew across the threshold of the Hogarths’ house like a one-man whirlwind. He is a handsome man, with a face so mobile that it assumes in quick succession the most convincing expressions of sorrow, utmost joy, total confusion, intense curiosity and absolute surprise, so that it is almost impossible to keep up. He stands not much taller than myself, but more than compensates for this slight stature with the size of his personality, which I found, at first, a little overwhelming.

Behind him on the doorstep, like the calm eye to her husband’s storm, stood the loveliest woman I have ever met. Jane’s description of Eva Garrick as a great beauty scarcely credits such exquisite features, fine bone structure and delicate deportment. Although her fine head of dark hair now showed strands of silver, her skin was pale and fresh as that of a woman decades younger.

I was trying not to gape at this apparition of loveliness when she reached forward to shake my hand. ‘We are delighted to meet you, Miss Amesbury.’ Dark intelligent eyes met my own, a slight but still detectable accent giving her speech a mildly exotic tone. ‘Jane has spoken of you. She is very proud of your achievements.’

My cheeks burned. How could such a fine lady possibly be interested in a simple seamstress, a scantily schooled foundling dragged up by her bootstraps? Yes, I had women of her class among my customers, but it seemed scarcely credible that I could be actually socialising with such educated and wealthy people.

‘You are too kind,’ I managed to stutter. ‘Please, do call me Charlotte.’

‘And I am Eva,’ she said.

Once upstairs in the drawing room, as wine was being poured, she came to my side. ‘Jane tells me you design beautiful gowns,’ she said. ‘You must give me your card. My dearest husband chides me whenever I order a new gown, and is wont to preach at me about clothing being mere frippery. But how dare he complain, when he is always dressing up for his work? What we ladies wear is just as important as the facade an actor assumes when he is on stage, do you not think?’

Never had I heard of fashion being compared with theatrical costume and now, feeling on firmer ground and perhaps still enjoying the effects of the earlier glass of port, my shyness seemed to evaporate.

‘The clothes we wear can indeed be a disguise of sorts, but I believe fashion is at its best when it reflects an expression of our true selves,’ I said. It is a view I had often considered privately but never before expressed in public. ‘Those who slavishly follow the latest fads seem to me to demonstrate a level of timidity, and it shows. But a woman who knows herself, a woman of confidence, will trust her own instinct and seek a design which flatters her natural assets but also reflects her personality to the world as she really is.’

Her laugh was a bell-like tinkle that sounded like an expression of pure joy. ‘Jane, where have you been hiding this delightful young woman?’ she called across the room. ‘Do you hear that, husband? My gowns are an expression of myself, whereas your beloved theatrical costumes are a mere facade.’

Before I knew it, everyone – Jane, Ann, Eva, Mr Garrick, Mary Lewis and Miss Bere – was good-naturedly debating the differences between costume and fashion. Even the pug seemed to rise from his slumber, waddling across to be lifted into Jane’s devoted arms.

So engaged was the company that the maid, standing in the doorway, had to say it twice to make herself heard. ‘Dinner is served, Mrs Hogarth.’

The dining-room table downstairs was most beautifully laid with white linen upon which rows of silver cutlery sparkled in the light of many candles. After so many frugal, lonely suppers my stomach rumbled in anticipation of the feast ahead.

Jane bade Mr Garrick sit in the large carver chair at the head of the table.

‘But this is William’s place,’ he protested.

‘Tonight you are the man of the house. In fact, the only man in the house.’

‘Then it will be my honour to take the seat of one of the finest artists this country has ever known.’

Eva was ushered to her husband’s right hand, and I to his left. ‘Surely this should be your place, Jane, beside your honoured guests?’

‘You are equally honoured, dearest Charlotte. Besides,’ she whispered, ‘you can ask him about HH.’

Among his many talents, Mr Garrick seems also to have exceptionally keen ears. ‘What was that about HH?’ he asked, helping me to my seat.

Unprepared for the question so soon, I blurted: ‘Naturally, in my profession I take a great interest in silks, sir, and a sample of sumptuous fabric has come into my possession that has piqued my curiosity. All I know is that it was woven for a wealthy customer with the initials HH.’

‘Surely that must be Henrietta, dearest?’ Eva said, leaning across to join the conversation. ‘She also took a great interest in silks.’

‘You are right, my sweet,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘Dearest Henrietta. Such a charming lady, and much missed. I suppose we can surmise why she put up with the attentions of the dreary old king for so many years, for it is well known that his settlement paid for Marble Hill House, so perhaps it was worth it in the end. She was the liveliest hostess and knew so many influential people, but we haven’t been back since she died, alas.’

‘We went first with the Devonshires, didn’t we?’ Eva added.

Jane explained: ‘They’re our grand neighbours at Chiswick House. Where our guests are staying this weekend.’

‘And it was the Duchess of Devonshire who introduced me to this disreputable actor fellow.’ Eva glanced fondly at her husband.

‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’ he proclaimed in a theatrical tone. ‘But we have never looked back, have we, dearest? It’s been my good fortune to spend the past twenty years with the very best of women and wives.’ He placed his hand over hers so tenderly that I was inclined to revise my opinion of the man.

The first course arrived: white veal soup served with elegant slices of toasted bread. Small murmurs of appreciation could be heard around the table as the first spoonfuls were taken.

‘And now, Miss Amesbury,’ Mr Garrick said. ‘You must tell us about this silk of yours.’

‘It is a very special fabric . . .’ I struggled to find a coherent response. ‘A Chinoiserie design with much silvering, I mean silver threads.’

‘Dearest Henrietta was a great one for Chinoiserie and has a fine collection of porcelain,’ Eva said. ‘What a shame you cannot ask her in person.’

The feast now brought to the table was spectacular: roast pork and a chicken pie, a mound of vegetables, two bowls of apple sauce and several gravy boats. Mr Garrick tackled the task of carving the meat with typical gusto, our glasses were filled with claret and the table fell silent as we tucked into the most delicious meal I’d eaten since my previous visit. As the plates emptied, conversation resumed. I hoped it might return to Henrietta Howard, but there were more important topics to be aired.

‘Do tell, Mr Garrick, are you still playing Shakespeare?’ Ann asked.

‘Ah, indeed. Still just a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more,’ he declared, prompting a short round of applause from the other guests and the cry of ‘encore’ from Jane.

‘Enough, husband.’ Eva placed a hand on his arm. ‘You will give us indigestion quoting the Bard at the dinner table. Why don’t you tell these good people of your latest venture?’

‘We are all ears,’ Jane said.

He placed his knife and fork beside his plate, and finished his final mouthful. ‘I have been in discussion with the good folks of the village of Stratford-upon-Avon about how we might celebrate the anniversary of the great man’s birth, you know, to protect his fame for future generations. I travelled there recently to meet a group of doughty ladies who have persisted in ensuring that the plays are performed in his home town, and they have convinced me that there should be a proper theatre with professional actors for this very purpose. We thought we should start with a pageant, of scenes from the plays, music and general revelry, to wake everyone up to the wonders of the town’s great heritage. We’re planning for September this year.’

‘A pageant? How delightful,’ Miss Bere whispered from the far end of the table.

‘You shall all attend.’ He gave an expansive flourish. ‘I have it in mind to stage it again later in the season at Drury Lane, and all in this room shall have tickets if they so wish.’

Murmurs of appreciation followed. The more I observed of Mr Garrick, the more impressed I became. Nothing and no one could halt such a great force of nature; a man like this could rule the world. What vast ambition he had, what extraordinary confidence. If just an ounce of that could be mine, I would travel at once to Westford Abbots and demand that Louisa explain how she came by the silk.

‘What I am hoping is that my dearest Eva will perform for the pageant. Indeed, Mr Arne has composed the music for it,’ Mr Garrick said.

‘They have settled their differences, thank goodness,’ Eva said, although nothing further was explained.

‘A dance? Is it too soon to have a preview, Eva?’ Jane asked, followed by murmurs of support from around the table.

A blush bloomed on those perfect cheeks. ‘Oh no. I have not danced in public for many a year.’

‘You are among friends.’

‘The dance is by no means prepared. Perhaps I could please you with a song, instead?’ Of course everyone agreed and after the apple pudding we retired upstairs to the drawing room, gathering around the harpsichord in the corner. Eva opened the lid and played a few notes. ‘It is called “The Soft Flowing Avon”,’ she said. ‘About the river on which the birthplace of William Shakespeare is set.’

She now began to sing in the sweetest, most mellifluous voice I have ever heard:

‘Thou soft flowing Avon, by the silver stream;

Of things more than mortal thy Shakespeare would dream.

The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed.

For hallow’d the turf which pillow’d his head.’

There were just two verses, but I was transported by the haunting tune and the eloquence of the poetry. When, all too soon, it was ended, I joined the calls of ‘encore, encore’, like a seasoned concertgoer.

The rest of the evening passed in a heady blur of wine and lively conversation. Eva recited a poem called ‘Where the Bee Sucks’ from another Shakespeare play, and Mr Garrick himself gave us a rendering of what he called a soliloquy – which I came to understand to be a sort of out-loud thinking – from a play called As You Like It, in which the character bemoans the passing of his years and ends comparing old age to a second childhood, ‘sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything’.

It was a sad image that stayed in my mind for many a month.