24

Mantua: a gown only for the most formal occasions; open-fronted with a train looped up to reveal a petticoat of contrasting silk or lawn, worn with a hooped underskirt (not recommended for younger ladies).

My own life returned to normal, although not entirely. In subtle ways that only became apparent over the coming weeks, Anna’s trials had left me altered. Not so much in my body, although it felt so weary much of the time, but in my spirit.

I continued to visit her daily, marvelling at how she had survived two such terrible assaults: the horrific birth and the ravaging fever. Within two days she was sitting up and taking small meals, and by the end of the week she managed to take a few small steps unaided. The good news about her father’s recovery cheered her, made her determined to gain strength for him. Her face, although still pale as paper, lit with smiles for every visitor and in time the hint of a bloom returned to her cheeks.

The weather remained calm and bright. We opened the windows of her chamber and placed a comfortable chair so that it would catch the sun. She spent many hours there cradling the baby and sometimes with Jean on her lap, too. Her own milk returned slowly, but the wet nurse remained a constant figure in the house for several weeks and the baby seemed to thrive on this double diet. At just under four weeks old, although still tiny, she no longer felt like a china doll that might break at any moment.

For much of the time she was either feeding or sleeping but sometimes she would open her deep, dark blue eyes for several minutes, gazing at me with a little frown as though trying to work out who I was. I smiled, and her mouth moved almost as though she was trying to mimic my expression. ‘Look, she’s smiling,’ I said. ‘Or is it just indigestion?’

Anna leaned over to look. ‘She’s saying she knows you from somewhere.’

‘But she’s not entirely sure how I fit into this big confusing world.’

‘Well, I can tell you. Henri and I have agreed that we would like to change her name. I know that it is traditional, but I think it might be confusing to have a daughter called the same as her mother.’ She paused, looking directly into my eyes. ‘So we are going to call her Charlotte.’

‘After me?’

‘Who else, you dolt?’ she said, laughing.

‘Oh my dearest, I’m speechless. Thank you. So much.’

‘Thank you, Auntie Charlotte. Henri told me what a steadfast support you were throughout my illness. He said you were the first to hold her when she was just a little scrap clinging onto life, and in some curious way I feel that makes her partly your child too. I know you are not a churchgoer but we hope you will also agree to be her godmother, and be a big part of her life in years to come.’

‘Of course, I would be greatly flattered,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘I haven’t told you this, but the day you opened your eyes for the first time after your illness, I had just come from Christ Church.’

‘You went to church?’

‘To pray for your life. A priest said he would add his prayers to mine.’

She laughed. ‘You are full of surprises, Charlotte. I thought you disliked churches.’

‘I do, usually. But something drew me in, that day. I felt so helpless, desperate about the thought of losing you.’

‘So it’s Him up there I have to thank for my recovery, is it?’

‘And for the little lady, I suppose,’ I said, returning my eyes to the baby’s still quizzical gaze. ‘Hello, baby Charlotte. We’re going to have some fun together, you and me.’

‘More than that, my dear friend, I want her to be a strong, independent woman just like you,’ Anna said. ‘Someone who is confident in herself, and her place in the world.’

Henri came in then, with Jean, and the conversation moved on. Only later, in my own room, did I remember her words. Confident, sure of my place? I must be a better actor than Mr Garrick to have the world so well and truly fooled.

But was that such a bad thing? I recalled what he had recited at Jane Hogarth’s Easter supper: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Perhaps I had learned my part so well that it had become the real me. We are all trying to become the people we would like to be, or what is expected of us. We are all of us, in some small way, acting. My part in this play is costumière. I make costumes: clothes worn by people to make them look like the person they want to be. I have gained the confidence, now, to create the clothes that I know people will enjoy wearing, clothing that will make them feel good about themselves.

One afternoon when I arrived back from Wood Street, Mrs T. told me of a new customer who had visited the shop in my absence. ‘A right pretentious little madam,’ she said. ‘Wanted this and that and t’other and all by tomorrow. I told her she’d have to come back another day to see you but if she don’t it’ll be a fortunate escape. I reckon she’d be more trouble than she’s worth.’

‘Did you get her name?’

‘Lady Margaret Montagu. Posh enough name, don’t you think. But her manners were from the gutter,’ she scoffed.

A few days later the lady returned to the shop and within moments I found myself sympathising with Mrs Taylor. Lady Margaret, a young married woman of no more than twenty-five years in age, had very fixed ideas: she wanted a day dress in this silk and that design, an evening gown in that brocaded satin and that design. And yet, as we took tea and talked a little more, I began to sense that hiding beneath the haughty veneer was a young woman who did not really know herself at all.

She was not blessed with great beauty: a little too tall, her face too long, her curves what are referred to in the trade as ‘understated’. Her complexion was fine, though, and her hands elegant. She had potential. But her ideas were hopelessly old-fashioned: probably those that her mother, an elder sister, or mother-in-law had instilled or even insisted upon. None of the mantua designs she had chosen would do her any favours: they would render her the look of a maiden aunt, overly grand and far too ostentatious for her youth.

I showed her a magazine of the latest fashions that my friend the printer had recently lent me – yes, just as he’d prophesied, these publications had become all the rage. ‘A young lady would not be expected to wear hoops or rumps these days, my dear,’ I said. ‘But look at the elegant shape these fourreaux pleats can provide, balanced at the front of the bodice by this charming bow. From the side view it creates such an elegant curve, just as Mr Hogarth described as the essence of beauty.’

An hour went by as I sketched new designs for her to consider. Each time she demurred, deferring to her original ideas. At length I relented, consenting to make up what she had asked for. I took her measurements and she left, satisfied for the moment. But I knew in my heart that she would not be so pleased when she saw herself transformed into a shapeless, charmless version of her maiden aunt. Most likely many hours of further work would then be required, for no extra payment, making the alterations she would undoubtedly demand. Worst of all, she would be disinclined to recommend us to her friends.

We could not ignore what our customer had asked for, but we changed it subtly in every way: in the shape and length of the skirt, the neckline, the lace ruffles at the sleeves. We added boning to the bodice to give her a shapelier upper line than could ever be achieved with stays, and bold gatherings of the petticoat to emphasise her waistline. Most daring of all, we chose silks of a delicate design and colourway, floral on a plain pale ground, perfect for a lively young woman of her class.

All was completed just a day before the first fitting and I could sense among the seamstresses a collective holding of breath when she arrived. She tried on the evening gown first. It fitted beautifully and already I could see the transformation. But would she like it? There is usually a small frisson of nerves when you turn the looking glass and a lady sees herself for the first time in a new gown, but this time my heart was in my mouth. Lady Montagu moved in influential circles and although she did not appreciate it herself, her opinion was important.

‘My goodness,’ she breathed. ‘Is that really me?’

Indeed it was: a shapely young woman whose face, lit up as it was with a mixture of astonishment and delight, could almost be called beautiful. She posed and twirled before the glass for several minutes, before planting a kiss on my cheek. ‘Miss Charlotte, you are a miracle worker,’ she proclaimed.

That evening, after a modest meal of bread and cheese with a cup of hot broth, I climbed the stairs to my room, intending to immerse myself in a new novel, a gift from Louisa the previous Christmas that had lain neglected for months. Now I had some time for myself to enjoy it.

When I pushed aside a pile of papers from the table to make space for my tray, a small package slipped to the floor and fell open, its contents glittering in the candlelight. In the dramatic events of the past few weeks, I had forgotten all about it. The terror of nearly losing my best friend had become my uppermost concern and the pagoda silk meant nothing to me now. The birds and trees of the design looked plain and ordinary to my eyes, the scent of lavender barely detectable.

The desperation to find my mother that had gripped me like a kind of madness had gone. Poor thing, she lived in such poverty that she’d been forced to give up two daughters and had probably died young. Who cared how she’d come by the silk? I would probably never find out, but it barely mattered any more.

I am what I am, defined by what I do each day, the people I count as friends, and the ways in which I can help people, I said to myself. I am good at my job, I run a successful business on my own account, and have no need of a husband. My past is far behind me, and is really of no consequence to me today. I must put aside my search for my mother. What matters now is the future, and that is in the hands of children: Peter, Jean and little Charlotte. They must be my focus now. It sounds so simple recounting it now but it felt like an important revelation, a major shift in my life. I felt free, at last.

But life has a habit of changing everything. The following morning I received an unexpected visit.