Felicity's Fashions 3

 

Chapter 3

 

Swanley Court School for indigent gentlewomen

12^th March 1815

 

Dearest Fee,

You’ll never guess what, after your scathing condemnation of my literary talents in my last letter; but I am wanted as a governess!  And specifically for my own talents, may I add.

You recall Anne Maplin, who went off to stay with Miss Rackham after she had become Mrs. Sanderville, and Anne married an earl or something?  Well, apparently, he has a friend called Lionel Samms, who has inherited a Viscount and his siblings. That is to say, Mr. Samms is the guardian of a young viscount who has sundry siblings, including twins, and he most particularly wants a governess who understands that children like animals, and one who understands twins in particular. Anne appears to have babbled quite a lot about us, and Mr. Samms wrote to Libby and asked for me particularly. So, I am off to some place called Felsted Hall in the Wilds of Wiltshire for the convenience of Philip, Arthur, Jenefer, and Paul, who apparently range  down from almost ten summers old to seven. Paul is the youngest and I do not know how much I will have to do with him.  How lowering to think that the twins, Arthur and Jenefer, are only a little younger than we were when we started Swanley Court, well, maybe a couple of years younger, but they can scarcely be worse than the O’Tooles, and Paul, who is a little younger than the O’Toole twins, is at least on his own.

Speaking of the O’Tooles, Kathleen is in bed with a nasty cold, which Dr. Mac hopes may not turn bronchial.  Deirdre is wailing like her mythical counterpart, ‘Deirdre of the Sorrows,’ having been the author of the prank which led to this sad situation. The said prank involved the little demons setting up a swing – as if they do not have enough in the shrubbery – on the bank of that little stream which leads into the river, you know the one, which has the marshy area and the reedbeds for playing Hereward the Wake in.  Anyway, the idea was to swing right across the stream, and drop off at the right moment to have crossed it, which game proceeded unmolested and without incident for a couple of crossings, until the knot-tying skills of Deirdre, who had shinned up the tree to tie on the rope,  failed spectacularly under the weight of Kathleen, who descended, in the idiom of Deirdre ‘With a shriek loik a Banshee bein’ banished boi a priest with bell, book, and candle, wirra wirra, moi poor sisther drownded!’ Drowned Kathleen was not, but she landed in the slime at the edge of the brook, where it runs slowly, and such an object you never saw!  Well, pair of objects, for what must Deirdre do but leap into the water, doubtless with as spectacular a shriek as her sister, to save Kathleen from fully four inches of water. They tried to sneak  in to change surreptitiously, but were caught by Kitty, who dragged them off to Dr. Mac and then went to inform Libby. Deirdre is assuaging her conscience by learning suitable knots, since the accident would not have happened had she not managed a ‘granny’ knot. Deirdre is actually subdued at the moment, but it’s a worrying reason for her to be so. Fortunately, Dr. Mac believes that Kathleen will manage a full recovery, being rudely healthy.

I am going to make sure that my charges are well trained in the tying of knots and in basic first aid.  Dr. Mac has seen about re-installing the swing, with a proper loop to hold on to, and a bed of crushed reeds to land on in case of landing short, because once one of them has tried it, the rest will want to do so, and it’s ‘a muckle shame to no’ let them try, as long as their havers micht be made as safe as possible,’ in his inimitable vernacular.

Anyway, I am delighted that you have new customers, and that this Mr. Darcy fellow is out to make you fashionable; grab the opportunity with both hands, Fee; carpe diem, as Libby says. However, seizing the day is one thing, if he should be a sir or a baronet, you should perhaps avoid seizing the knight, if he is as stiff-necked as Darcy for real.

Your loving sister,

Preceptress Philippa.

 

“Well, I never,” said Felicity. “My scrapegrace sister is to be a governess.”

“Is that good?” asked Florence.

“It’s hilarious, anyway,” said Felicity. “Neither of us is what you might call academic, but she’s been engaged on her love of animals.  She collects waifs and strays, and has a one-eyed cat named Columbine, and a three-legged dog named Stumpy, so I expect they will be soon prime favourites with her charges.”

“Will she be allowed pets?”

“I doubt she’ll take the position if she isn’t,” said Felicity. “She’s happy enough teaching the little ones in the orphanage how to ride and drive, and doesn’t need to leave. She’s doing it as a favour to a friend of one of our married old girls.”

“Oh, I see,” said Florence. “I hope she will be happy.”

“Probably, as there are twins in the offing,” said Felicity. “Rather her than me, though.”

 

 

Hartley House

Grosvenor Square

March 13^th, by hand.

 

My dear Madame Felice,

I would like to bring my mistress to your shop for a gown or two. I would like this to be a private appointment, and I am willing to pay for your time and trouble for such. I assume you would prefer an evening appointment? Can you suggest a time in the next few days which is convenient?  Rosabelle has golden hair, blue eyes, and a pink-and-white complexion.  Pink and blue both suit her well.

Hartley.

 

22 Henrietta Street

March 13^th, by return of messenger

 

Dear Lord Hartley,

You should be aware that it would be foolish to have an evening appointment for comparing colours which should be seen in daylight; if you wish a comparison by candlelight, it is easy enough to darken a room for this effect, but procuring daylight during the evening is, unfortunately, a violation of the laws of nature, and as such, impossible to overcome.

I will be available to you and your inamorata for the duration of Wednesday afternoon, if that is to your satisfaction; you need not run the boy back to confirm if this suits you, I will take silence as assent.

Yours,

Felicity Goyder.

 

“Starchy miss,” said Victor Hartley.

“Who?” asked Vivienne.

“That modiste,” said Hartley.

“Oh, well, you can’t expect a lady to act like a shop girl, can you?” said Vivienne. “If I hadn’t had you when Mama and Papa succumbed to smallpox, I might have been in their situation. They went to a private charity school when their papa died, her and her twin.  I think it’s ever so brave of her to want to use her talents to make her own way as a modiste, and not just be a governess.”

“By Jove, I suppose so,” said Hartley. “She did put me right about her family being every bit as good as mine.”

“I expect she hates being patronised,” said Vivienne. “I would.”

 

22 Henrietta Street

13^th March

 

Dear Izzie,

Thank you for your letter, your gloomy misapprehensions have not come to pass, and we are very happy.  Felicity is a sweet-natured girl, and it rubs off on her employees. Even that girl, Trinity – what an outlandish name!  Apparently she’s a gypsy – has settled down. She is a small demon of mischief, but her mischief here seems to be confined to borrowing a copy of the Scottish Play from my collection in order to learn it by heart, to tease Mary and Janey. Ned likes her and treats her like the daughter we never had. He likes her sense of humour, and is teaching her to cook. I expect she will be as self-willed as any youngster and will take her skills to seek a good position when she is of age, but that’s the way of things. Oh! The funniest thing; she is the very image of one of Felicity’s customers, the Honourable Miss Vivienne Hartley, whose cousin used to be an actress until swept up by Lord Hartley to be his sister’s chaperone, and through whom we receive his patronage, and I fancy it would be more patronising had not Felicity told him off roundly [I wonder that she dares when she is so new in business!] over her own family being quite as old as his. I do not doubt it, she is unquestionably a lady.

Anyway, Trinity is in further good odour with us with regards to Miss Vinegar-face next door – I believe I have mentioned her before, making sly innuendo that I am a madam running a bawdy-house, because of Mary and Janey, and her comments on Felicity and Trinity have not been kind. Felicity overheard, and interrupted, and said, ‘Madam, if you consider my maid to be old enough to be in such situation, you are plainly completely depraved, and I should involve Bow Street to investigate your own household; as to your filthy comments about myself, my solicitor will be calling on you with a writ of cease and desist, and if you persist, I will sue you for the potential loss to my business as a modiste as I cater to decent women including those making their come-out.  Being of charitable persuasion, I give work to unwed mothers, but I doubt you know enough of the Bible to understand what charity is, good day to you.’  I believe a solicitor did visit, too, but more to the point, that imp Trinity fitted up red-coloured silver-paper shades on Miss Vinegar-face’s door lantern, and managed to attach  firecrackers to the hem of her skirt.

Half the residents of Henrietta Street slipped the child sweetmeats of some kind or other. It made up for Felicity spanking the girl for something which could have been dangerous; and she made Trinity set off a fire-cracker in a piece of muslin and showed how it roared up into fire. Trinity was, I think, more affected by this than by the spanking, and sobbed lustily.

I am afraid Ned gave her hot chocolate to cheer her up.

I did not listen to them plotting to introduce dead rats and cats to Miss Vinegar-face’s area.

Your loving sister-in-law,

Florence.

 

Hartley House, Grosvenor Square

14^th March

 

Rosabelle, you can either be ready for me to drive you to the modiste who is closing for your benefit tomorrow afternoon, or you may consider our relationship to be at an end. I have made arrangements for the new gown you desire, and you will meet my arrangements or you will not have a new gown. As simple as that.

Victor.

 

 

 

22 Henrietta street

15^th March

 

Dear Izzy,

I have to write to you. Felicity is fuming. Lord Hartley asked her to shut up shop for half a day so he could bring his mistress; and anticipating some custom, and not wanting to introduce a demimondaine to her normal customers – she has a number of actresses bringing in clothes for makeovers and mending now – she was prepared to comply.

Well, the mistress looks like a fairy queen and has a voice like a banshee.

Felicity cried out in delight on seeing her, and seized her sketchbook, and began designing.  Izzy! I would have killed for any of the dresses she drew when I was young, or at least, I would if modern fashions had prevailed.  She took the fairy theme, and designed a bodice which is basically a butterfly in embroidery and cutwork over a basic bodice, so that beaded antennae lay against the upper part of the bosom, and a jewelled clip as the body. From the bodice the skirt hung in hundreds of tiny pleats, with smaller appliqué butterflies swooping down it and some arranged around the hem for weight, and the sleeves loose and wide like a cross between a bishop sleeve and a puff, wide, soft, and caught to the elbow. Another was a neckline of cutwork butterflies, with others appliquéd on bodice and skirt. That wretched woman wrinkled up her nose and said that she did not want bugs on her gown. Bugs! I ask you! So Felicity smiles, makes a joke about Napoleonists and bees which went entirely over the wretched woman’s head as she has no idea that the bee is a symbol of the Corsican scourge, and goes back to drawing.

This time the female is happier, with chiffon roses all over the bodice, and Felicity sketches, and finds fabric swatches, and ascertains this is to be an opera gown, and as madam can’t make up her mind between blue and pink suggests a pale pink chiffon overgown over a blue satin petticoat, which will change colour as she moves, and roses in white and  rose pink.

The female wants Dhaka muslin not chiffon, and Felicity promises that she can have the length dyed appropriately and the gown made up for Saturday.  She’ll work on it herself, late at night, I know, because she wants this wretched man to make good his promise to make her famous. But, oh! The wretched woman was like the worst of my customers, complaining of this and that, and to do his lordship credit, which pleased Felicity, he tried to tone down her ideas, which were frankly vulgar, to what would be a lovely gown when finished.  I hope she appreciates it, but I wager she won’t.  Felicity has had to charge an outrageous price because of the Dhaka muslin, but his lordship seemed to understand about that. Felicity got in a small amount, and it is not the top quality, but it is still some fifty pounds a yard, and Felicity will use all that she has. This really will be a gown costing three hundred pounds and more. I had never even handled Dhaka muslin before! Izzie, it’s totally transparent, and yet so many threads that you cannot easily see the weave.  And yes, I know my eyesight is not so good these days, but even so! Anyway, I had to vent, for Felicity went early to bed with a headache from that woman, and will no doubt get up early to start work,  and the muslin is already  out for dying, to be dipped to make one edge more deeply dyed than the other and grading up to no dye at all.

I will let you know on Friday evening how it goes.

Florence.                    

Felicity's fashions 2

 

Chapter 2

                 

22 Henrietta St

6^th March 1815

 

My dear Phip,

Thank you for the illiterate scrawl, which I cannot really describe as a ‘letter’ as such. Am I to understand that a Roguish auntie got into Mr. Belvoir’s cucumbers, aided and abetted by the Ottomans? Or were you trying to tell me that Roscinante the donkey undertook this fellonious invasion with the aid of the O’Tooles?

Really, Phip, it is just as well you have no ambition to be a governess, your writing is worse than Doctor Mac’s.

I have more news than you – the peccadilloes of Roscinante and the O’Toole twins being more an inevitability than news – as I had my first customer today!

Her name is Helen Nuttley, she was urged to come by Mary and Janey, being a former fellow actress, and unlike their uncaring families, she has been looked up by her illustrious relative.  Or rather, by one illustrious relative who has just inherited his position as something – Miss Nuttley was a little vague about what he is, does, or anything else – but he has a sister who needs a companion, and he looked up his mother’s cousin first, because he has, it appears, proper family feeling.  He gave her money to get a gown, to meet the fair Vivienne, so that Miss Nuttley would not feel as if she was a poor relation, with intent to have her properly clothed later, and Miss Nuttley was hoping that the three hundred guineas he gave her would stretch further than one gown. Plainly he usually frequents places which have a higher profit margin than I am considering setting.  I plan to make her both stylish and respectable, and perhaps Mr. [or lord] Aspirant-Family-Man will consider me dressing his sister as well. Truly, it is wicked for a gown to sell for almost one hundred times the cost of the materials, and these well-known modistes also pay their sewers a pittance. I pay my workers threepence an hour plus board, which if they work a full day five days a week is five-and-twenty pounds a year. It’s as much as a housekeeper, but barely a third what a tailor gets for much the same work, and it gives them flexibility to care for their offspring.  Oh!  I did not tell you that Daisy produced two workers for me, Lillias Murdoch, a Scots lass with a, ah, ‘bonnie bairn’ who is two months old and a big, solemn-eyed baby, the child of a deceiving mill-foreman; and Amy Tull, who is close to her time but has experience of sewing, having been a slavey in a more prestigious establishment until the husband of one of the clients demanded her to go to help fit his pregnant wife with gowns made to hide her condition, and raped her, because his wife would not entertain his approaches.  If he comes here, his wife will be hearing the story, and he’ll find out I know where to put the ferrule of a parasol. Amy was turned off by the woman who ran the place where she worked, even though she knew what was in the customer’s mind, as Amy was used to model the clothes for his wife, being of similar looks, with pale blonde hair and delicate looks. Lillias is reddish brown in colouring with green eyes, of a sort; more like a stagnant pool than a rose leaf, but with amber rings to them. Between us we cover most colourings, and there are always wigs. I expect Janey and Mary would parade in costume for a small consideration too. Janey is dark and Mary blonde.

Anyway, Miss Nuttley was very pleased to have two day and two evening gowns, and some of her own gowns furbished up as well, with enough over for new underlinen and a decent bonnet, and for a pelisse from a second-hand clothing emporium.  She went off very happily, and we are busy working on her purchases.

And as I need to build my reputation, I must get back to work on it!

Your loving twin, Felicity.

 

P.S. They say that Bonaparte has left Elba and is marching on Paris. I suppose one cannot expect the Bourbon restored monarchs to be able to contain him, so we may have a flood of French refugees back in London. I am not sure I can manage to take any on as well as my own English employees, and though one had sympathy for the émigré population with the revolution, if they can’t keep Napoleon out, I can’t find much sympathy for them, as he’s their problem primarily.

Fee

 

 

 

 

Hartley House Grosvenor Square

9^th March 1815

 

My dear Madame Felice,

Thank you again for your excellent management of my budget and for my gowns. Cousin Victor was astonished at how far his largesse stretched, and commented that either you would be the talk of London, or you would go out of business. I ventured to say that for someone of my modest budget, a modiste who was prepared to furbish up older gowns was a lifesaver if one was to retain some semblance of self-worth and gentility.  He is such a cynic, and declared that he has a mind to make you fashionable, and that if you put up your prices, he will be justified, but that if you retain your reasonable rates, he will owe you an apology. I felt I had to warn you!  Cousin Victor can be very cynical and sneering, even unpleasant at times to those he despises, which, I fancy, is most modistes, but he has been nothing but kindly towards me, and also towards Vivienne, who is a delightful and vivacious girl. We are dearest friends already.  She has a cloud of dark hair, and blue eyes, which are beautiful  and warm in her face, though it is odd that Victor, who has the same colouring, looks as if his eyes come from the middle of a frozen lake, you know, when the ice is clear and blue. However, I fancy he will bring you his mistress, about whom Vivienne and I are not supposed to know, but her name is supposed to be Rosabelle deVere, which somehow I doubt. She is blonde and pale, with pale blue eyes, so you are warned as to colours. I hope you may be made fashionable but that you will also be able to help people like me.”

Helen Nuttley.

 

Henrietta St

10^th March

 

My dear Miss Nuttley,

Thank you for your letter, I am glad you are so happy. Please find enclosed the last dress you left with me.  Your account is up to date, and I hope you like the Urling’s lace overgown with added lace motifs and finished with a remnant length of blonde lace at the hem, and such as I cut from what was left at the neck, and finished with beading. I think you will like it.

 

Helen unwrapped the parcel with this letter, and squealed in delight.

“Oh, famous!” said Vivienne. “Is that the silk gown you told me was soiled and too old-looking to wear any more?  Why, it is like new, and quite fabulous!”

Helen held up the gown, and executed a few dance steps.

“Cousin Victor will not be ashamed of me in this,” she said.

“I hope he takes me to Madame Felice for my first grown up dresses,” said Vivienne. “Victor!” as her cousin came in. “Has not Madame Felice made an excellent job of this?”

“Indeed, it is a beautiful piece. Do I need to pay her?” asked Victor, Lord Hartley.

“No, sir, she says my account is quite up to date, for she had a remnant of lace to add to the Urling’s lace I had paid for, and for extra trim,” said Helen.

“The Urling’s lace is well disguised with applique from real lace motifs,” said Hartley. “I cannot see any reason you should not be dressed by Madame Felice, Vivienne, all her designs are tasteful, and hopefully she will also be aware you are very young.”

“I am sure she will be perfectly capable of making Vivienne’s ensemble for the season,” said Helen. “As you now have me for a chaperone.”

“And that is a suitable opera gown for a chaperone, too,”  said Hartley, approvingly.

 

 

22 Henrietta St

11^th March

 

Dearest Phip,

I am not sure if I find Viscount Hartley adorable or if I want to kill him.

He is the cousin of my first customer, who wrote to me warning me that he plans to make me fashionable to see if I put my prices up and satisfy his sense of cynicism, or whether I will require an apology. Insufferable, yes? But he is happy to be generous to Miss Nuttley, and to his sister, whom he brought in earlier today.    I had Trinity show how colours looked, for she is much the same colouring, a cloud of dark hair and eyes put in with a sooty finger-print, as the Irish say. Vivienne is a beautiful child, and will pay for dressing; her brother is of the same colouring as she is, but as Helen mentioned, his eyes hold as much warmth as deep lake frozen.  Naturally, as Vivienne is coming out for the season, she will have mostly white muslin of a variety of figuring, and will be charming in any colour she wears. Thank goodness none of the royalty have been so inconsiderate as to die, for black would be a disaster to the girl. I have recommended the patent invisible petticoats for her though, as it is so damnably cold and damp. I suggested to His Haughtiness that she should be given money to go into Mrs. Morris’s shop with her cousin, Helen, to purchase warm garments of lambswool as it would not be de rigeur for a gentleman to discuss intimate garments. He was much amused, but Vivienne was vexed with him for laughing. The wretched man  started off by gabbling at me in French; I was so pleased to have had extra lessons from Miss Joliffe whilst I was learning embroidery from her, so I gabbled back. He said, ‘Oh, I beg your pardon; you are genuinely French, then,’ and I smiled and said, ‘No, as it happens, I am English, yes, my real name is Felicity, my mother was of literary disposition, but if people will come to a modiste with a French name, I’d be a fool not to use one. You, however, already know my worth, and I have been trained in needlework by a French Canadian lady.’  He said, ‘You ain’t shy, are you? And as prickly as a hedgehog.’ I said, ‘Well, when you have red hair, you learn early to give as good as you get, and my family is as good as yours, even if not titled, so you cannot intimidate me.’ And he laughed. And then he called me ‘Miss Pride-and-Prejudice,’ after that excellent novel Libby got for the library. And I said, ‘At your service, Mr. Darcy. But permit me to do my job and find fabrics for Georgiana.’ Vivienne has not read the book, but I explained it to her whilst finding her fabrics, and she is agog to read it. She adores her brother, and it is not hard to see why, for he will do anything for her. Apparently she has been ill and is still a little weak, which was when I suggested the lambswool underwear. I will be outfitting the girl in jonquil, and apricot, and in pinks, not blues, for she needs the roses of her cheeks brought out, and any colour too pale will make her look ill.                       She was dubious at first but was ecstatic to see them on Trinity.         The fashion plate for evening wear from February shows that puffed sleeves with contrasting colours let in is in fashion, so that allows me to show some colour for her, matching ribbons at the bodice. It is more fashionable to wear pastels over a white slip than the other way around, but of course for Almack’s she must be in white. How amusing to know someone who moves in such dizzy circles!  Though of course, so does Daisy, but one rather expects Daisy to get anywhere she wants.

Have you seen the French spencers, Phip? They must be a good deal warmer than normal spencers, as they come in under the bosom but then have skirts to about natural waist length. However, I think they look quite horrible, at least, on anyone who does not have a low waist, for they make anyone look short-waisted. I cannot think it will be a long-lasting fashion accessory. It may be good to keep warm, but at the expense of looking an absolute frump? I think not. I advised Vivienne that she would be better with a demi-length negligée or robe with long sleeves, over a petticoat, as a morning gown, for I have seen fashion plates from France, and what France has in February, Britain will have by April. I sketched the idea for her, and as I am making her a number of morning gowns in printed cambric, she asked for two negligées, one in blue, for she has picked a very pretty cloud with a blue floral pattern, and one in apricot for a pretty print of apricot coloured flowers with olive leaves and brown vines between. I advised her also to go to Daisy’s shop where they match bonnets and shawls and will dye ribbons and feathers to order. I have one each of Daisy’s best-selling shawls, to match cloth to, and showed her one which she was a little disgruntled not to buy, but I told her to ask for number fifteen shawl, in apricot, brown, olive, and blue.  It would match her blue morning gown as well. She was much impressed by the efficiency of this system, and I explained our association with Daisy, and how she turned out to own a diamond mine, and has old soldiers travelling for her to give them time in the sun and purchasing shawls from Kashmir and Tashkent, and guess what, Phip?  I even know where they are, because it is interesting to know where real things come from. The East India Company have a stranglehold on Dhaka muslin, but Daisy’s buyers came upon which is not as fine – the thread-pick is only 300 threads to the inch, not 800 to 1200, and it is not quite such a fine thread, but it is better than anything which can be woven in Britain and takes a figured weave very well. I am paying off for a couple of miles of the cloth with a satin stripe in it, to be dyed by the piece by Daisy’s dyers, and I recommended that she consider this as an option.

This is a long letter, but don’t expect another one for a while; I have an ensemble to make.

Oh, Trinity made me laugh, she told Vivienne that if she ever got bored, she’d be happy to stand in for her. They do look uncannily alike, stood side by side, and I could see that Mr. Darcy – whieh I shall continue to call him to you – was much struck. He asked me where Trinity had come from.  I am afraid I was overcome by twinniness and said gravely, ‘Well, Lord Hartley, when a flower and a bee love each other very much indeed, they exchange pollen...’ and he gave me such a look but I could not keep a straight face. And then I explained about Trinity, and he said, ‘poor girl, she has landed on her feet with you,’ and I pointed to my portrait, and said, “so much talent needs  nurturing.’

Anyway, I am dead on my feet.

Fee.

 

Felicity's Fashions 1

 

Chapter 1  March 1815

 

22 Henrietta Street

3^rd March, 1815

 

My dearest Phip,

You need not think that I have in any way forgotten my beloved twin, for I miss you most cruelly, but the last three days have been an absolute whirl of activity. You know how Daisy is! Just because she’s married, with children of her own does not stop her being an absolute tornado of organising, especially for those of us who were founder members of the orphanage with her. And since she bundled me into her carriage, lock, stock, and barrel, bag and baggage, waving a frantic farewell to you, I have not, I think, had a moment to myself [when not sleeping the sleep of the exhausted] to miss my other half, the best Philippa in the world. Disregard me; this constant rain makes me despondent, not to mention morning fogs.

Well! What are you doing in Henrietta Street, I hear you ask! Indeed, I thought I was to work in Daisy’s shop – Madame Marguerite  as she is there to the girls who are her partners – on Fleet Street. I was never more surprised! Daisy’s partners are milliners, and she felt I should branch out in my proper milieu – her words – as a modiste. And  as I have been making her gowns for her for the last two years she ought to know if I am good enough! She is all that is generous – she bought the whole property in Henrietta Street from its owner, a Miss Florence Piper, who had been running the lower floor as a mantua maker, but whose vision is growing poor and her fingers stiff, so I am to run the business, with stock, and a dwelling, rent free for a whole year, and Miss Piper, who has asked me to call her Florence, as my companion and guaranteed a place to stay for life.

And you are agog to know more, but I will get there, in my own way.

I blurted out, and cursed my lack of tact, ‘But I thought Florence was a male name?’ and bless Florence, she just smiled, and said that it was given to girl babies too, more, usually in thinking of it being like a flower than because of the Italian city. [I have looked at a map of Italy in the library to find out where Florence might be; you know that geography and I have never been close friends. I am sure you remember how I managed to locate Leghorn on the coast of India when Mrs. Belvoir – I must remember to call her Libby as she asks her grown up girls to do – had blank maps printed for us to label principal cities.]

Anyway, Florence was named because her parents met in Florence and decided to name their firstborn for the city regardless of if it was a boy or a girl. And she has no living siblings, but I have not dared ask if they, when living, were also named for places.

Florence retains her bedroom and sitting room, a pretty little parlour, on the first floor; below, of course, is the shop, fitting rooms, and workshop, and Daisy must have vexed the household sorely in insisting on having the workshop fitted with gas lighting, and a Bramah closet on each floor; we are not alone in the house, for Florence comes as a matched set with her man-of-all-work, Bailey, who rules the basement. I think, however, he is her paramour, and sleeps with her, not below stairs, for I have surprised some affectionate moments between them.  Moreover, he assured me that he locks the door to the basement at night, as one of our lodgers lives there in the butler’s quarters.  He calls himself Vittorio Mancini, but his name on the books is Victor Manson; he is a violinist in the orchestra at Covent Garden, and the Italianate name helps him get work. He seems inoffensive, a rather undernourished man going thin on top, with a stoop, and a habit of fleeing if addressed with any pleasantry.

Our other lodgers reside on the fourth floor under the attic, and comprise a pair of actresses. Not opera dancers, I hasten to add, quite respectable girls, who supplement their meagre income sewing for both the theatre and undertaking piece-work for Florence, and now for me. Their names are Mary Macey, and Janey Ryder, but they work under the names of Marietta de Macier, and Jeanette Fabrier, which is more comfortable for their families, as Mary is the daughter of a vicar in Wandsworth, and Janey is the orphaned daughter of a naval lieutenant who has grander relatives, though I have to say, as they were too grand to take in an impoverished orphan relative, they ought not to mind their name being used. But Janey is afraid of them forcing her into some asylum for fallen women, so one must honour her little foibles.

And then, yesterday, Daisy insisted that I should have a maid. She hied me off to the asylum for female orphans, and Oh, Phip, I was so glad we were taken in to Elinor’s and Libby’s school . Do you remember that awful woman who locked me in a cupboard?  All the women there reminded me of her.  Anyway, we looked around, and I noticed a slate was being passed around, and I intercepted it, and it was a rather clever caricature of me, with quite carrot-coloured hair, executed, I fancy, with a piece of brick. I looked a regular nose-in-the-air madam! So I did not show it to the chief besom – I forget her title – but asked ‘Who is the author of this?’ and a girl stood up, her hair looking as if she was Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine, cut off all short and quite like a boy. So I threw her the simple cotton round-gown I had brought, and told her to change, and bring what possessions she had, as she was now my maid. I managed to steal the slate! 

So I asked the girl her name, and she gave me an old fashioned look.

“They named me Abishag,” she said. “The other girls call me ‘Shaggy’ because my hair won’t lie down, so the wardress cut it.” I noted that she referred to the woman in charge by so unflattering an appellation.

“And do you have a name of your own?”  I asked.

“My name used to be Trinity Smith, but they said it was a bad name.”

“Would you like to go back to being Trinity?” I asked.

“Cor, yerse,” she said. The child is a gypsy, with eyes like the Irish, dark blue with sooty lashes, and as wild as any O’Toole. I have no doubt I will regret taking on so wild a spirit variously, but she reminded me of you, to be honest, though with dark hair, not the strawberry blonde we share.  I got her some coloured chalks and rough paper and you’d think I had given her the moon. She recreated the picture of me, at my request, and I paid her for it, which surprised her, and I have had it framed to hang. I think she is more tickled by that than that I should have paid her!  Anyway, she’s about twelve or thirteen, and it’s a sensitive age to be an orphan. I sat her down and explained the changes a girl goes through to be a woman and it seems she had had the first manifestation of that and was beaten for soiling the bed, without any explanation about how to avoid making a mess, and she had been wondering what was wrong with her, as animals don’t generally bleed when on heat [you will adore her; she rescued a bird from Bailey’s cat, and then proceeded to pet the cat as well for being clever].  Anyway, she now has a supply of cloths and several changes of garments and shifts, and I will probably use her as a model to show off clothes as well, so I need her to be dressed fairly well, and she will pay for dressing. I have her wearing a scarf  to cover her poor shorn locks, in a less formal style than a turban, but put her back into a white linen cap I will not, which, together with the awful sack-like dress and pinafores those girls wear make them  look as if they had escaped from the baggage train of the New Model Army. Now she really does look a bit of a gypsy, for I made her wear a scarf of the brightest coquelicot, and ribbons to match on her round-gown. I don’t see why servants should not enjoy pretty colours too, so long as they are neat and clean; and that, I have declared to her, is my livery. She giggled.  Bailey said, “I bain’t wearin’ poppy red jackets for nobody, no, nor yaller stockings cross-gartered, whatever that may be,” from which I deduced that Mary and Janey had been teasing him.  My knowledge of Shakespeare is, at least, better than my knowledge of Geography, and I said, gravely, “At least those girls have not said, ‘the devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon,’” which had Mary and Jane shrieking and performing the most heathen-looking rituals and quoting from Hamlet. Once Bailey realised I was teasing them back, not him, he became quite expansive, and he is an expert at making London crumpets.

I shall get fat if I am not careful! Still, Trinity and I live mostly on the second floor; the third is devoted to storage of fabrics, so I shall be doing a lot of running up and down stairs. Bailey has taken Trinity under his capable wing to teach her how to brew a decent cup of tea [and how fortunate it is that his concept of ‘decent’ coincides with the robust brew we have become used to in the orphanage] and make little cakes, as well as how to launder fine fabric and iron it properly. I expect I will lose her when she reaches a grand old age of one- and-twenty, as a housekeeper somewhere. In the meantime, however, she might as well learn all she can – Libby’s maxims, you see, coming out in this, the latest of her flock to fly the nest.

I will be employing some more seamstresses of course, Daisy said she would find me some unmarried mothers who would be glad of a job with accommodation  if I would put up with babies, and as we are quite used to babies, I am not bothered. Florence had to let her seamstresses go, when she could not keep up as well; I am lucky that Daisy is letting me stay a year rent free to get myself established. I am also lucky that Florence is so convivial!

Anyway, it is late at night, and I am tired.

Love you,

Felicity.

 

22Henrietta Street

3^rd March 1815

 

Dear Izzie,

How lucky I am! you recall I told you I would have to sell up Mama’s little house in Henrietta Street, and would probably end up in dire lodgings where my dear Ned would be looked at askance? Well, my house has been bought by the wealthy lady named Mrs. Nettleby, who is a connection of the aristocracy, no less! And it is written into the sale that I will have a home there for the remainder of my life, and Ned Bailey to be given a home if I should predecease him. These little formalities seem macabre, but it is as well to get such things out of the way and signed and sealed rather than finding oneself destitute. Mrs. Nettleby spent some time in an orphan asylum, not knowing about her fortune, and she has installed a fellow orphan, of impeccable family, I hasten to add, to take on the business of modiste. As this girl, though very young, dresses Mrs. Nettleby, who is always beautifully turned out, I have every expectation that she will make a good go of the business and she was very happy to receive my offer to look over her books for her. She has acquired a maid, whom I strongly suspect of being a young demon of mischief. Still, she appears devoted to Miss Goyder, or Felicity, as I shall be calling her, a delightful girl who does not seem to have any disagreeable faults.  I am mightily relieved, for I was imagining all kinds of terrible things I might have seen in my nightmares. I believe that Felicity and I will deal most tolerably together. I confess, I wondered if so fancy a name were assumed, but apparently she has a twin named ‘Philippa’ so their parents plainly wished to be individualists. She plans to be ‘Madame Felice’ however to attempt to attract those for whom the French are the ultimate dernier cri modistes, and her French is good enough to fool most people. She appears to have had a most extensive education in this orphan asylum for gentlewomen, though she cannot tell left from right, and informed me that her attainments with geography were sufficiently poor that she would have to look up ‘Florence’ and thought she was doing well to be moderately sure it was in either Italy or Spain. Still, she knows enough ‘Macbeth’ to intimidate those two little fools upstairs, who are nice enough girls, but a lot sillier than any woman should have to cope with in her house. So I am quite in charity with her at the moment.

I will let you know how things progress when she is settled in; we are to have unwed mothers as her work force, which might be a mixed blessing. They will be good, grateful workers for being given a chance, but squalling babies fill me with dismay! But then, I reflect that I might have to put up with much worse if I found myself in a boarding house, as I know you would not have room for me with your dear children since you had to move out when my dear brother Portland died.

 

Your loving sister-in-law, Florence Piper