The Forgotten Seamstress (12 page)

‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I knew it would suit you. Lavender always reminds me of a sunny summer’s day.’ Well you can imagine that put a smile on my face and I blushed like a beetroot but somehow that didn’t seem to matter, we was so comfortable with each other. We drank sherry while he talked about his war experiences, how he enjoyed being with what he called ‘real people’, his pleasure in being recognised for his skills and hard work and not just for being a prince, his frustration at not being allowed to go to the front line. Now it looked like the Americans would join the war the tide would soon turn our way, he felt sure, and it would be won within the year.

We kissed and then he asked me, would I like to? And, foolish girl, I nodded. Look at what happened to poor Charlie, I thought to myself, we have to take our fun while we can, and hang the consequences. Devil-may-care – that just about sums up what I felt that evening. In the back of my head I’m thinking that, when the war is over, he will have to marry his royal princess. So why not make hay while the sun shines?

This time we did it properly, in his bed, with our clothes off and all. It was as though the months and years had never passed and, though I was already approaching my twenty-first birthday, we were like young lovers again. He was kind and gentle, affectionate and attentive, and took me to another world where our differences did not exist. It felt like standing on a cliff edge ready to jump, to enjoy the thrill of falling, not even considering what might happen when I reached the bottom. I never wanted it to end, but of course I knew that it had to.

I’ve thought and thought about that night. After all that time when he was away and not even taking the trouble to write, why did I do it? Why hadn’t I learned my lesson? Why didn’t I face the facts? I wasn’t the loose type of girl but I’d never known life outside of the orphanage and the palace, and I was just naïve. Self-destructive, the docs round here would call it, though the idea would never have entered my head at the time. The truth is that he was the only boy who had ever shown me any affection, which is what I craved more than anything, like a drug. And like a drug addict, I couldn’t say no.

I never saw him again because soon afterwards he returned to France. The days slipped by in a fog of misery and Nora was too concerned with her own loss to pay much notice of me.

A few weeks later, I realised that my luck truly had run out. Me monthlies failed to come. Hot baths and gin wouldn’t shift it, and I even tried throwing myself downstairs but this only left me with a sprained shoulder, a black eye and a three-day headache. I prayed hard, too, but by three months I knew that I had, if you’ll excuse the expression, cooked my goose.

There’s a long silence, then a gentle voice: ‘Are you all right, Maria? Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?’

Just give me a moment, dear. Can we turn that thing off while I catch me breath?

Patsy Morton research diary

Spent the day interviewing M. What a dear old thing! She’s so convincing and her story even brought a tear to my eye once or twice, but how am I meant to believe she had an affair with the Prince of Wales? Why in heaven’s name would a man who had the cream of London society falling at his feet want to seduce a servant girl?

But she’s such a sweetie and very entertaining, and I’m enjoying letting her ramble on. Might even use her as a character in a story some day. Have already decided to include her in my research, whatever Dr Watts says. Already on second cassette – need to buy more.

Transcribed some of the tapes – a long old job – and befriended technician in the university labs to get my photos developed. Had to pretend I fancied him, and even ended up having to kiss him, just for a set of photos! Still it was worth it – I didn’t want to have to go to Boots.

Here’s the entry from the first page of her medical notes, that I photographed:

‘Miss R. was admitted to Helena Hall three weeks ago, and was certified as suffering from paranoid delusional mania. Apparently she was in service (as a seamstress) at a large house but, since it appeared that she had no members of her family still alive, her employer had no option but to request certification. Upon admission, Miss R. exhibited patterns of extreme behaviour, making fantastical claims, including attempts at suicide, putting not only herself but other patients and staff in danger, requiring physical restraint and treatment with paraldehyde which has proved initially successful.’

Am def. going to carry on with M.

London, 2008

After the fruitless meeting with Pearl I decided to give up on finding out about the quilt, and concentrate on setting up my new interior design business. But Jo was still determined to prove her theory about the silks and had fixed up a meeting with her boss, Annabel Smythe-Dalziel, Senior Curator of Costumes, Royal Palaces.

The old leather case was too heavy to carry on the tube, so I hauled down my wheelie bag from the top of the wardrobe, lined it with an old cotton sheet and then carefully folded the quilt, patchwork side inwards, before zipping up the case. It fitted perfectly.

It was a bright, cold day and Kensington Palace seemed to glimmer in the low January sun. I waited nervously in the entrance hall, surrounded by crowds of over-excited schoolchildren and harassed teachers, until Jo arrived. She opened a door hidden in the panelling into the back-stairs area, and led the way along several dark corridors and into a white, well-lit room with a large table in its centre.

Miss S-D turned out to be every bit as imperious as her name suggested. I guessed she was in her mid-fifties, tall and rangy, with a long face framed by stiffly lacquered hair held firmly in place with the kind of velvet hairband you only ever see in
Tatler
magazine. Her handshake was like a vice, her voice clipped, and I understood immediately why everyone was in awe of the woman.

Jo passed me a pair of white cotton gloves and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her stifling a fit of the giggles as I nervously put them on back to front, with my little fingers in the thumb side. Then I had to take them off and start all over again as the two of them stood waiting, ready gloved.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got, then,’ Miss S-D said briskly.

As we unfolded it across the table the quilt looked dull and shabby in the harsh glare of the artificial lighting, out of place in this pristine environment. I muttered apologies about the state of it as she leaned forward, peering through her magnifying glass.

‘Hmm. Medallion design, central square on point, nothing unusual.’ Jo and I waited, suspended in anticipation as she scrutinised the embroidered central triangle and feather designs and the minutes ticked past on the wall clock above our heads.

Eventually, she stood up and stretched her back. ‘This really is
exceptionally
interesting. Tell me, Miss Meadows,’ she pointed at the embroidery, ‘what do you see?’

‘A lover’s knot?’

‘Most handsomely embroidered it is, too,’ she said approvingly, handing me the magnifying glass. ‘But, as I think you know, it is the cream damask background fabric that deserves closer attention. Take a look for yourself.’

I leaned over the quilt and put my eye to the glass.

‘Do you see the rose, and thistle, and then at the corner, the curved edge of what would have been a garland of shamrocks?’ A self-satisfied smile glinted across her horsey face. Across the table, Jo made a silent ‘told you so’ smirk, then hastily resumed a normal expression as her boss turned to her.

‘What is of particular interest, as you have already noticed, Joanna, is that these sections of background tissue, so beautifully made up of smaller pieces, are very reminiscent of the fabrics woven by Warner & Sons to designs created by the Silver Studio for the Duchess of Teck, for the wedding dress and trousseau of her daughter Princess May. Some of the fabrics were woven with silver threads and this certainly looks like a metallic weft although it is very tarnished.’ Miss S-D turned her gimlet eyes to me again. ‘Tell me, have you any provenance for this quilt, Miss Meadows? Joanna tells me it was left to you by your grandmother.’

‘That’s right. But we don’t think it was actually made by her. We think it might have been a woman she met, who had been a patient in a mental hospital, and was apparently an excellent seamstress.’

Miss S-D’s face resumed its default expression of haughty scepticism. ‘It seems extremely unlikely that whoever it was could have got hold of royal silks in a mental hospital,’ she said. ‘Those designs were extremely closely guarded and I have never seen any trace of them outside our own collections, the V&A and the Warner Archive.’

She leaned over once more to scrutinise the border around the inner square, with its brightly coloured appliqué figures that I had so loved as a child. Eventually, she stood up and folded the magnifying glass. ‘The remainder is not so interesting, except for two points. It is rare for quilters to use velvets because they are difficult to handle, but what makes this even more unusual is that this velvet is hand-woven and therefore likely to have been made in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, no later. After that, most velvet was woven on power looms, apart from a very few hand weavers specialising in supplying restoration projects. So it’s unusual, certainly, and probably a century old, though not necessarily royal.’

‘What was the second point?’ Jo prompted.

‘The quality of the work,’ Miss S-D said, almost smiling. ‘It is exceptional.’ She pointed at the designs running along the outermost panel that I’d rather assumed were depictions of dawn or sunset. ‘These are grandmother’s fan designs, still widely used by quilters today and certainly they are a more recent addition, perhaps nineteen seventies, judging from the fabric, but the needlework is by the same hand, and is still remarkable for its quality. I’ve examined plenty of top-notch craftsmanship, believe me, but I’d go so far as to say it is the equal of any hand-sewn work that I have ever seen.’

‘That’s quite a compliment,’ I said.

‘Indeed.’ A genuine smile softened the haughty expression at last.

‘If the silks are authentic, would that make the quilt valuable?’

‘In financial terms probably not a great deal, depending on the market, of course,’ she said. ‘But if those silks are what I think they are, then this piece is certainly of great historical interest, so you need to think carefully about what you want to do with it in future. In the meantime, it would be helpful if you could find out as much as you can about its provenance.’ She took off her gloves, signalling that our session was coming to a close.

‘One last question: do you think it is worth getting it dry cleaned?’

Jo and Miss S-D adopted matching expressions of dismay. ‘Any kind of cleaning could be a disaster, Miss Meadows, unless carried out by a fully qualified fabric conservator,’ the curator said. ‘Joanna can let you have some details of good companies, and perhaps you could get the fabric strand-tested at the same time, just to be a hundred per cent sure. Personally, I think this piece is definitely worth the investment. You
will
take great care of it, won’t you?’

‘I certainly will,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for your time.’

By the time we’d repacked the quilt in its sheet and zipped it back into my wheelie, it was gone five, and Jo went to get her coat.

‘Shall we have a drink before you head off to darkest south London?’ I asked.

‘Are you okay?’ Jo gave me a concerned look as I brought the drinks to the table – red wine for me, orange juice for her.

‘I think so, why do you ask?’

‘No offence, but you look exhausted.’

‘I’ve been feeling a bit crap since the weekend. Think I’ve picked up some kind of tummy bug. Kill or cure,’ I said, taking a slug of wine. ‘How’s things with you?’

‘Get this, we’ve just booked a week in Morocco – three days in Marrakesh, then trekking in the Atlas mountains,’ she beamed. ‘Our first proper holiday together, ever.’

‘Sounds brilliant, I’ve always wanted to go there. When?’

‘End of the month – they say the temperatures should be in the thirties.’

‘Lucky sods. Just don’t post photos of yourselves in the sunshine or I might die of envy, stuck here in the winter gloom.’ I took another sip of wine. ‘Look, thanks so much for this afternoon. Horsey-face seems to agree with you about the silks.’

‘Makes a nice change.’

‘She really is a bit of a dragon. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then”,’ I mimicked Miss S-D’s plummy brusque tone.

‘Your quilt really charmed her though,’ Jo said.

‘It’s weird, there really is something a bit bewitching about it. I spend more time thinking about the thing than planning my new business. Not a good sign.’

‘Have you got any further finding out who actually made it?’

I described my meeting with Pearl Bacon and her story of the patient who claimed to have worked for the queen.

‘Any chance they’re the same person?’

‘I did wonder, but Pearl didn’t seem to think so. She said lots of patients had delusions that they were famous historical figures, or had connections to them, and it all sounded very unlikely. Not much to go on, I don’t think.’

‘Whoever made it, I’d still love to know where they got those silks from.’

‘Me too,’ I said, thinking about Pearl, and Ben, and whether I would ever unravel the mystery.

As we went our separate ways, Jo to the bus and me to the underground station, the streets were still busy and the tube platforms rammed with commuters. I squeezed myself and the wheelie into a packed carriage, thanking my lucky stars that I no longer had to endure this torment every day.

As I changed trains at Leicester Square, a woman tripped at the bottom of the escalator, falling to the ground immediately in front of me. Instinctively, I held out my arms to hold back the crush of people behind me, and tried to help her up. She scrambled to her feet hastily, insisting in a strong foreign accent that she was not hurt. A man who claimed to be a first-aider offered to help, but she seemed anxious to be on her way.