The Dressmaker’s Secret Read online

  Praise for Charlotte Betts

  ‘A colourful story with a richly-drawn backdrop of London in the grip of the plague. A wonderful debut novel’

  Carole Matthews

  ‘Romantic, engaging and hugely satisfying. This is one of those novels that make you feel like you’ve travelled back in time’

  Katie Fforde

  ‘A vivid tale of love in a time of plague and prejudice’

  Katherine Webb

  ‘If you are looking for a cracking good story and to be transported to another age, you really can’t beat this’

  Deborah Swift

  ‘A thoroughly enjoyable read which will keep you enthralled until the very last page’

  Jean Fullerton

  Charlotte Betts began her working life as a fashion designer in London. A career followed in interior design, property management and lettings. Always a bookworm, Charlotte discovered her passion for writing after her three children and two stepchildren had grown up.

  Her debut novel, The Apothecary’s Daughter, won the YouWriteOn Book of the Year Award in 2010 and the Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers. It was shortlisted for the Best Historical Read at the Festival of Romance in 2011 and won the coveted Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Historical Romantic Novel RoNA award in 2013. Her second novel, The Painter’s Apprentice, was also shortlisted for Best Historical Read at the Festival of Romance in 2012 and the RoNA award in 2014. The Spice Merchant’s Wife won the Festival of Romance’s Best Historical Read award in 2013 and was shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s Historical Romantic Novel RoNA award in 2015.

  Charlotte lives with her husband in a cottage in the woods on the Hampshire/Berkshire border.

  Visit her website at www.charlottebetts.com and follow her on Twitter @CharlotteBetts1

  Also by Charlotte Betts

  The Apothecary’s Daughter

  The Painter’s Apprentice

  The Spice Merchant’s Wife

  The Milliner’s Daughter (e only)

  The Chateau by the Lake

  Christmas at Quill Court (e only)

  The House in Quill Court

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Piatkus

  978-0-3494-1415-7

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Charlotte Betts

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  PIATKUS

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  The Dressmaker’s Secret

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Charlotte Betts

  About the Author

  Also by Charlotte Betts

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Historical Note

  Further Reading

  For Oliver

  Acknowledgements

  It is often said that it takes a whole village to raise a child and it’s the same with publishing a book. I may have given birth to The Dressmaker’s Secret but I was assisted by many others.

  The story was conceived whilst on a writing retreat with Carol McGrath, Deborah Swift and Jenny Barden, all historical novelist friends. I was searching for inspiration when I read about the extraordinary life of Princess Caroline of Brunswick. Full of excitement, we discussed my initial ideas, over a glass of wine or two, in the simmering heat of a Greek summer.

  My agent, Heather Holden-Brown, was endlessly supportive as I wrestled to refine the story into something resembling an outline fit to present to my publishers.

  Research into Caroline’s story and the Villa Vittoria in Pesaro continued over many months. Local architect Roberta Martufi, who had some years before been involved in renovation works at the villa, patiently answered my email enquiries.

  My wonderful writing group, WordWatchers, made time to read the whole manuscript of The Dressmaker’s Secret and offered constructive criticism. As always, their suggestions were sweetened with copious supplies of tea and cake.

  Once the manuscript was delivered to Piatkus, my lovely editor, Dominic Wakeford, made helpful suggestions for revisions and then Lynn Curtis copy-edited the revised manuscript with a light and careful hand.

  My very grateful thanks to all of the above and, not least, to my husband and family who listened with only slightly glazed eyes when I banged on about Caroline of Brunswick, yet again.

  Chapter 1

  January 1819

  Pesaro, Italy

  As Ma and I approached Pesaro for the first time I was still simmering with resentment and the atmosphere between us was as frosty as the January afternoon. For days now the coach had lurched along the rutted road up one side of the snow-dusted mountains, only to plunge perilously down the other while we clung, white-knuckled, to the travelling straps. Despite the trials of the journey we’d barely exchanged a word since Arezzo.

  Ma huddled into the seat opposite me with a blanket wrapped around her diminutive form. I stared out of the window, mulling over our quarrel as the mountains gave way to undulating hills and farmland. Finally, we reached the sea at the town of Fano, where the other passengers alighted. Ma and I remained shrouded in uneasy silence as the coach continued along the coast road. How many times had the wind blown us into a strange town to make a new start? Perhaps this time, please this time, we’d stay for good. My mother and I had always drifted like thistledown on the breeze, landing for a few precious months in a village or town until a panicky squall of her perpetual unease whisked us away again.

  Despite my annoyance with Ma for insisting we move on yet again, my spirits lifted as I studied the coastline. A bracing wind buffeted the coach as we bowled along. I had never lived near the sea before and a prickle of unexpected excitement made me fidget. White horses danced along the tips of the waves rolling in from the sea and I itched to run down to the water’s edge and feel the salty spray on my face. Dragging down the window, I leaned out.

  ‘Emilia, it’s too cold!’ protested Ma.

  An icy gust of wind snatched my breath away and I laughed and clutched
at my hat as my hair whipped across my cheeks.

  A warning shout, almost drowned by the pounding of the sea, made me glance at the road behind. Ears back and necks outstretched, two piebald ponies galloped towards us at breakneck speed. Behind the runaways was a high-perch phaeton, careering from side to side while its passengers shrieked in terror. Within seconds the ponies had bolted past and the little carriage crashed against our coach, scraping along one side with an ear-splitting screech. As the impact threw me backwards I caught a glimpse of the driver, his features set in a rictus of fear as he struggled to bring the ponies under control.

  Ma screamed as we veered off the road and, with a bone-shaking crash, thumped into a tree. I was thrown violently to the floor and pain exploded in my shoulder. Outside, there was a yell and a clatter. A horse whinnied in terror. Then there was silence except for the creak of leather as our swaying coach settled.

  I exhaled slowly.

  Ma, her round face bleached with shock, looked at me mutely with a question in her grey eyes.

  Rubbing my shoulder, I pulled myself to my feet and opened the door. My French and Italian were fluent since we’d spent my lifetime travelling but Ma still had a noticeable English accent. She always preferred me to communicate with others since she was frightened of drawing unwanted attention.

  Our coachman was already calming his horses as they tossed their manes in fright.

  I ran ahead to where the phaeton lay upside-down with its wheels still spinning. The piebald ponies lay tangled in the traces, pawing the grass, eyes rolling and flanks heaving.

  The driver, a little younger than myself, lay sprawled on the ground fingering a trail of blood that trickled from beneath his sandy hair.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I called.

  He nodded. ‘Idiot ponies!’ His eyes were pale blue and since his Italian was as heavily accented as Ma’s, I surmised he was English.

  I caught sight of what appeared to be a bundle of clothing tossed on the ground but then it moved. I hurried to investigate and discovered it was a little girl. Black ringlets lay across her face and I smoothed them away to reveal a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg on her forehead. Her eyelashes fluttered as I gathered her up in my arms.

  A faint cry came from behind the phaeton and then a foot encased in a scarlet boot waved in the air.

  I sat the little girl on the ground and ran to help.

  A stout middle-aged lady lay on her back, her skirts rucked up above her stockings to expose plump thighs. ‘Victorine! Willy!’ she called. She had a guttural accent, German perhaps.

  I helped her into a sitting position and pulled down her skirts to restore her modesty. She appeared to be unharmed, though her outrageously high-crowned hat, adorned with enormous ostrich plumes, had slipped sideways over her eyes. Disconcertingly, the black wig she wore under the hat had slipped, too.

  ‘Where is my son Willy?’ she asked. Her lips were painted a garish vermilion, her eyebrows blackened and cheeks heavily rouged.

  I brushed a clump of mud off her shoulder. ‘The driver? He has a cut to the head but is otherwise unhurt.’

  She looked wildly around. ‘And Victorine… Is she safe? Where is my little treasure?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have her.’ I returned to the child and lifted her up.

  The woman held out plump, beringed hands. ‘Come to Mamma, my darling!’

  Surprised, I placed the whimpering child in her arms. No amount of white lead or rouge could make her look like the girl’s mother rather than her grandmother.

  Victorine howled, burying her head in the woman’s pillowy bosom.

  Our coachman ran his hands over the piebald ponies’ fetlocks and then released them from their traces. ‘You won’t be driving that rig home,’ he said to Willy. ‘The wheel is buckled.’

  The young man stuck out his bottom lip and kicked at the offending wheel. ‘Useless thing!’

  ‘Help me up!’ called the woman.

  I took the wailing child while Willy pulled his mother to her feet. She was short, even smaller than Ma, but rotund, with a bosom that formed a pronounced shelf under an embarrassment of chins.

  Handing the reins to Willy, the coachman rocked the phaeton and heaved it the right way up. It was a most extraordinary vehicle, shaped like a conch shell, heavily gilded and decorated with mother-of-pearl. The inside was padded with blue velvet and embellished with silver fringing.

  We stood watching in a shivering huddle, while Willy and the coachman dragged it back onto the road.

  Victorine clung to me, hot tears soaking my shoulder as I attempted to soothe her. ‘Would you all like to come in the coach with us to Pesaro?’ I said over the child’s noisy sobs. ‘I expect you’ll find a wheelwright there to repair the phaeton.’

  ‘Someone will have to pay for the damage to my rig, too,’ said the coachman, looking pointedly at Willy. ‘The front’s all stoved in and the paintwork’s ruined. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s off the road for days.’

  The woman waved her hand. ‘It shall all be taken care of. Take us to Villa Vittoria and you will be reimbursed for your trouble.’

  ‘I’ll tie your horses to mine and they can trot along beside us.’

  We trooped back to the coach and climbed inside. ‘I am Emilia Barton,’ I introduced myself, ‘and this is my mother, Sarah. We’re going to settle in Pesaro.’

  ‘Come to dinner tomorrow,’ said the woman, rocking the coach as she plumped her not inconsiderable weight down onto the seat beside Ma. ‘I wish to make amends for inconveniencing you.’

  Ma glanced at me in alarm but I refused to meet her gaze. I knew she wouldn’t want to go; she preferred us to keep ourselves to ourselves. ‘We’d like that,’ I said.

  ‘Villa Vittoria is at the foot of Monte San Bartolo above the town. Anyone will give you directions.’

  I’d have a battle with Ma but I was determined to grasp this opportunity of making acquaintances in the town that was to become our new home. Victorine curled up on my lap; her sobs had subsided into the occasional hiccough by the time the coach rolled away. Willy sat beside me staring sulkily at his feet.

  I looked out of the window, eager for my first glimpse of Pesaro. We passed a cluster of terracotta-tiled houses amongst vineyards and olive groves, and it wasn’t long before we drove through the gateway of the walled town, clattered across a colonnaded piazza with a granite fountain set in its centre and then passed along a narrow street before turning into the courtyard of an inn. I sat Victorine beside her mother and Ma and I descended from the coach.

  The woman leaned out of the window, her hat and wig still askew. ‘Don’t forget! Villa Vittoria tomorrow.’

  Victorine waved at us as the coach trundled back out of the courtyard.

  Ma glanced up at me, a muscle flickering at the corner of one eye, and a wave of pity washed over me for her constant state of anxiety. We had always been so very different, despite being travelling companions and so dependent upon each other.

  The aroma of fried onions drifted from the inn and the exhaustion, unhappiness and frustration I’d felt over the previous days suddenly melted away. We had arrived and this was to be our new beginning.

  I held out my hand to her. ‘Shall we go in, Ma?’ I said.

  The next day we braved the bitter north wind to walk up the steep hill to Villa Vittoria. Vineyards, olive groves and mature oaks lined the country road. Our host at the inn had told us to look out for the other elegant villas, the casini di delizia, which had been built by the wealthy on the Colle San Bartolo in the seventeenth century. In those days the Della Rovere family had held a flourishing court in Pesaro.

  Ma had put on her best dress of bronze wool, but her shoulders drooped and worry creased her brow. ‘We should be out finding work,’ she said, ‘not paying social calls.’