‘Thank you.’
Inside, the place was just as impressive. The high-ceilinged hallway led them through to a sitting room bathed in the mid-morning light. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed an immaculate garden that seemed to stretch on for ever, the manicured hedges sculpted into perfect shapes, and a stone fountain trickling in the centre like something out of a Jane Austen adaptation.
A long table near the window had been laid out for brunch, a spread that could’ve fed an army, with freshly baked pastries, glistening bowls of fruit, thick wedges of sourdough and pots of jam that looked almost too pretty to open.
Eliza, reached for the teapot. ‘Tea?’ she offered.
‘That would be lovely, both with milk and one sugar,’ said Fern.
‘Coming right up, take a seat.’
They sat down on the sofa but before Eliza could finish pouring the tea a voice echoed from down the hallway.
‘Don’t start without me!’
A smiley elderly woman appeared at the doorway. She was small, maybe no more than five feet, but her presence filled the room. Her hair, a perfect crown of soft silver waves, was swept back with a velvet headband, and she wore a tailored lilac jacket paired with an elegant string of pearls that hinted at a lifetime of impeccable style. Tucked firmly under her arm was a large, leather-bound book, worn at the edges and with what looked like scraps of fabric and old photographs peeking out from between the pages.
‘Let me introduce you to my grandmother,’ the younger Eliza said. ‘This is the original Eliza Valentine, known as Zaza. Seamstress to the stars and the woman who made your recently acquired wedding dress.’ She put the china cups and saucers down on the table and took the leather-bound book from her grandmother. ‘The name Zaza comes from me, because I couldn’t say “Grandma” when I was a small child. The name stuck.’ She shrugged.
Fern stood up and stretched out her hand to Zaza. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Zaza said, offering a genuine smile and a handshake.
‘This is Daniel, and I’m Fern.’
Zaza’s sharp blue eyes sparkled as she nodded towards Daniel. She carried herself with the quiet elegance of a woman who had lived a life draped in silk and stitched with stories. ‘I believe you’ve been asking about one of my very early wedding dresses,’ she said, easing herself down into a velvet armchair opposite them.
Fern sat too, perching on the edge of the sofa as the whole tale spilled out, and added that she hoped that Zaza might just hold the missing thread to its history.
Zaza listened intently. ‘This is all very curious indeed,’ she said, pulling the well-loved leather book towards her. ‘Where did you say this antique shop was?’
‘Puffin Island,’ Fern replied.
Immediately, Zaza’s face lit up with a fond, wistful expression. ‘Ah, Puffin Island. One of my favourite places in all the world,’ she said. ‘And I’ve travelled to many, including Paris, Milan and New York, crafting dresses for the famous, the fortunate… and, on occasion, for dear friends.’
‘It was Dorothy, the seamstress from Puffin Island, who suggested we look you up,’ Fern added. ‘She thought you might be able to help.’
At the mention of the name, Zaza’s smile deepened. ‘Dorothy,’ she repeated, her voice lined with nostalgia. ‘We were once friends. Rivals, too, in the way only two ambitious young women can be, but always friends. We met at sewing college in Newcastle, fresh from school and both dreaming bigger than the world seemed ready to allow. Back then, we had nothing but a battered set of dressmaking shears and more ideas than fabric. We’d haunt the local market stalls on weekends, browsing lace we couldn’t possibly afford, sketching gowns on scraps of paper and spinning stories about the women who’d one day wear them.’
Daniel and Fern sat spellbound as Zaza continued, her voice soft but animated. ‘We were thick as thieves, always sneaking out of class to chase boys along the Quayside or get lost in the music halls. But when it came to dressmaking, Dorothy was a natural. With her eye for detail she could spot a crooked seam at a glance. She was the one who taught me the importance of hand-finishing, the kind of craftsmanship that speaks without needing labels or price tags.’
Zaza had a look of pride on her face. ‘When college ended, we both struggled to get a foothold. Neither of us had wealthy families or connections, but we had talent and determination. It was Dorothy who helped me get my first real break. She lived on Puffin Island and helped me secure a tiny shop along the coast in the nearby town, Sea’s End. Just a single window display and a sewing table in the back, but to me it felt like the world. Dorothy sourced fabrics for me in those early days, as she knew all the hidden corners of every market from Berwick to Newcastle. She even helped stitch the final hem on my first commissioned wedding dress. We celebrated that night with a bottle of cheap fizz on the beach, sitting on the sand in our best coats, pretending we’d made it.’ Zaza paused. ‘She always believed in me, more than I did, sometimes. I owe her a great deal, and not just for the shop or the fabric. She reminded me that the best dresses aren’t stitched from silk or lace, but from the stories of the women who wear them.’
Fern felt emotional. They were lovely words.
Zaza gently patted the leather-bound book on the table. ‘I may still have the original sketch for that gown in here,’ she said. ‘And of course, the name of the bride.’
Fern and Daniel exchanged a glance.
Zaza’s gaze softened as she looked back at Fern. ‘Let’s see if we can solve your mystery, shall we?’
Fern had the undeniable feeling that whatever the story, this was only the beginning.
ChapterThirty-Two
‘What was the number stitched inside the dress?’ asked Zaza.
‘64. 24.12,’ stated Fern.
