The tale of a silk dress: part 3

In the last part of my tale, I wish to tell you a little about the life of the girl who wore me. It is her gift, through her thrice times great grandson, that has made it possible for me to tell you my story. Of course, my memory has faded a little, just as have parts of me, and I bear a few scars and stains that show you the life that I have lived – but isn’t that how we all carry ourselves through both admiration and adversity? Let me take you back to some of my happiest days ...

There had been an air of excitement at Brigton since the decision had been made to send me down to the great city of London to become a gown fit to be worn on a wedding day. In those days, a lady with a claim to gentility (and a father or husband with capacious pockets) would consider it fashionable to have her finer dresses made up in London by a mantua-maker or dressmaker. I would not travel alone since Janet would go with me for fittings.

The mantua-maker of the late 18th century took her name from the French word for ‘mantle’, which described a type of loose, sleeveless garment worn in the very early part of the century. By the time I was constructed, the mantua was only worn at formal court occasions, but the term remained to describe a woman who provided a design-and-construction service for gowns. Until the late 17th century, ladies’ gowns had been made by male tailors. My mantua-maker worked alongside a milliner (for hats), a haberdasher (for ribbons and other little trinkets) and a corsetiere (corset maker) in London.

We were destined to journey to Spitalfields, a colourful part of London that had seen a great deal of unrest some years earlier when Irish weavers had joined the Huguenot weavers in violent protest against the de-valuing of their silk by cheaper imports. However, by this time, it was peaceable (although still lively) and a thriving centre where luxury goods were produced for affluent consumers.

The dressmaker did not use a paper pattern or employ a mannequin upon which to drape me. Instead, the decisions regarding fit and form were made between her and Janet at the earliest stages of construction. You should understand that I was designed with a long centre-back panel piece, extending from the shoulder to the floor. This back piece was then formed into a series of sewn-down pleats on the dress bodice (the ‘en fourreau’ back) which were then released to form fullness into my skirts.

The mantua-maker used Janet’s own form to shape and mould me into a gown, and did pin it in such a way that I could be sewn together immediately. I was stitched with a quick running stitch, which was not only fast but was also easy to remove as fashions changed over the years to come. You may see the marks of my creation in the picture of me in your conservator’s studio.

Economy was important, as the cost of fabrics dwarfed the wages of the mantua-maker, and I have already told you of my great cost to Mr Orr. I would now be seen as an investment that could be gifted, re-made (as I would be, once or twice over the years) or sold to the thriving second-hand market. I do not care to be seen in such terms and I prefer to believe that Patrick Orr considered me as an investment in his beloved daughter’s future happiness.

When all was done and we returned to the healthier air of Scotland, Janet’s thoughts turned to the young man she was to marry. The portrait of Mr and Mrs William Hallett of the same period shows you how just such a young couple may appear to you now.

William Gordon of Milrig in Ayrshire was known to the family before he became betrothed to Janet. They may have met, perhaps, at one of the new assembly rooms that were being built in the thriving cities of the time. William owned land and a very pretty small mansion built in the early Gothic style just outside the village of Galston.