Retellings - The Shattered Seamstress

Hello! I have written a retelling of the classic Tennyson poem, "The Lady of Shalott." I first read it in high school and loved it, but had a deeper understanding of it in college. It could be seen as a warning for women to not go out of their comfort zones, or possibility a warning of the dangers of the enticements of Victorian era men, but honestly, I think Tennyson was actually lamenting women who had no voice in society, or were chained to their jobs. Women like Miss Sophia Havisham. I hope you enjoy my take on this classic poem.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

The Lady of Shalott.

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1888

Snowfall hits the London streets. Yet someone peering outside the windows at this hour is scarcely able to see it. The smog is so thick someone can cut their knife through it. At these precious hours of the morning, babies are still asleep in their woolly bassinets. Mothers are asleep — fathers too. It is the hour of night where it is so quiet hungry rats can be heard scurrying inside walls.

It is during this precise hour that Sophia Havisham is sitting in her garret atop her family home at the corner of Britton Road and Clerkenwell. The life of a seamstress is all she has ever known. She sits in a nearly broken chair — her bodily movements are rhythmic as she sews. Her fingers move fast but her eyes show no emotion. Her eyes are two bags that look almost as black as the night sky. She no longer dreams. She is perhaps not even human anymore, but a hollow shell of the girl that she used to be.

Stitch, stitch, stitch. I must finish. I must. I must. I must.

Her room smells of sweat and the cold air of the winter that she can feel through her bones, even though the window remains unopened. Sometimes, on days where she is especially tired, Sophia is prone to walking to the other side of the room and gazing down at the street from the window, but today is not one of those days. She is not tempted to look out this night. Not even for a second. Sophia’s eyelids are growing heavier with each stitch she makes. She gazes up at the clock on the wall. It is only midnight. A sigh escapes from her trembling lips. She must work longer. She must stitch these dresses together for Mrs. Drake. She is nowhere near being done.

She thinks of her father, sleeping in his bed a floor below her. She thinks of the food he will eat the following morning. The supper they will have together as a result of her labor. He will be satisfied and happy to have food in his mouth.

But there is a feeling of sadness as she thinks of him. She cannot figure out why.

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“The seamstress is here with your gowns, Madam.”

“Do bring her in,” the thin voice behind the door says.

With heavy eyes, Sophia inches her way inside the bedroom. She pays no attention to any particular thing within it, but keeps her gaze on the woman who is seated in front of her mirror. The seated woman messes with her hair as she leans closer to look behind her, not bothering to turn around.

“Ah, yes. Please set the gowns on the bed,” she says, pointing towards it with her long, slender fingers.

Sophia nods and walks to the bed. She sets them down and looks at the product of her laborious efforts to create something beautiful for this woman. Now, Sophia allows herself to study the room. The room is not bare with just a bed and a nightstand like her own, but rather there are elegant armoires and the canopy that hovers over the bed is made of the finest silk. Sophia stares at it with admiration. It is the kind of silk she dreams of sleeping in. It is such a glorious deep wine. But what does wine taste like? She has never had such a drink even touch her lips. Sophia shakes her head. She is not there to gawk at this woman’s precious items. She is there for one reason. Her position as a seamstress is far more important than her hopes and wishes. After all, it helps her and her father keep bread on the table.

Sophia watches as Mrs. Drake glides towards the bed, her blonde curls bouncing at the nape of her neck.

“I want to try this one first,” she says, looking at her maid.

“This one?” the maid says, smiling.

“Yes.” Mrs. Drake nods.

Sophia stands in the background, feeling more tired by the second. The night before has taken a toll on her body and all she wants to do is lie down on that bed and let herself be whisked away in a world of dreams — her secret world away from London and her job. A place like Camelot. She thinks of what it would have been like to live in the magical kingdom, where she could dance and swim in the river. To be in a place like Camelot is true freedom. She smiles as she gazes up at the ceiling.

Mrs. Drake is satisfied with her gowns and Sophia is dismissed. Money in her handbag she walks out of the room and into the main corridor of the home in Wilton Crescent. Sophia is not allowed to walk down the main staircase and she almost forgot, but a sudden noise from the foyer fills her with such a curiosity that she must find the source of it.

She inches her way, very carefully, towards the stairwell and looks. A man is singing.

His voice is heavenly, like that of the angels. She cannot help herself. She listens more, just standing there at the foot of the stairs, taking in the gentle tenor voice that reaches into the innermost part of her soul. It is something that she has never felt before. She does not realize that she is descending the stairs that she should not, but who is she to care? Right now, she just wants to see who the singing person is. She must get a glance of his face even if it is for a small moment in the scope of her life.

She sees the man now. Her mouth is open,a smile is on her face.

“Master Edward.”

She hears the voice of another from behind. It is the butler of the household. Mr. Gray. He walks directly past her and she takes a step back, her pulse thundering faster than it ever has before. The whole experience has given her a rush of energy that she never knew she had. The two men walk away and closer to the butler.

“Oh, Gray,” he says. His voice is thick like honey. “Is my mother upstairs?”

Sophia notices that his sparkling eyes are striking. The kind that do not gaze directly at a person, but into their soul. The kind that send chills into every part of your body. Does he just notice her presence? She does not know. But if he does — will he find her beautiful?

It is strange that the two men do not notice Sophia’s presence. Is she that much of a skeleton? It is not much longer until someone else notices that she is there. It is a young girl dressed in a servant’s clothing. She has the cap on her mousy brown hair and her eyes are just as tired and swollen as her own.

“Are you alright, Miss?” she asks.

Sophia nods. “Yes, I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten where I am.”

“Oh, you are in 23 Wilton Crescent. In Belgravia.” The maid lets out a small chuckle.

“Oh, right.” She smiles. Her head is still in a whirlwhind.

I must go home. I have more work to do. But I don’t want to. I want to stay here.

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Sophia gazes out and eyes the chimney tops and from her window. It is the first time in a long time that she studies the whole of London through the snow, fog and mist. It is preposterous for her to think that Mrs. Drake’s son is out there gallivanting down Clerkenwell Road at this ungodly hour. She closes her eyes and imagines him again. Her pulse races too fast, forcing her to lie down on her bed. What is so wrong with her? She hasn’t even gone up to the garret to work on her new dresses for the next client. Why is this man’s image still burning into her mind? Even when she brings her mind back to Camelot, she only sees him and nothing else.

“I’ve had enough!” she says, clutching her hand against her thundering heart.

She doesn’t bother to put on a decent gown, so far gone is she in her thoughts. She throws on a coat and closes the door. Sophia does not bother to even look back.

She hears the faint sound of something crackling. She eyes every corner of the room, trying to determine the sound’s source. Although slow, it begins to increase in intensity. She is spinning, her mind going in several different directions. Shouldn’t she be working on the new dresses? Her heart is racing.

Pop!

Her blood freezes. She slowly turns around, her eyes bulging when she notices that on its own, the mirror is cracked from corner to corner. She walks up to it with her mouth agape. Sophia’s eyes do not leave the mirror. As she is standing in front of it, pieces of her are scattered within their own reflection. Everything is disjointed — she is no longer herself, but a different person entirely. Transformed, unbroken, and finally free.

“I’m done for.” Her voice is a little above a whisper. “I’m cursed. Now I must see him. I must see Mr. Drake.”

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This is ludicrous. I can’t believe I’m actually going back to Wilton Crescent. But I must find him. I won’t be settled until I do.

A part of her feels as if a shadow following her — an impending cloud of doom, but she ignores it, quickening her pace. She walks faster and faster until she trips on a cobblestone that is jutting out further than the rest of them. She cries out as the cobblestone digs itself into her already weak knee. Still, she picks herself up and resumes walking despite the fact that her knee is crying out in pain.

Sophia notices The Tower of London in the distance. She is almost halfway there, but her rational thoughts slithered in her mind and caused her to halt. Should she continue? Or should she turn around and go back to her home at the corner of Clerkenwell and Britton?

No, I must continue.

Though her body is growing more tired by the minute, she still presses on. She takes in the scenery around her, as if seeing everything for the first time. There is the River Thames before her. The waters are serene and the faint moonlight that reflects on the water makes Sophia smile. How could she have not noticed this before? The snow is beginning to fall again. She gasps and lets the first flakes of snow fall on her bare arms. Is this what snow is supposed to truly feel like? She has never experienced anything so magical in her life. The snow is pure white. It is purer than pure white and it moves her core. Why hadn’t she taken the time to truly look at snow? Everything around her, everything that lives and breathes air is more important than a silly job. Sophia looks at the windows of the homes that are nestled close against each other. They are all quiet, no light in any of them. There is only the dim lamppost that emits slow, burning light. It is only the moonlight that is barely guiding Sophia to her destination.

This is what true freedom must feel like! I will run through these streets and I don’t care what people think. I have no reputation to mar. I’m done for anyway. I’ve never felt this way before.

She continues until she notices two little boys walking in her direction. They are too young to be out this late at night, but when she brings herself closer to them, she can see their eyes in the reflection of the moon. The boys have tussled hair and unkempt outfits that perhaps haven’t been washed in ages, but their eyes carry with them the innocence of the early morning. In their eyes is the anticipation for dawn.

What dawn now means to her means something different to the boys. She can feel their longing for freedom. Sophia wishes that she could tell them life is better without hard labor, but within an instant they are gone. They disappeared like the wind, too short of a time for her to speak with them. It is too late. They are too far away from her now. She sighs, turning around. The snowy wind coming from the river bites her skin. She shivers, longing for the warmth of someone like Mr. Drake.

She is closer to The Tower of London. She takes in a deep breath, feeling her heart race faster than it ever has before. The scope of her entire future is only minutes away. With small steps, she presses forward.

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She hears a male voice. Sophia knows it is Edward Drake’s voice. Her heart leaps and she smiles. It feels strange to do so, as if the act of smiling is something altogether foreign to her. She touches her cheeks while the chilling breeze from the river strikes her.

He is also outside! This must be fate. It has to be. There is no other explanation.

“I… must speak with you.” He says.

Is he talking to me?

“Yes,” Sophia says. Her heart feels as if it going to give out. “You can speak with me.”

“I haven’t felt like this in some time,” he says, not looking directly ahead, but facing the moon. “I haven’t felt like this in some time. No.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t. No. I haven’t felt this way in some time.” He smiles. “Since you have walked into my life, things haven’t been the same. I don’t know which way is up or down. Right or left.”

“I feel the same,” Sophia says, softly. Her knees are trembling. She is smiling. “I absolutely feel the same way.”

“I know that your place in society is not good. Mother would not approve of us. I know she wouldn’t. But I must have you for my own. I must.” He pauses, grasping the rail and looking down at the river. “I know how you feel about me. I do. But if you give me a chance, perhaps then, we could be more than what we are now.”

Sophia pauses and turns to look. “You know how I feel?”

“Louise,” he says, turning around, “will you be my wife?”

Sophia’s heart falls. Her entire world is shattering like the mirror that shattered in her room. There, she sees her reflection. She is staring at death. She tries to move, but can’t. It is too late now. She is staring up at the sky as she is falling. The stars are burning brightly — brighter than ever before. She sheds a tear. She sees Edward Drake in the arms of another woman.

Then her back hits the water. She is falling against the glass — the pain digs into her skin. She tries to scream, but her voice is muffled by the water that is slowly making its way inside her lungs. The cold shocks her. The stars, still burning, are beginning to fade slowly.

Oddly, instead of her sadness of the impossibility of Edward Drake, she thinks of her father in that one moment.

How is he going to live — without me?

The stars fade into black, leaving only the shell of a woman who once was.

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