Part 18 (2/2)

The only designs Marcelline had were upon her ladys.h.i.+p's statuesque person-and her father's and future husband's purses.

That was all.

She was very, very happy.

The silence stretched out, broken only by the servants' comings and goings.

Then, at last, at long last, Lady Clara reappeared.

Marcelline stopped sorting for long enough to make an adjustment to her ladys.h.i.+p's bonnet-it was not tilted precisely as it ought to be-and to twitch her cashmere shawl into a more enticing arrangement. Her shawls were very fine. One could not fault her there.

Having arranged Lady Clara to her satisfaction, Marcelline stepped away, made a proper curtsey, and returned to her work.

She was aware of Clevedon's big frame pa.s.sing not far from her. She was aware of the m.u.f.fled sound of his boots on the carpet. She heard the low murmur, his voice mingling with Lady Clara's, and the latter's soft laughter.

Marcelline kept busy with her work and did not watch them go.

And when they were gone, she told herself she'd done a fine job, and she'd done n.o.body any great wrong-a miracle, considering her bloodline-and she had every reason to be glad.

That evening The gown Mrs. Whitwood had returned lay on the counter. The enraged customer had come and gone while Marcelline was dancing attendance upon Lady Clara Fairfax at Warford House.

Sophy had soothed Mrs. Whitwood. Sophy could soothe Attila the Hun. The dress would be remade. The cost was mainly in labor, the smallest cost of making a dress. Still, it cost time-time that Marcelline, her sisters, and her seamstresses could be spending on other orders.

If this kept up, they'd be ruined. It wasn't simply that they couldn't afford to keep remaking dresses. They couldn't afford the damage to their reputation.

Marcelline was studying the dress, deciding what to change. ”Who worked on it?” she asked Pritchett, her senior seamstress.

”Madame, if there is a fault with the workmans.h.i.+p it must be mine,” Pritchett said. ”I supervised every st.i.tch of this dress. But madame can see for herself. It is precisely as madame ordered.”

”Indeed, and the details, as you know, are of my own design,” Marcelline said. ”It's very strange that another dress should appear, bearing these same details. The angle and width of the pleats of the bodice was my own invention. How curious that another dressmaker should have precisely the same idea, in the same style of dress.”

”Most unfortunate, madame,” Pritchett said. ”Yet some would think it a miracle we haven't had this problem before, when you consider that we take in all sorts of girls, from the streets, practically. One doesn't wish to be uncharitable. Some of them don't know any better, I daresay. Never taught right from wrong, you know. I shall be happy to work late-as late as needed-to make the dress over, if madame wishes.”

”No, I'll want you fresh tomorrow,” Marcelline said. ”Lady Clara Fairfax's ball dress must be ready to deliver at seven o'clock sharp in the evening. I shall want all my seamstresses well rested and alert. Better to come in early. Let us say eight o'clock in the morning.” She glanced at her pendant watch. ”It's nearly eight. Send them all home now, Pritchett. Tell them we want them here at precisely eight o'clock tomorrow morning, ready for a very busy day.”

She rarely kept her seamstresses past nine o'clock, even when the shop was frantically busy, as it had been when Dr. Farquar's daughter had needed to be married in a hurry-or when Mrs. Whitwood, having quarreled with Dowdy, had come to Maison Noirot to have herself and her five daughters fitted out in mourning for a very rich aunt.

Marcelline's personal experience had taught her that one did better work early in the day. By nightfall, spirits flagged and eyesight failed. The workroom had a skylight, but that was no use after sunset.

”Yes, Madame, but we have not quite completed Mrs. Plumley's redingote.”

”It isn't wanted until Thursday,” Marcelline said. ”Everybody is to go home, and prepare for a long, hard day tomorrow.”

”Yes, Madame.”

Marcelline watched her go out of the showroom.

The trap she and her sisters had set yesterday morning was simple enough.

Before they went home at the end of the workday, the seamstresses were required to put everything away. The workroom was to be left neat and tidy. No stray bits of thread or ribbon, b.u.t.tons or thimbles should remain on the worktable, the chairs, the floor, or anywhere else. The room had been perfectly neat early yesterday morning when Marcelline deliberately dropped a sketch of a dress for Mrs. Sharp on the floor.

The first seamstress arriving in the morning-and that was usually Pritchett-should have noticed the sketch, and turned it over to Marcelline, Sophy, or Leonie. But when Sophy went in, shortly after the girls' workday began, the sketch was gone and n.o.body said a word about it. It didn't turn up until this morning. Selina Jeffreys found it under her chair when she came to work.

Pritchett had scolded her for hurrying away at night and leaving a mess. She'd made a great fuss about the sketch-Madame's work was never to be carelessly handled.

But Marcelline, Leonie, and Sophy knew there hadn't been a mess, and that Jeffreys's place had been as clean and orderly as the others. Nothing had been lying under her chair or anyone else's.

Well, now they knew. And now they were ready.

The shop door swung open, setting the bell jangling.

She looked up from the dress, and her heart squeezed painfully.

Clevedon stood for a moment, his green gaze sweeping the shop and finally coming to rest on her. He frowned, then quickly smoothed his beautiful face and sauntered toward her. Riveted on that remarkable face, too handsome to be real, it took her a moment to notice the large box he was carrying.

”Your grace,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsey.

”Mrs. Noirot,” he said. He set the box on the counter.

”That cannot be Lady Clara's new dress,” she said. ”Sophy said her ladys.h.i.+p was delighted with it.”

”Why the devil should I be returning Clara's purchases?” he said. ”I'm not her servant. This is for Erroll.”

Marcelline's heart beat harder, with rage now. She was aware of her face heating. It probably didn't show, but she didn't care whether it did or not. ”Take it back,” she said.

”Certainly not,” he said. ”I went to a good deal of trouble. I know nothing about children anymore, and you will not believe the number and variety of-”

”You may not give my daughter gifts,” Marcelline said.

He took the lid off the box, and lifted from it a doll-such a doll! She had black curling hair and vivid blue gla.s.s eyes. She was dressed in silver net and lace, trimmed with pearls. ”I'm not taking it back,” he said. ”Burn it, then.”

At that moment, Lucie burst through the door from the back. She stopped short at the sight of the doll, which the beast hadn't the grace to return to its box.

She'd been watching the street from the window upstairs, no doubt, as she always did. She'd recognized his fine carriage.

She was six years old. It was too much to expect her to resist the doll. Her eyes widened. Yet she managed a creditable ”Good evening, your grace,” and a curtsey. All the while, her eyes never left the doll. ”My, that's a fine doll,” she said. ”I think it's the most beautiful doll I've ever seen in all my life.”

All six years of it.

”You're going to pay for this,” Marcelline said under her breath. ”And painfully.”

”Is it, indeed?” he said to Lucie. ”I'm not a good judge of these matters.”

”Oh, yes.” Lucie drew a step nearer. ”She isn't like ordinary dolls. Her eyes are blue gla.s.s, you see. And her face is so lifelike. And her hair is so beautiful, I think it must be real hair.”

”Perhaps you'd like to hold her,” Clevedon said.

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