by Jayne Davis
“You don’t have to do this, miss,” Owen said.
Phoebe took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.” She’d wanted adventure, hadn’t she? “You will stay close, Owen, in case they try to do more than take my basket?” she added, pleased to find that her voice sounded normal.
“Of course, miss.”
She checked again that the earl’s message was in her basket—although it couldn’t possibly have gone anywhere since the last time she checked it five minutes ago. She didn’t want to make things too difficult if she was going to be robbed, and hoped they’d take the basket and look through it first before attempting to steal a pocket.
“All right, Owen?”
“Lead on, miss. I’ll not be far behind.”
The streets were busy with delivery men and their carts, and noisy with street sellers calling out their wares. Phoebe resisted the need to look behind her—a servant on her way to the Foreign Office would not be expecting anything to happen to her on these streets.
The shortest route to her destination was down the edge of Green Park. It was peaceful amongst the trees and grass, with grazing cows and deer nearby, but the relative lack of people also meant that Owen could not stay so close without appearing suspicious. She found she was eyeing each tree she passed, in case someone sprang from behind it, and told herself not to be foolish. No-one could know the route she planned. Her stomach knotted as she crossed the Mall into St James’s Park.
The canal was just ahead, most of the people present walking purposefully as if on their way to work. Turning her gaze from side to side, she tried to spot Brevare, but a sudden push in the small of her back made her stumble. Her arm was wrenched backwards and she tripped, legs tangling in her skirts.
She found herself on her knees, her left palm stinging from contact with the ground. Her basket was gone.
Taking deep breaths, she tried to steady the trembling in her arms, then pushed herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled as she looked around. Whoever had done it was now far enough away to be indistinguishable from anyone else in the park.
“You all right, love?” A young woman with a basket of daffodils put a hand out to steady her.
Phoebe swallowed, nodding mutely. She had expected the basket to be taken, but not the sudden assault.
“It ain’t right, robbin’ someone who ain’t got much anyway,” the woman went on. “I ’ope you didn’t ’ave a lot in that?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No, not much.” She looked down at her gown, muddy now where her knees had hit the ground. Brushing at the mess only made it worse. She finally noticed Owen standing behind the flower girl.
“Oh, Mr Jones!” she said, not needing to feign the relief in her voice. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Here, let me take you home,” Owen said, taking his cue. He held out his arm and Phoebe took it gratefully.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said to the flower girl. The girl smiled and turned away, trying to sell some daffodils to a plump woman carrying a basket of bread.
“Did you see who did it?” she asked when they had left the park.
“Yes, but I don’t know if I could describe him. He was just ordinary. Saw that Frenchie standing watching, though. Are you all right, miss?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.” Already the exercise was working off the wobbles in her legs. “Did the watchers see as well?”
“I think so.”
“Good. That’s over then.”
She wondered what Alex would have said about it, remembering his resistance when she’d volunteered to go into Granville. She smiled at the thought, enjoying the feeling of relief that it was over. At the same time, she felt slightly flat—was this her last connection with Alex and his business?
Phoebe re-entered the house through the kitchens and took the servants’ stairs up to her bedroom. She couldn’t explain to her aunt why she was dressed as she was, nor the mud on her gown and hands. Once she was safely in her room, she rang for Ellie.
“Oh, miss, what ’appened to you? You shouldn’t of—”
“I’m perfectly all right Ellie, really,” Phoebe said. Apart from bruised knees and a sore wrist. Luckily she hadn’t grazed her hand, so there would be no outward signs of her fall once she had donned a clean gown. “Help me change, please. After breakfast I’m going to visit a mantua-maker with Lady Carterton.”
Ellie’s eyes and mouth grew round. “New gowns, miss?”
“Yes,” Phoebe smiled. “And Lady Carterton told me to bring you along as well.”
“Me, miss?” Ellie’s voice was a squeak. “What for?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Phoebe admitted; Lady Carterton’s note had not explained.
Phoebe and Ellie arrived at Miss Fletcher’s premises in Henrietta Street in good time. On explaining that she was to meet Lady Carterton there, Phoebe and Ellie were shown in and asked to sit. The reception room was similar to Mademoiselle Laurent’s in some ways—both had large mirrors on the walls, and tables with pattern books and fabric swatches. Unlike Mademoiselle Laurent’s, however, the walls were papered with a pale pattern in cream and yellow, the tables were polished wood, and the sofas looked comfortable. The whole effect was of good taste, without being ostentatious—a promising sign, Phoebe thought. Lady Carterton’s dress had exuded a similar air of quality, but Phoebe wondered uneasily how expensive that kind of apparent simplicity would be.
Her speculations were cut short as Lady Carterton entered.
“It’s good of you to help me, my lady,” Phoebe said, standing up. “Especially at such short notice.”
“Nonsense, Phoebe, it will be great fun! I’m glad I’d already made an appointment today. It’s an age since I had an excuse to buy dozens of gowns—it will be years before I can buy ball gowns for my daughters.”
“Hardly dozens, my lady.” Phoebe protested.
“We’ll see.” Lady Carterton sat down and helped herself to some biscuits from the tray. She glanced at Ellie. “This is your personal maid?”
“Yes, this is Ellie. She’s not been a maid long.”
“Hmm. If you have the time, we’ll go back to Brook Street and my maid can show her some better ways of doing your hair.”
“I be right keen to learn, my lady,” Ellie said.
A slim woman in her thirties entered the room. “Lady Carterton,” she said, dropping a curtsey.
“Good morning, Miss Fletcher,” Lady Carterton said. “A slight change of plan, today, if you will. This is Miss Deane, a friend of mine. She needs a complete wardrobe. Everything!”
“What about your gowns, my lady?”
“They can wait. Now, Phoebe, do you know what engagements your aunt has planned?”
“I think only social calls this week, and a musicale one evening. Then Lady Sandrich’s ball next week.”
“So, a day dress and an evening gown urgently, and a ball gown for next week,” Miss Fletcher said, noting the requirements down in a little book.
“That sounds a sensible start to me,” Lady Carterton said. “What do you think, Phoebe?”
Phoebe pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, glancing down the list of items and prices she had estimated. Would it be thought vulgar to discuss money now?
Ready for embarrassment, she handed the list to Miss Fletcher. “I made a list of what I think I will need. I cannot spend more than the total here.”
She was relieved to see Lady Carterton smiling with approval at her approach. Miss Fletcher took the list, studying it carefully.
“This is for the whole season? Do you already have some gowns?”
Phoebe shook her head. “This is my best one,” she explained, indicating her primrose gown.
Miss Fletcher tutted and turned back to the list. “You will have to wear the same gown many times. Most ladies don’t. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes—this is far more than I was expecting to have,” she said. “I don’t want to give a false impression of wealth.”
Miss Fletcher s
eemed to accept that, tucking the list into the back of her notebook and waving a hand to the empty space in the middle of the room. “Please stand there, Miss Deane. We will begin by considering colours and styles.”
Phoebe obediently took up the indicated position. Miss Fletcher walked around her, scrutinising her from top to bottom. “Your hair will be a challenge,” she said.
Phoebe’s heart sank; the words were so close to those of Mademoiselle Laurent. Was she really so hard to dress?
“I don’t think she means what you think she means,” Lady Carterton said.
Phoebe looked at her, realising that her dismay must have shown on her face.
“You wish for honesty?” Miss Fletcher asked.
Phoebe wasn’t sure she did, but whatever Miss Fletcher said couldn’t be worse than the things she’d already been told—by her aunt, her cousin, the Brotherton girls, not to mention Mademoiselle Laurent. She clenched her jaw and nodded.
“Your figure is good—” Miss Fletcher smiled in response to Phoebe’s expression. “Oh yes, a large chest is not everything! It is easier to design for those with slimmer figures. Your complexion is good, and your hair is a remarkable colour.”
Phoebe put her chin up, determined not to let the woman see her confidence draining away again.
“That was not a criticism, Miss Deane.” Miss Fletcher’s smile broadened. “Please sit down and we will talk.” She beckoned to her assistant and murmured a few words to her, taking a seat as the woman disappeared through the door at the back.
“Now, the reason I mention your hair is because of the fashion for younger ladies to wear only pale colours. Some will suit you, but many will not.”
Phoebe thought of the peach dress, and had to agree.
“Your hair will be magnificent—”
Magnificent? Really?
“—when you are dressed in the proper colours—deep greens, for example. We can find some paler colours, but I do not think white will suit.”
Phoebe began to feel that she might actually enjoy this visit.
“How old are you, Phoebe?” Lady Carterton asked.
“Twenty.” Too old, her aunt had said. Repeatedly.
“I think that if you do not mind people knowing that you are older than most young ladies in their first season, you will get away with wearing darker colours,” Lady Carterton said. “You should aim to be an Original, rather than an Incomparable—but you will need confidence to carry it off. Can you do it?”
I can. Her pulse accelerated as she recalled the determination she’d needed to enter that horrible tavern in search of Dan Trasker. Nothing the ton could do or say would be as bad as that.
“Yes. I can do it.”
The assistant reappeared, followed by two other girls, all carrying bolts of cloth of different colours.
“Amy, who is the next appointment?” Miss Fletcher asked.
“Lady Jesson.”
“Ah, she won’t mind cancelling if I explain,” Lady Carterton said. “In fact, if you let me have paper and pen, I’ll get my footman to take a note round now.”
Amy asked Phoebe to follow her. In the dressing room, she started by removing Phoebe’s stays and giving her a new set. “These are a better shape for you,” she explained. “They are not the best—we need to get a set made to your measurements—but they are better than the ones you had on.” She stood back and regarded Phoebe’s re-laced figure. “If you want to look more… full in the chest, we can get another set made for evening wear that will push you up a bit.”
Not used to having her personal attributes discussed so dispassionately, Phoebe felt a blush rising up her neck. She shook her head.
“Good, only one set of measurements to do, then.” Amy glanced at Phoebe’s face. “You don’t need… enhancing, you know,” she added reassuringly. “It is just that some women think men only look at their bosoms.”
“Some men do,” Phoebe pointed out as Amy started to measure her.
“But they aren’t the ones you want to attract.” Amy worked efficiently down Phoebe’s body, then handed her a robe. “If you would put this on, miss? You will get your dress back later.”
Back in the main room, the table was covered in fashion plates, and a few gowns hung from a rail in one corner.
“Miss Fletcher thinks these designs will suit,” Lady Carterton said. “See what you think.”
Phoebe liked the styles the women had chosen. The ruffles and frills on them were subtle, enhancing the lines of the gowns. They were quite unlike the styles favoured by the comtesse and Hélène.
Half an hour later her head was spinning, but she had a list in her hand of gowns to be made up, two more appointments for fittings, and a shopping list for chemises, shoes, gloves, and bonnets. Miss Fletcher had carefully chosen colours that suited her, but also specified colours for shoes and bonnets that could be worn with several different gowns.
“Can I really get all this without overspending?” Phoebe asked, looking at the list doubtfully.
“Yes,” Miss Fletcher said with confidence. “You do not need expensive fabrics to look good, just the right colours. And several of these I already have partly made up for someone who cannot pay, so they will be cheaper. And… when anyone compliments you on your gowns or appearance, you will mention me,” she instructed.
Phoebe’s surprise must have been evident in her face, as Lady Carterton smiled encouragingly.
“Anyone can dress a woman of normal colouring,” Miss Fletcher went on. “Other women with unusual colouring will want to know about a mantua-maker who can choose the best colours for them.”
“You might not believe her now,” Lady Carterton said. “Wait until you come for your first fitting—you’ll see.”
Amy came into the room with the primrose gown. Phoebe caught the smell of lavender as the assistant guided it down over her head and settled it in place. She ran her hands down the bodice as Amy laced it up—it now fit snugly over her new stays.
“Look in the mirror, Phoebe,” Lady Carterton said, a laugh in her voice.
She couldn’t help but gasp. They must have worked fast. The ruffle that had lengthened the skirt was gone, replaced with a strip of pale green fabric, a darker green ribbon hiding the join. A matching ribbon marked the waist and a narrower version of the same thing outlined the neckline and the ends of the sleeves. The changes were small, but the dress now looked as if it had been made for her. It was not as elegant as Lady Carterton’s gown, but it was vastly better than it had been. The only thing that could now be criticised… she put a hand to her hair, still curling uncontrollably after the damp air outside.
“We’ll sort that out back at my house,” Lady Carterton said.
“I’ve already taken too much of your time,” Phoebe said, doubtfully. “I’m very grateful—”
Lady Carterton waved a hand. “Nonsense—I enjoyed it. I need some tea, then I have calls to make. You, however, will be left with Hopkins, my dresser, for further instruction.”
When they arrived back in the Brook Street house, Hopkins took Ellie off somewhere and Phoebe had a welcome cup of tea while Lady Carterton talked about her own future engagements.
Lady Carterton—” Phoebe interrupted.
“Call me Bella, please.”
Phoebe smiled. “Bella. I don’t know if my aunt has invitations for all those balls and other things.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure you get invitations.”
Would she fit in if she did go? She smoothed the skirts of the refashioned gown; perhaps she would, with a decent wardrobe. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”
Bella shrugged. “You are the friend of… of a friend. I also know something of your aunt and, to be blunt, it is a pleasure to help someone stand up to her.” She smiled, her eyes dancing. “No doubt she will be surprised when she sees you in your new gowns.”
Surprised, but not pleased, Phoebe suspected.
“Where did we meet? I mean, my aun
t will ask, and I don’t want to tell her about going to see Lord Marstone.”
Bella thought. “I bumped into you in a bookshop?”
“And I dropped all my books on the floor?”
“So I took you to Gunter’s for tea and cakes.”
They exchanged conspiratorial smiles, and Phoebe felt she had found a true friend.
Chapter 26
“Did you get anything useful?” Alex asked, as Henri closed the door and sat on his bed. Their trip to the Château Brevare had determined only that the vicomtesse and her daughter had not been seen there for months. Gossip in the local tavern had indicated that Brevare’s mother was not popular amongst ex-servants at the château—’fit for the guillotine’ had been mentioned—but the daughter appeared to have been well liked. No-one knew for sure, but the general impression was that they had gone to Paris. Now Alex had to undertake the far riskier task of getting help to locate the women in the city. Henri had approached some of his contacts again on their return to the capital.
“The apothecary won’t speak to me again,” Henri said. “He’s frightened. What do we do now?”
“I have one or two people we could try. Let me think about it. Go and get something to eat.”
Henri grunted agreement and left again, while Alex turned his attention to finding someone who could help them locate the two women. If, as he suspected, there was a traitor within the Foreign Office or in Marstone’s clandestine organisation, then the contacts in Paris could already be compromised. They would have to check carefully before approaching any of them.
Phoebe should have seen Marstone by now and told her story. Would Marstone believe her? And agree with their conclusions? He suppressed a smile as he imagined the interview—Marstone had a way of doubting reports that goaded his subordinates into outright rudeness at times, until they got used to his way. Her eyes would be flashing fire.