Summer Holiday

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  He stared. “Sommerpool Department and Mercantile has a reputation for excellence.”

  She nodded.

  “But . . .”

  “It is not unusual, David,” she said. “Regent Street, exclusive shops in London or Paris, places where only nobility can afford to spend money? You’re a man of the world. Surely you’re not unaware of what often occurs abovestairs in those very shops for men who are willing to pay?”

  “Yes, but . . .” He paused. “Are you suggesting those women are coerced?”

  “Not forced. But who do you suppose the great majority of them are? They are not girls off the street. They are shopgirls who cannot afford to both eat and pay for a roof under which to sleep.” She laughed, a little sadly. “As if a woman on the street would choose prostitution for herself either. Nobody wants it, David—very few, anyway.”

  His chest felt tight. He’d always turned a blind eye to those in his social circle who chose to visit a woman for a few hours and then return to hearth and home or those who were single, like himself, who considered it a matter of course and a natural right. He had no sisters. His life moved in well-bred circles where such things were ignored; he’d never been truly acquainted with a young woman in Tessa’s position.

  “I suppose . . .” He lifted a shoulder, still clutching her hand. “I suppose I’d not paid attention closely enough.” His thoughts returned to an image of Tessa, cornered and vulnerable—at her place of employment, for heaven’s sake! “And where is the building security at D&M? I’ve seen the records; I know we employ some.”

  She snorted and tugged on his hand, pulling him farther along the pier. “Security guards the goods, not the girls.”

  “I’m going to put someone in every blasted stairway,” he muttered.

  “That would be lovely.” She smiled at him. “What a leader you shall be!”

  He shook his head and, when she moved to release his hand, tucked hers instead in the crook of his arm. “I am amazed it is a trend not already in place. How naïve I am.” He chuckled hollowly. “Words I never thought to hear myself say.”

  She shrugged. “I was also naïve when I first arrived here. My home village is everything one might expect of a small town where, while neighbors might squabble occasionally, they protect each other. The first time I heard someone following me home here”—she paused and swallowed hard—“I barely outran him. I made it to the boarding house with inches to spare, and, as I slammed the door behind me, I heard his laugh echo all the way down the street. From that point forward, I made arrangements for all of us to walk in pairs or threes. Many of my bunkmates were nearly as new as I was.” She smiled, but her eyes were tight. “A very quick education, it is.”

  He released a sigh. “Indeed. I still believe I shall call out the Weasel.”

  “Welsey,” she laughed. “And you cannot call him out.”

  “I own the store.”

  Her eyes widened, and she squeezed his arm. “No, you promised! No professional interference in your role as owner on my behalf! David, I must do this on my own.”

  He glanced at her, frustrated. He wouldn’t truly call the man out, but he could install her in the supervisory position she applied for with the stroke of a pen. She was more than qualified. He’d known it by the time they’d finished dinner the night before. Meeting her competition just solidified it.

  She halted their steps and looked at him, unblinking. “You gave me your word.”

  “I can fix this whole ordeal for you, make it disappear in a matter of minutes. Why are you so opposed?”

  “I have something to prove, and I will not cheat the process. I will be promoted to the position by my own merits, not because I know the owner. That would be worse than losing to Grover Welsey. If you do not wish to spend your time on this ridiculous hunt, I understand, truly. Val can help me or I can do it alone—it makes no difference—but I will beat them at their own silly game.”

  He put his hand on hers and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I would not abandon this search with you for all the tea in China—much of which I own.”

  His comment had the desired effect; she laughed, an unreserved, unchecked expression of delight.

  He smiled. “Let’s see the list.” He motioned for it—at some point, he’d relinquished his hold on it and couldn’t remember when. The conversation had rattled him, jarred him loose from a cocoon of relatively rosy life where unfortunate things that happened to unfortunate people were a world away, and he was absolved of guilt because of his own family’s charitable contributions to good causes.

  “Where are we?” He perused the list relative to their position on Middle Pier. “Oh, I neglected to get a receipt for the ices. Blast.”

  She loosened the strings on the reticule that hung from her right wrist and pulled out a slip of paper. “Signed by the man himself.”

  He stared. “When did you get that?”

  “Directly after you handed him the money while his assistant was dishing it into the cups.”

  “Very efficient.” He nodded and reached into his pocket for a fountain pen his father had gifted him on his last birthday. He unscrewed the cap as she looked at the paper he held, her hand still threaded through his arm, causing an odd mixture of anticipation and contentment.

  “So, we have a receipt for the ices,” she said, pointing to the item on the list, “and I have the wrapper from the cotton candy. There.”

  He put an X next to the items she indicated.

  She shielded her eyes and looked down the pier. “I believe I saw a Punch and Judy earlier. The little stage is still set up so I can retrieve”—she grimaced and looked at the list—“a small clipping of Judy’s hair.” She sighed. “What performer is going to allow me anywhere near the puppets with a pair of scissors?”

  He was impressed with her foresight. “You have a pair of scissors?”

  She shook her wrist, and her reticule swayed as she continued squinting into the distance. “Embroidery scissors. Useful for all sorts of emergencies.”

  He lifted a brow. “What else do you have in there?”

  She turned her attention back to him and smiled. “A girl must have some secrets.”

  Chapter Five

  Tessa walked a customer to the sales counter, trying to soothe her ruffled feathers. She carried the merchandise and smiled as the woman continued to huff under her breath about untrained sales staff.

  “Monique is new here, but she is learning quickly,” Tessa said. “Your patience is appreciated. Not every customer is as forgiving as you are.”

  “Well,” the woman harrumphed, “I would hope she improves speedily. To not know which ribbons are from the newest Parisian batch is simply unthinkable. She does realize, does she not, that customers can easily take their business elsewhere? Ineptitude is simply inexcusable.” She sniffed. “She is a working girl, I suppose.”

  Tessa continued to smile, although it felt more and more like the baring of teeth. So very many retorts shot to the tip of her tongue—comments on the woman’s frayed hem, shoes at least two seasons old, a hat that was of poorer quality than Monique’s crocheted lace headpiece—but she couldn’t undo that which she’d taken a good twenty minutes to repair.

  “Mary,” she said to the girl at the counter, “please take extra care of Mrs. Featherington.” Tessa handed Mary the customer’s solitary length of ribbon and one pair of gloves. “She has had a most trying time, and we aim to improve her feelings for our department, as she is a valued customer and we hope for her repeated patronage.”

  Mary’s eyes widened, and she nodded at Tessa. “Of course, Miss Baker. Mrs. Featherington, I shall gladly tally your purchases and wrap them in our finest tissue paper we ordinarily reserve for purchases totaling fifty dollars or more.”

  Mrs. Featherington nodded stiffly at Tessa, which was the only gesture of thanks she would receive, and Tessa cast a subtle wink at Mary, who had worked as a shopgirl for several seasons and knew how to pacify unhappy customers.
<
br />   She mentally reviewed the contents of her first assignment she’d received that morning from Blight. A card bearing the following had been awaiting her, fastened to her employee cabinet door handle:

  An unruly child eats your entire tray of marzipan treats before the noon hour, and you are aware that several high-spending customers plan to shop in your department that afternoon. They will expect their favorite confections, but the store’s café is unable to replenish the stash in time. How will you solve the problem? Bring two-dozen marzipan treats to my office by closing today.

  She’d pondered the problem all morning, deciding she would first try Mr. Frederickson’s bakery, which was less than half a mile from the department store. There was another bakery a few streets to the north that she didn’t frequent as often but would be a decent alternative. With any luck, neither bakery had experienced a run on marzipan that morning.

  Mr. Gibbons returned to the department floor from the stockroom, carrying yards of folded muslin. Tessa scooped it from his arms and walked with him to a display table near the door, where she began arranging the new additions amongst the stock already displayed.

  “Well done with Mrs. Featherington,” Mr. Gibbons murmured. “If the store is fortunate, she will not spread falsehoods about our service. If we are fortunate, she will not return.”

  Tessa smiled. “Miracles happen daily, do they not?”

  He chuckled. “Never took you for a religious girl.”

  “I know my New Testament and enough of the Old to be frightened away from licentious behavior.” She smiled and waved at Mrs. Featherington, who was courteously escorted toward the main second-floor area by a very patient Mary. Speaking of biblical, she thought and forced herself to maintain a smile until the woman was well away from the department.

  She sighed and turned to Mr. Gibbons, only to catch a flash of someone familiar. She turned her attention again to see David, handsome in his tailored clothing and charming smile. Her heart sped up and her breath caught when he spotted her, his eyes slowly sweeping her from head to toe as he approached.

  “Miss Baker.” He removed his hat and bowed.

  “Conte Bellini. Allow me to introduce my superior, Mr. Gibbons.” She made the proper introductions, feeding Mr. Gibbons the line about old family friendships and help with scavenger hunts. She was breathless and warm as though she’d run up a flight of stairs. Mr. Gibbons accepted David’s offered hand while looking at Tessa, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

  “We had agreed to meet for luncheon,” David said, “but I see you are quite busy at the moment.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid—”

  “We are fine,” Mr. Gibbons interrupted. “The customer flow has slowed; I believe most are heading for lunch downstairs at the café or out on the piers. Go.” He checked his timepiece. “And do not return for at least two hours. If memory serves, you have a mountain of minutiae to collect.”

  “Mr. Gibbons,” Tessa began firmly. “I cannot possibly—”

  “Or you’re fired.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Go, no less than two hours, or you no longer have employment here.”

  “You are—”

  “Come along, Miss Baker,” David said, tugging gently on her elbow and grinning at Mr. Gibbons, who she could have sworn might have winked back at him. “Mr. Gibbons is generous, and we’ll not abuse a minute of it.”

  She still stared at her superior.

  David shook her arm. “Shall you gather your reticule and hat?”

  She nodded and then narrowed her eyes at Mr. Gibbons’s wide-eyed, affected innocence. She lifted a finger, prepared to argue again when David took hold of both arms from behind and steered her toward the back of the department.

  “Your belongings are back here, I assume?” he said, his voice low and deliciously close to her ear.

  “He is . . . He is bluffing! And I know what that means!” She tried to ignore the spiral of heat that started somewhere in her midsection and spread throughout her limbs. “David, this lunch lull will last for perhaps thirty minutes!”

  “Which cabinet is yours?” he asked as he propelled her through the curtain at the corner and into the employee area.

  “That one.” She pointed at the far end.

  He marched her to it and turned the handle. “You have the key?”

  She pulled it from her pocket and handed it to him, utterly flummoxed with Mr. Gibbons and utterly, reluctantly, entranced by her dear family friend on holiday from Italy, who appeared to be fighting a smile, if not an outright guffaw.

  He swiftly unlocked her door on the long wardrobe that spanned the wall and peered inside, pulling out her reticule and hat. “It is quite warm out; I’d not bother with the shawl. In fact, I rather wish I could just leave my suit coat here.”

  She held the hat and reticule and looked at him dumbly while he closed and locked the cabinet. She was not attracted to him. She was not. Not beyond the most surface observations that any woman with two eyes would readily acknowledge. Yes, he was handsome and funny and intelligent; he had a good heart and was readily receptive to ideas he’d not considered. He looked at her with an intense, focused regard that made her feel as though she were the only person on earth he ever cared to look at again.

  But she was not attracted to him. She was not.

  “Did Blight deliver your instructions for the day?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have them in your reticule?”

  She nodded again.

  He finally lost whatever internal battle he was waging and laughed. “Shall I put on your hat?”

  “It would look silly on you.”

  He took the hat from her fingers, his lips quirked in a smug smile. “Ordinarily, I’d interpret that as a witty rejoinder. Now, however, I believe you do mean it seriously.”

  He settled her hat carefully on her hair, adjusting it just so and tucking a curl behind her ear. She closed her eyes briefly as his finger brushed the edge of her ear and lingered. He smelled wonderful.

  “There’s a breeze,” he murmured, and she felt him pulling the hatpin loose and carefully securing it through the hat and into her hair. “Wouldn’t want to lose this. It is a quality headpiece.”

  “You have a good eye.”

  “I most certainly do.”

  She tilted her face up, and he trailed his fingertip along her jaw line and down the side of her neck. He whispered something in Italian—something exquisite, she was sure—and she fought to remain upright rather than falling on him.

  “You should not say such things,” she said, drumming up the courage to meet his deep blue eyes.

  His hand paused, and then his fingers wrapped softly around the back of her neck. “You speak Italian, cara mia?”

  She gave a half smile. “No.”

  “Good.”

  “And why is that? What did you say?”

  “Nothing you’re ready to hear.”

  She exhaled quietly, and he pulled back. He dropped his hand and extended her key, his face an expression she couldn’t read.

  “Now then.” He cleared his throat. “First on our agenda is to visit Mr. Blight. I want to meet him.”

  She eyed him warily and put away her key. They made their way to the curtain—she on legs that were oddly weak—and she shook her head. “What are you going to say to him?”

  “That I am your friend and am helping you meet his ridiculous demands.”

  “You cannot—”

  He shot her a flat look. “I am teasing, of course. I do know how to behave. You give me so little credit.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She held up a finger. “Remember what I’ve said.”

  “Yes, madam. I will not tell anyone I am wealthy as Midas, own this entire enterprise, and am quite ready to see you advanced into the position you so rightly deserve.”

  She clapped a hand over his mouth. “This is only a curtain!” she hissed. She twitched it aside, relieved nobody else was withi
n earshot. She felt him smile beneath her hand, and she realized her gloves were still inside her reticule. His lips pursed slightly against her skin, and her breath came out on a shaky sigh.

  She snatched her hand back as if scorched, and he winked at her. “Incorrigible! You are a gentleman!”

  “Ah,” he whispered and leaned in close, “but first an Italian.”

  She shook her head and gave him a side-glance, fighting a smile. He was close enough to kiss, and she was tempted beyond words, if only to shock him for once. He lingered, silently daring her with one lifted brow, and she winked at him instead.

  “Come along, then. Let us pay a visit to Mr. Blight.” She smiled brightly and led the way through the department and into the large area that showcased the latest fashions in women’s apparel. He followed, observing activity on the floor, his eyes flicking over shopgirls and customers as if cataloguing information.

  “I took the opportunity to peruse the other departments before finding you,” he said as they made their way to the elevator. “Most departments seem well-run and organized. I have accountants reviewing each area’s books. Phillip Keyes has managed several large Parisian boutiques. His expertise thus far has been invaluable.”

  She nodded. It made sense, and as she spent more time in his company, she’d come to realize he wasn’t a carefree playboy. He made decisions carefully, listened to and absorbed everything she said, down to the tiniest detail. He occasionally took a small notebook from his pocket and jotted quickly, often asking her questions about the subject at hand for clarification.

  His only absentminded lapse, in fact, had been his distraction over the Italian ices and, if memory served, he’d spent much of that hour studying her, as though working something out in his mind. She felt a small sense of feminine satisfaction that she had been the reason for that distraction. Afterward, he had continually offered his arm, guided her along with a hand on her back as they weaved through crowds, and touched her hand or shoulder to draw her attention to something he observed.