by Julia Kelly
“Oh, Caroline,” Elsie said softly at the sight of her.
“It’s perfect,” Mrs. Sullivan declared from her spot on the sofa.
“I thought it would pick up your hair nicely. With your coloring, I should think rich tones will work best,” said Mrs. Parkem.
“I’ve always enjoyed jewel tones, but more often than not I was put in pastels and white,” said Caroline, thinking back to the trips to a dressmaker known for copying rather than creating her own original designs. Her mother had been more concerned with Caroline being à la mode than with setting trends when it came to fashion. Everything was about appearing to belong so that Lord and Lady Weatherly could have no objections.
“Those colors wash you out and make you look as though you wish to fade into the walls. I promise you that people will notice you in my dresses,” said Mrs. Parkem with a satisfied nod before stepping back from the long mirror Mrs. Sullivan had set up on the far end of the room to let her see her reflection.
Caroline’s lips parted. She looked . . . transformed. Now her light hair and pale skin stood out in stark contrast to the richness of the fabric she wore. Her cheeks looked rosy without the assistance of a few hard pinches to their apples. Mrs. Parkem was right—she would stand out in this dress so much so that a man might spot her across a room and think, She is for me. But even more, she liked the way she looked. For the first time in a long time, she felt vibrant.
“It’s lovely,” she said, touching the soft wool of the skirts.
“I’m glad you like it,” said Mrs. Parkem. “It looks better on you than it would have on its intended owner, and now you have the perfect dress in which to receive calls or go on a drive with one of your many admirers.”
“All I need to do is impress one,” said Caroline.
“At least one man seems to be rather smitten with you, if his rescue of you in Holyrood Park is any indication,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
Caroline started, terrified that the matchmaker knew about Moray and the kiss, but then realized she must be speaking about Trevlan riding back with the carriage maker.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Mr. Trevlan was quite attentive.”
“Interesting that he entrusted you to Mr. Moray, though,” said Mrs. Sullivan casually. Perhaps a little too casually . . .
“That was something I was not pleased about,” Caroline said, putting force behind her words. “Mr. Moray and I do not get along.”
“So you’ve told me,” said Mrs. Sullivan, who continued to watch her carefully.
Sensing there was danger in discussing Moray with the matchmaker, Caroline touched a bit of piping across her bodice that imitated the frogging on an army officer’s jacket. “You’re certain you don’t mind giving me this dress, Mrs. Parkem?”
It was the condition of the agreement between Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. Parkem, and herself. In addition to her gown for the Caledonian Ball, the dressmaker would give her a number of dresses that had been abandoned by their intended owners. Some hadn’t been able to pay. Others had simply been indecisive, changing their minds about style as quickly as fickle fashion did. Anything that could be altered to fit Caroline would be.
“This dress was just going to languish in my workroom,” said Mrs. Parkem. “I’m always happy to have a pretty woman wear my clothes. It’s the best advertisement for my shop.”
“I’d be delighted to tell whomever will listen the name of my brilliant dressmaker,” said Caroline.
“Good,” said Mrs. Parkem. “Then I’ll continue to keep an eye out for any gowns that might suit you and see what we can come up with in the way of a new wardrobe.”
“Is the ball gown ready?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.
“Come,” the dressmaker said, leading Caroline back behind the screen.
It took a few minutes to maneuver the day dress off and the ball gown on. Mrs. Parkem had to help her put on a crinoline with a more fan-shaped back to accommodate the wider train of the evening dress, and that meant a few quiet moments of conversation while Elsie and Mrs. Sullivan chatted on the other side of the drawing room.
“I suppose you see quite a few of Mrs. Sullivan’s clients,” Caroline said as the dressmaker tied the crinoline around her waist.
Mrs. Parkem shrugged. “Some. She seems to have taken quite a liking to you.”
“I like her quite a bit too. She was intimidating at first. Everyone seems to revere her.”
Mrs. Parkem grinned as she pulled a froth of plum fabric out of a box. “Turn around. I want you to enjoy the full effect when you step out again.”
Caroline did as she was told and the dressmaker continued. “Mrs. Sullivan has a habit of collecting lost souls, nurturing us until we’re strong enough to stand on our own again, and then sending us on our way with her blessing.”
“You were one of them?” Caroline asked, her voice muffled by the waterfall of fabric that flowed over her head.
Mrs. Parkem laughed. “We all are in some way, but yes.”
“Then she introduced you to your husband?” she asked.
The other woman stilled. “No. I met my husband long before I met Mrs. Sullivan. When our paths crossed, I was widowed and struggling to pay the rent on my shop. I’d just opened it with huge dreams and very little income. I was taking in piecework and quietly making up dresses for maids who were too busy to do it themselves on the side.
“There we are,” said Mrs. Parkem softly as she began to button up the back of Caroline’s new dress. “Grand enough for a princess.”
Caroline smoothed her hands over the silk bodice and took a deep breath. “I hope you sewed some magic into it, because I think I’ll need it.”
“Nonsense. The ball is grand, but it’s nothing more than a dance with the same gentlemen and ladies who always attend these sorts of things.”
Caroline nodded, some of the tension in her stomach easing a little bit. “You’re right. I just need everything to go perfectly.”
What she needed was to hold Trevlan’s attention. What she wanted was to see Moray again.
Damn him.
Mrs. Parkem turned her to check how the dress settled on Caroline’s frame. “We’ll bring the sleeves in a little so they don’t slip down your arms when you’re dancing, and I’ll stitch a loop into the skirt so you can pick up your train for a waltz.”
When Mrs. Parkem was satisfied, Caroline stepped out from around the screen once again.
“Oh, Miss Burkett,” said Mrs. Sullivan, putting down her teacup and rising to her feet.
Caroline turned to the mirror and almost gasped. The dressmaker was right. She did look regal, but even more, she felt powerful, like she could sweep into a room and command the attention of everyone there.
Mrs. Parkem moved efficiently around her, muttering as she pinned here and there to make final adjustments to the dress.
“I’ll take up the hem a touch and then have the dress sent over before the ball,” said the dressmaker, when she finally stepped away.
“If Mr. Trevlan and the other bachelors don’t fall at your feet, I don’t know what’s wrong with them,” declared Mrs. Sullivan.
“Just so long as they show up,” said Caroline.
A crafty smile slid over the matchmaker’s face. “Don’t worry. They will. And since we’re speaking of them, now that you’ve had a couple of weeks in society, I want your initial impressions of some of the gentlemen you’ve met.”
Mrs. Sullivan must have caught her glance at Mrs. Parkem, because the matchmaker quickly said, “Anything you say before me you can say before Lavinia. I’ve never met a woman with more access to secrets who is more willing to keep them. Unless of course I’ve asked her to do a spot of espionage on my behalf.”
Mrs. Parkem shot a look at Caroline. “You’d be shocked the things that people say in front of their dressmaker. I can be pinning them into place and they hardly notice I’m there.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Caroline asked.
Lavinia shrugged. “Not particul
arly. It suits my business well, because then I can tell who’s going to require dresses for an upcoming wedding and trousseau. It helps me find out which ladies are setting fashion so I don’t spend my time pursuing a woman who is on her way out.”
“So, Miss Burkett, what were your thoughts on Mr. Grier?” asked Mrs. Sullivan
She thought back to Grier—or at least whom she thought he was. If she remembered correctly, he’d called once on a particularly busy afternoon when two of Elsie’s friends and Mr. Trevlan had all come to the house. “He seemed . . . nice.”
“He owns several woolen mills, is that right?” asked Elsie.
“He produces some of Scotland’s finest cloth for export,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“I have no objection to marrying a man of business,” said Caroline.
“That may be the case, but I feel as though you have some objections,” said Elsie with a little smile.
“Remember, Miss Burkett, you don’t have to settle for just any gentleman,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
She wanted to believe the matchmaker was right, but it meant fighting the instinct for social survival that kept rearing its head. Still, she drew in a breath and said, “From what I remember, Mr. Grier spoke barely a word when he called, and coughed on me twice while we were dancing after your dinner.”
Lavinia laughed. “That sounds rather dreadful.”
Mrs. Sullivan jotted something down in her notebook. “Good. I was beginning to worry that you might like all of the candidates I placed before you, and then we’d be in quite a pickle.”
Caroline smiled. “There are some gentlemen who are more appealing than others, although what I said still stands. I simply want to be married.”
“What about Stephenson?” asked the matchmaker.
“A barrister. He sent flowers,” said Caroline.
“And was very pleasant when he called,” said Elsie.
“He seemed a good, solid sort of man,” Caroline continued.
“ ‘Solid’ doesn’t exactly inspire one to rapturous passion, does it?” Mrs. Sullivan observed.
“Passion can be difficult to hold on to, even if you’re lucky enough to find it,” said Lavinia.
“She’s right,” said Elsie.
Caroline glanced back and forth between the two women, wondering at the quiet sadness in each of their eyes.
“We’ll keep Stephenson on the list then,” said Mrs. Sullivan, eyes fixed on her notebook. “What about Dr. Easom?”
“The handsome physician I keep hearing about,” said Mrs. Parkem. “He seems to be quite popular among my clients.”
“He can stay on the list,” said Caroline after a moment’s hesitation. He had been handsome, but she could tell the man was also well aware of it. She wanted a husband, not a peacock, but he’d been pleasant enough. He could stay.
“Sir Devin mentioned you specifically when I saw him at the theater,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“Knight or baronet?” asked Mrs. Parkem.
“He’s a knight,” said Elsie as she raised her cup to her lips.
“You’ve a good memory for this sort of work, Mrs. Burkett,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“Thank you,” said Elsie.
“He might be a knight, but he also spent the entire time we were speaking at the opera glancing down the front of my dress,” said Caroline archly.
That earned Sir Devin a mark in Mrs. Sullivan’s little book, and Caroline suspected it wasn’t the good kind.
“And that brings us back to Mr. Trevlan,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “I heard that he danced with you twice at the Greer ball.”
“And read, I imagine,” said Caroline with a scowl.
“The scandal sheets are remarkably thorough,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“He’s quite handsome,” said Elsie.
“He is.” Caroline nodded. Handsome and healthful and athletic in a way unique to English gentlemen. His figure was still trim, and he still had all of his hair; moreover, he carried himself with the practiced ease of a man who had enough wealth to be completely assured of his place in the world.
“His great passions seem to involve horses or guns,” said Caroline.
“According to some of the ladies I dress, that’s all their husbands think about,” said Mrs. Parkem.
“Mr. Sullivan was never a great hunter, but he shot grouse every year,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “I suspect it was more for the chance to commune with his fellow gentlemen in the outdoors and nip whisky out of a hip flask than anything else, but I did enjoy having roasted grouse for the table.
“But the real question is, do you think you’ll have enough in common with him?” asked the matchmaker.
Caroline had thought she’d had everything in common with Julian, but when everything was over she’d realized that she’d allowed herself to be molded into the form that best pleased him. She’d learned to appreciate the sort of music he liked, the plays he frequented, and the books he’d read. It wasn’t that she disliked any of these things, but when he’d jilted her she’d been shocked to learn that she had so few opinions of her own.
She’d set about changing that. Determined to cultivate her own interests and her own opinions, she’d read everything she could and—before it had become too uncomfortable to go out in public for all of the cuts she received—attended the plays and concerts she wanted to see. She’d carved out a sense of who she was, and she was determined not to lose that independence.
It was best if her husband had his own interests and she could keep hers. Besides, she had no illusions about the kind of match she was making. She was looking for a husband more than a companion.
“We’ll keep Mr. Trevlan in consideration,” she said with a firm nod.
In the mirror she caught Mrs. Sullivan scrutinizing her before scribbling something in her little book. “As you say.”
“You look lovely,” Elsie, who had come up behind Caroline and placed a hand on either shoulder, said quietly into the mirror. “Just make sure whichever man you choose is the man you think he is.”
Before Caroline could ask Elsie what she meant, Mrs. Sullivan was inviting the Burkett women to travel with her to the ball in her carriage and explaining the promenade up the stairs of the Assembly Rooms. They had a ball to prepare for.
“Fuck,” Moray muttered under his breath as he stood in his shirtsleeves next to McLeod. The typesetter had his head in the printing press and was rooting around, trying to figure out why the sophisticated, usually well-oiled machine that was capable of printing up to twelve thousand pages an hour was currently standing still.
“I think I have it,” said McLeod, his voice a metallic echo against the machine’s parts.
“What is it?” asked Moray.
A few grunts and some shifting and McLeod emerged holding a shredded piece of rubber aloft. “One of the internal bands is gone,” he announced, the roundness of his syllables betraying his Inverness upbringing.
“Tell me we have another,” said Moray, looking around at the newspaper’s various printers, who were standing with their arms crossed, watching the proceedings. A couple of them glanced at each other until finally Tommy Haversham spoke up.
“Should do in the back.”
“Thank you, Tommy,” said Moray. “I’m glad to know someone’s familiar with the inventory of parts for the machines that keep our wages flowing in.”
A few of the men grumbled, but the way they toed at the ground told Moray they knew better.
“I’ll just go get it then,” said Tommy, pointing his thumb at a door that led out to the basement, where the huge rolls of newspaper, replacement cylinders, and machine parts were kept when they weren’t in use.
“A whole hour’s production lost because of a damned belt,” Moray muttered under his breath. It irked him even more that it had broken while printing the parts of the Sunday paper that could be held for a few days: the ladies’ pages, features about travel, letters to the editor, opinion columns, and the like. Printing all of that now was
supposed to save some time for the men who worked Saturday, to allow them to return home in time to spend some part of the evening with their families. Mistakes midweek ate into that.
“We’ll line the type up two sections at once to minimize the time it takes to switch out the cylinders,” said McLeod. “We’ll make it up.”
Moray let out a long, steadying breath. “We will, and I’ll see to it that the other bands are checked for wear and tear.”
McLeod, who was almost as protective of the presses as Moray, nodded his approval.
Moray turned for the stairs, planning to head to the second floor, where the papers’ copy editors ruled in benevolent dictatorship over the reporters, when he spotted Eva leaning against the doorway and tapping a paper folder against her hip.
“Are you finished playing mechanic?” she asked.
He scowled as he wiped his hands on a rag. “I’m glad to see you’re eager to jump in and help.”
“My strengths lie outside of the printing room.” She held up the file. “Robert Trevlan, as you asked.”
A grin cracked through his foul mood. “You beautiful woman.”
“I prefer ‘talented, intelligent, and deserving of a raise.’ ”
He laughed. “Don’t push your luck on the last one.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “It was worth trying. I think you’ll like what you find in there.”
He snatched up the file and ripped it open to scan the sheets of handwritten notes. When he got halfway down the first page, his eyes widened.
“This is all confirmed?” he asked.
“I spoke to the woman myself. She’s living with an ancient aunt in Fife. And before you ask, I took the money for the train ticket and the cab for that visit from the strongbox you keep in your desk.”
“Well worth it,” he said, closing the file. “How did you find out about her?”
A sly smile crossed her lips. “I have my ways.”
“Whatever they are, they’re worth their weight in gold.” It would seem that he’d been right about Trevlan. The man was a cad and exactly the sort of man Caroline should stay away from.