by Brenda Novak
Alexandra hardly noticed. She was too accustomed to the factories and the soot they produced to condemn their existence. And she could think of little besides her goal. Would Fobart’s manager give her the money? What could she say to convince him?
She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. Willy had been deeply asleep on the couch when she left, his stubble-covered jaw slack, snores and grunts resounding. But her fear of her stepfather was strong enough to make her believe he would catch her no matter what, and only by taking a firm hold of such emotion was she able to remain committed to her plan.
Readjusting the small bundle of belongings she had quickly gathered and hidden beneath her skirts, she swung Madame Fobart’s skirts over her shoulder and strode from the muddy little court where she lived and worked past Piccadilly Street and into the heart of the city. As she entered the crush of the noon hour, mill workers elbowed past, eager to use the brief respite from work to meet a comrade or get a bite to eat. Merchants hustled about as well, soliciting what business they could. Even a few masters, those who owned or ran the factories, could be seen on the street that day. Their carriages rumbled through town, pulled by fine horses and driven by liveried servants.
Hurrying west, Alexandra forced a smile at the many tired faces she passed as grimy buildings and crowded streets finally gave way to patches of green grass here and there. Small, neatly manicured gardens lay beneath patches of snow, adorning houses that grew steadily larger until Alexandra spotted Madame Fobart’s.
The dressmaker’s was painted in shades of pink and green and trimmed in white. A rosebush, devoid of blooms, scaled the turned posts of a wide verandah. Stairs led to a massive oak door with a heavy brass knocker. Nothing indicated that the building was anything more than the mansion of an aristocrat or merchant, except for a lace vest hanging on a brass rod outside one of its three plate-glass windows. Anything more obvious would seem vulgar to the genteel class. Madame Fobart’s catered to Manchester’s elite. The women of the ton came to her for their most exquisite gowns of rich silk or velvet.
And the bonnets! Madame’s milliners were some of the most skilled Alexandra had ever seen.
Though Madame Fobart employed a veritable army of seamstresses, skirts were hired out. Alexandra highly doubted Madame’s patrons ever faced the fact that impoverished hands stitched part of their gowns. The rich certainly paid enough for their apparel. Alexandra guessed that many of that noble class would faint if they acknowledged the truth, and she cringed at the memory of the tales that had recently circulated. One story told of the death of a great lady made ill by some poor needlewoman who had used the garments she sewed as coverings for her sick child.
Considering the circumstances of many in her profession, Alexandra believed the report. Yet she was so anxious for work, as most were, that she guiltily hoped such stories would not affect her livelihood. Especially now that she would be on her own. It was likely they would not. Hiring out was an excellent way to garner big profits and was by no means exclusive to Madame Fobart’s. Skirts could be made without fitting and were easy to sew, with primarily straight seams. Production was the key to success, after all, and spring, the busiest of all seasons, was well on its way.
Alexandra knew better than to call at the front door. She hefted the heavy skirts to her other shoulder and headed to the servants’ entrance in back, but today it took several knocks to rouse anyone from inside.
Finally the door opened and a willowy servant stuck her head out. “Yes?”
“I’ve come to make a delivery,” Alexandra said, her voice sounding abnormally loud in the quiet of the afternoon. No doubt Willy would be eager to collect such a large amount once she’d delivered the skirts.
She only hoped she would be well on her way by then. “I hope I’m not too late.”
The girl dried dripping hands on her apron. She appeared to be one of the kitchen help, possibly a scullery maid.
“Time doesn’t matter much today,” she replied. “Almost everybody’s at a picnic in the country with Madame ‘erself. Even most of the servants, except those of us who ‘ad to stay an’ prepare the evenin’ meal.”
“Oh.” Alexandra’s spirits fell as she realized that her plans to meet Aunt Pauline might be foiled from the onset. “Is there no one here to receive the order, then? I’ve come all this way.”
The girl looked doubtful. “Mr. Calvert is ‘ere, but I don’t think ‘e’ll see you. Busy with a client, ‘e is.”
“But he told me to come today,” she said, keeping her voice level. She dared not complain too loudly. Madame Fobart’s manager was difficult to deal with on a good day.
“I’m sorry—”
“I’ll come tomorrow.” Alexandra could hardly stifle her disappointment as she started back through the yard. She would never have enough for the train to London now.
“Wait.” Eyeing her heavy load again, the servant called her back. “I could ask ‘im, but if ‘e sends me packin’ for interruptin’ ‘im, I guess we’ll both know it wasn’t such a good idea.” She flashed an impish smile before retreating into the house.
Alexandra waited on the step for several minutes, tapping her foot. What could be taking so long? The train to London departed at three o’clock, and she knew, time constraints being what they were, she should be on it.
Just when she was about to knock again, the door opened, but it wasn’t the willowy maid who poked a head out. It was Mr. Calvert, wearing his usual tight-fitting broadcloth waistcoat and dark, tapered trousers. Surprisingly, his face creased into a smile. “Miss Cobwell, isn’t it? Please, do come inside.”
He held the door as she passed into a large room just off the kitchen where pegs, normally draped with shawls, lined the walls.
“It’s Cogsworth. Alexandra Cogsworth,” she corrected, dipping into a brief curtsey.
“Of course.” He lifted the skirts from her aching arms and set them on a table.
“I’m sorry to disturb you today, Mr. Calvert—”
“Don’t apologize.” He waved her words away, baffling her with his uncharacteristic kindness. Madame’s manager was always curt, and frugal beyond belief. Alexandra didn’t like him. He cared not at all that his hammer-tough negotiations resulted in human beings slaving all day for next to nothing.
“Actually, my dear, your visit is timely,” he exclaimed, dabbing at the perspiration on his hairless brow. “Would you believe the daughter of the Duke of Greystone is standing in the drawing room this very minute with a nasty tear in her skirts? And alas! I have no seamstresses. They have all taken the day off. I’d almost forgotten that the skirts were due back until Sonya persisted in making me aware. Then I thought to myself, God has not left me bereft after all. Certainly any needlewoman with half a”—he cleared his throat—”I mean, after all the work we’ve given to your shop, certainly you could assist me rather than disappoint Lady Anne. Of course, you won’t mention that you haven’t formerly worked among the finer establishments.”
Alexandra hesitated. She was certainly capable of fixing the gown, but time was short. And being invited into the same room as a titled lady was incredible enough, without pretending to be one of Madame Fobart’s own girls. Why, every one of them paid a hefty price to apprentice, and for a good number of years before they made a salary as seamstress. Only the best ever became show women, taking measurements, helping to select fabrics and accoutrements, then passing the orders on to others who worked behind the scenes.
Still, Mr. Calvert had presented her with an opportunity. Perhaps it was the opportunity she’d been looking for.
“Actually, my stepfather asked me to collect for the skirts,” she said, holding her breath as she looked into Mr. Calvert’s watery eyes. “Once I’ve received payment, I’m sure it would be a small matter to fix the lady’s dress.”
His eyes narrowed, evidence that he understood her suggestion to be the demand that it was. “Willy usually takes care of such business.”
“I know, but he�
��s not well today, and we... I mean he... he needs the money, you see.”
Calvert glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t time to deal with such issues now. After—”
“It shouldn’t take but a moment.”
He scowled. “Fine. Here.” Reaching into his pocket, he shoved several notes toward Alexandra, obviously more worried about the noblewoman awaiting his return than anything else. “Here’s at least half, but you’ll receive no more until you’ve finished with my client. You are competent, are you not?”
“Of course.” Alexandra’s heart pounded as she took the money from Calvert’s outstretched hand.
“I’ve sewed since I was small. But what about my clothes?” She was sure her dress constituted nothing better than a rag by Mr. Calvert’s standards.
“Sonya will fetch something that’s appropriate. We’ve a girl who looks to be about your size, though you’re quite thin. Come, we mustn’t keep Lady Anne waiting.”
Alexandra felt gratified by her small victory over Calvert, but still she hesitated. She had never served the rich, her mother’s world. The very thought made her jumpy. What if her fingers shook?
Reminded of her hands, Alexandra groaned inwardly. Her mother had been a lady, and she could act the part easily enough. But her hands were working hands. Callused and pinpricked, they were the most obvious sign of her low station.
Before Alexandra could voice her concern, Calvert moved away, obviously eager to return to his influential client. She stared at his broad back as he disappeared down the hall toward the front of the house, then swallowed hard.
Money or not, it was too late to refuse.
* * *
Spouting directions in a high, spirited voice, Sonya dropped a silk dress over Alexandra’s head. As Mr. Calvert had predicted, it was a bit large. “Do ye know ‘ow ter carry yerself?” she asked.
Alexandra nodded, but her answer didn’t stop Sonya from offering her own advice on the matter.
“I’ve seen ‘ow they carry on.” The maid fixed a small lace cap onto Alexandra’s head, one with long streamers of ribbon that fell over her shoulders down to her feet. “As ye know, the best show women are French. Monique meets with the finest clients. She glides when she walks and smiles sweetly. Of course, she curtseys upon enterin’ the room... but not such a ‘umble curtsey,” she corrected when Alexandra attempted the same. “Now, ‘old still while I pin yer ‘air. Let’s see. She laces ‘er talk with ‘m’lady’ this and that, an’ speaks nothin’ but flatterin’ words, lies mostly, but they all seem to like ‘er. At any rate, she’s the golden calf around ‘ere, an’ even sups with Mr. Calvert in the evenin’.” Sonya drove the last hairpin into place, muttering, “That’s the best I can do. I’m no ladies’ maid, any more than ye’re a real show woman.”
“It’s fine. How do I look?” Alexandra turned on her toes so Sonya could view her from all sides.
“Beautiful. I wouldn’t ‘ave guessed it would be so easy, but ye look as good as any show woman I’ve ever seen, if ye are a mite underfed. Just remember, work quickly and don’t say anythin’ unless ye ‘ave to.”
Alexandra nodded again. Physically she stood ready for the charade, but her insides quaked. “Give me a moment to prepare my mind,” she pleaded when Sonya hurried her to the door.
“That would only make it ‘arder for ye. Come on”—she motioned—”I’m sure Lady Anne is not used to waitin’.”
When Sonya ushered her into the vast rectangular drawing room where Mr. Calvert sat with his guest, Alexandra couldn’t stop herself from staring. The furnishings were luxurious. Despite her nerves and her self-consciousness, she admired all she saw. Large gilded mirrors alternated with panels of richly textured green wallpaper; and a thick burgundy, green, and beige rug stretched across the floor. Three elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their cut glass twinkling overhead, and heavy, burgundy-colored draperies with gold tassels encased the windows.
Alexandra’s heels tapped on the shiny wood floor, then sank into the deep pile of the rug as she walked toward the far wall, where a fire burned brightly and two women sat opposite Mr. Calvert. Engrossed in conversation as they sipped tea, they did not bother to look up until Mr. Calvert’s eyes darted in her direction.
“My lady, let me introduce Miss Alexandra,” he said, finally drawing their attention to her. “She is our new show woman and will mend your gown so you can be on your way. You must be eager to reach your mother. Scotland is so far, after all.”
Alexandra’s stomach fluttered, and she wished she had eaten. Nourishment of some kind might have steadied her nerves.
Stopping several feet in front of the small group, she curtseyed as the women glanced at her before continuing their conversation with Mr. Calvert.
“Yes, poor Mother has been ill over a year and does not seem to improve,” Lady Anne complained while Alexandra studied her face. She was a beautiful woman, with coloring not much different than Alexandra’s own. Blond hair, coiled into two buns dripping with ringlets above each ear, framed an oval face that held wide green eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and an upturned nose. The maid was rather plain and looked at least ten years older, closer to thirty than twenty.
“I’m sorry to hear such distressing news,” Calvert said. “Alexandra will be quick about her work then. She’s an excellent seamstress. We just brought her from Londontown where she apprenticed at Lady Sutherby’s.” He turned his small eyes upon Alexandra, looking as if he believed his own mistruth.
The falsity of Calvert’s words made Alexandra want to duck her head, but she quickly realized that such poor acting on her part would surely give them away. With an effort, she forced her shoulders back and her head up.
Lady Anne’s brow rose slightly as she turned to Alexandra.
Calvert nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you ladies to your business.” Though the words poured easily from his mouth, Alexandra understood the pointed smile that rested on his face. Do it now and make it fast, he urged.
Alexandra was grateful that her speech, at least, indicated her own good breeding. “It shouldn’t take but a few moments,” she promised.
Calvert gave Lady Anne and her maid a sweeping bow before leaving the room, then Alexandra eyed the torn gown with a discerning eye. An elegant day dress made of blue barege, it had a high, plain body that buttoned up the front to the throat. Full bishop sleeves ended in a deep cuff at the wrist, and the skirt had several flounces, each bordered with quilled ribbons.
“My lady, if you will stand before the mirror, I’ll have a look at the problem,” Alexandra said.
“The tear is here.” Lady Anne indicated a spot that looked as though she’d caught her skirt on a nail or some such. “I was tempted to wait until I reached my mother’s, but this gown was a gift from her. I’m afraid if I don’t have it fixed right away, the damage will become irreparable.”
“I see.” Alexandra bent to examine the offending flounce. “This shouldn’t be too difficult to mend. When I’m finished you won’t even know it was there.”
After helping the duke’s daughter to remove her dress, Alexandra carried it from the room in search of a needle. She did not yet know where she was to find the color of thread she needed, but with twenty seamstresses staying under the same roof, sewing supplies could not be far off.
“How is everything?” Calvert asked. He had been hovering near the portal and nearly pounced on her when she emerged.
“So far, all is well. I need some blue thread and a needle, however, and I have no idea where to find them.”
“I’ll show ye.” Sonya appeared from nowhere, it seemed, and led her upstairs to a large, well-equipped room.
Alexandra found thread in a rainbow of colors and chose the one that best matched Lady Anne’s dress. Then the doorbell sounded, and Sonya left to answer it.
It took only a few minutes for Alexandra to stitch the tear. But when she left the sewing room and reached the landing, she stopped short. Her stepfather’s voice ec
hoed through the hall below; Willy wasn’t more than ten feet away.
Panic raised the hair on Alexandra’s arms. She had a good inkling what Willy would do if he found her here and learned she had already collected some of the money for the skirts. She had experienced such retribution before.
Sonya told him Mr. Calvert would be with him shortly and ushered him into a room straight off the bottom of the stair as Alexandra’s thoughts flew in a thousand different directions. In a matter of minutes—as soon as Calvert saw her stepfather—Willy would learn the truth. She had to hide!
No, she had to escape! If Willy caught her now, she’d never make the train. Worse, she’d probably be unable to leave the house for several days. She’d miss Aunt Pauline for sure, and lose the opportunity to be free of her stepfather.
Feeling the weight of the money already in her pouch, Alexandra hesitated a mere fraction of a second before racing back the way she had come. She quickly donned Lady Anne’s dress, praying that Willy would never recognize her so elegantly garbed, and snatched a bonnet of blue satin and dangling black lace from the workbench of some unknown milliner.
Ducking her head so the lace that cascaded down her back would fall about her face, she crept to the top of the stairs. Calvert was nowhere to be seen, but Willy hovered near the entrance to the room where Sonya had asked him to wait.
How could he have such terrible timing? Alexandra wondered, writhing in the misery of her own bad luck. She had been so close!
Her fingers curled into the palms of her hands as she started down the stairs. It was now or never. She had to escape before Calvert appeared.
Willy glanced up, his attention drawn by the swish of her skirts. His gaze passed over Alexandra like a cold breeze, but she steeled her nerves against it. Keeping her chin tucked resolutely into her chest, she allowed him a clear view only of the black tulle of her cap.
He cleared his throat as Alexandra brushed past, so close she could have reached out and touched him. The fear that seized her at that moment nearly caused her to collapse in a puddle at his feet. She knew he probably expected her to glance up, but she kept her face averted, forcing one foot to step in front of the other as she moved purposefully toward the front door.