A Love Made to Measure

by Eliza Emmett

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Eliza Emmett

  A Love Made to Measure

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  Cora stopped as if a glass panel

  stood in front of her. “Lord Galavyin, you forget I am a working person, with little time for myself. And despite my flawless manners and superior taste”—that she said with mock affectation while straightening her lapel—“I am neither a debutante nor a society lady. I am a common woman, Lord Galavyin, simply too thinking for my own good and for my station in life. Imagine, Lord Galavyin, like every woman I’m still in line to be one day allowed to vote! Now that puts things in perspective, does it not?”

  “Are you a suffragist, Miss Larsen?” He raised an eyebrow in visible amusement and excitement rather than judgment. “You surprise me with every passing minute.”

  “Well, I suppose I am. It won’t be long now. But until then, I am just a woman, with a shop to run and a brain that insists on having ideas. Too educated for my own good, my father claims. Impossible to find a h—” She swallowed her words quickly. She didn’t know she was looking for one.

  Praise for Eliza Emmett

  “Like the magnificently crafted dresses that abound within its pages, A Love Made to Measure is stitched to perfection! Author Eliza Emmett expertly recreates late 19th-Century London as she seeks to answer the question: Can an independent woman find both the success and the love she so desperately wants and surely deserves?”

  ~ Barbara Solomon Josselsohn

  “Eliza Emmett's A Love Made to Measure is a charming tale of lovers separated by class. Tailoress and suffragette Cora Larsen and iconoclast Lord Grant Galavyin struggle against his mother and societal conventions to find true love.”

  ~ Suanne Schafer

  A Love Made to Measure

  by

  Eliza Emmett

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A Love Made to Measure

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Eliza Emmett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2116-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2115-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For everyone who continues to believe in love

  Acknowledgments

  When a book is ready for publication, it is easy for writers to be so excited that they risk forgetting that it took so many individuals working together to make the dream come true.

  I want to thank The Wild Rose Press for the support this story received and especially Anne Duguid Knol for being the first to believe in this book and to agree to be its awesome editor.

  To the members of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, my thanks for being a great association for writers.

  To my writing-group friends, my gratitude for all the insight. To my family, for being unconditional supporters of my work and dreams, I thank you.

  And you, dear reader, thank you for allowing my characters to spend time with you. I hope they bring you solace if you need it, some restful moments if you are tired, and the certainty that love always finds a way, no matter where you are.

  I thank you too for understanding that this is a work of fiction, written with historical research to support it, and poetic license taken where warranted. Please refer to the author notes at the end of the book for places and passages where I felt it was necessary for fiction to prevail. Enjoy!

  ~Eliza

  Chapter One

  Regent Street, London

  A cold, late-winter morning 1870

  Cora pricked her finger on one of her long pins. The puncture hurt her pride more than it hurt her skin. It was the third accident that morning, part of a sequence of inattentive moves with small but annoying consequences. A drop of blood sprouted from the wound and trickled down her finger. She stopped the bleeding by biting on her digit before blood could ruin one of her fabrics. At that point, she had to take a break.

  She smoothed the fabric of the red bodice she had been crafting. The shape of the sewing mannequin underneath revealed the silhouette women were expected to have. Walking away from her work station and leaving her job abandoned and unfinished, she sighed—her annoyance palpable—and kneaded sore shoulder muscles. A thousand exaggerated worries crossed her mind. Did she have enough buttons? Were the seamstresses getting enough rest? Was her father well? She had fed fears and anxieties without even realizing. It was an easy thing to do when one spent so many hours lost in contemplation while creating clothes in silence, but she had decided long before not to speak of such fears lest she be labeled a hysteric—a real possibility these days.

  When she looked out of the window and into Regent Street, she felt another pang of frustration in the pit of her stomach. The ladies that promenaded the area, often followed by loyal servants draped in bags and boxes, had little notion of what it took to get them so prim and perfect, of what actual work was. The baronets and dukes that admired—and removed—those dresses knew even less. The work of others was as taken for granted as air…or tea. For a brief moment, she envied them such blissful ignorance, but she recovered almost instantly. She loved her job and her life. She would be bored within a week if her biggest concern was cataloguing who had been to which party.

  “They have no idea. They know nothing,” she said to no one.

  But Cora knew, had known for a long time. It was almost thirteen years since she began to work as an apprentice at age fourteen, her timid fingers responsible for crooked seams and frayed threads. A dream of independence had made her decision an easy one. There would certainly be urgent orders and late evenings, but there would also be money to tuck away and the satisfaction of creating something unique.

  And now, as she looked around her shop—all the beautiful, shiny fabrics and rich brocades—and thought of her enviable reputation, she felt the kind of joy that only hard-earned income can provide. It all seemed worthwhile. Straining her eyes while sewing, seeing marrying age come and go, and constantly pricking her fingers were a small price to pay for this kind of freedom. It was 1870 after all, and London was now home to some successful women. She
liked to think she was among them: her own mistress. If hard work was what it took to get her there, so be it. She didn’t regret it for a minute.

  A young voice interrupted her ruminations. “Miss Larsen, I have Lady Galavyin’s dress ready and wrapped.” Sally, her apprentice, was standing at the corner with her fidgeting fingers interlaced.

  Cora’s thoughts returned to the tasks at hand. “Thank you, Sally. I trust her coachman or one of her servants will come to fetch it today. Please have it ready in the backroom. What other visitors shall we expect?”

  “We have a handful of fittings and more new customer orders than we can handle. I think we will have to hire a new seamstress, Miss. I’m sure of that, really. Not that it will be a difficult task. You are a fair mistress, so the street will be lined with job seekers as soon as we post the advert. A job like this? A dream, if you ask the likes of me!”

  Cora smiled, pleased with the compliment. Even though she couldn’t see herself as granter of dreams and wishes, it was good to know people enjoyed working for her. “I know the way Londoners labor. Some of it chills my bones. But fair is fair, Sally. I will not run a sweat factory if it costs me my last shilling. Can you believe women work for a song and still have to buy their own candles to provide light for sewing in those factories?” If she wasn’t a dream maker, at least she wasn’t an oppressor of other women either.

  “Yes, Miss. You keep us away from that fate. We’re all grateful for that, we are. My family is very happy for the food I can bring home.”

  Cora had heard nightmarish accounts of the conditions under which women often worked, their eyes damaged beyond repair, their fingers tender and bleeding all the time. Humidity seeped through cold walls and settled in their lungs. They spent hours and hours hand sewing in the absence of sewing machines for the lengthier jobs. She had escaped that destiny because her father, a proper tailor, had in due course taught her all he knew. A man ahead of his time, he instructed her as he would have an eldest son. The fact that he only had daughters certainly helped. She was as apt in making a perfectly tailored suit for a man as a fashionable dress for a woman. She rather enjoyed sewing clothes for gentlemen. Not that many were willing to have their inseam measured by a lady.

  “The gold bodice looks wonderful, Miss Larsen.” Sally stood next to another mannequin and regarded Cora’s work. “Is it for Duchess Kinally’s tiered dress?” It was a beautiful piece, studded with pearls and golden beads. There were flowing ribbons and complicated stitch work too.

  “It is, Sally.” She adjusted the brocade, admiring her craftsmanship. “It looks fetching, does it not?”

  “Pardon my saying it, Miss, but it looks a little small for her.”

  “Well, Sally, you know she insists on two inches off her waist. According to her, if she faints, she faints.”

  Sally let out a joyful shriek, and Cora thought of how little it took to entertain the young woman, to draw a smile and a giggle from her tiny frame.

  “Don’t think me unkind, Sally. If it were my decision, I would not only leave the two inches in, I would add a third for comfort. Why should women suffer?”

  “Miss Larsen, I could not think you unkind if I tried.”

  Sally went to arrange the boxes and wrapped garments near the door, and Cora returned to the duchess’s tight dress. She was immersed in the process of attaching pagoda sleeves and lost in thoughts about things that didn’t match, like dinner and fabric orders, when the creaking of the floor and a flutter in her stomach made her turn toward the entrance.

  A man of strong build and broad shoulders was standing there. His brown hair was a little disheveled, especially the wispy ends. His face was long and angular, offset by a round-tipped nose. He carried his impeccably-cut sack coat with ease. His voice, once he spoke, was deep and steady, just what she would have expected from such a man.

  “Pardon my intrusion. I am here to collect Lady Galavyin’s dress, if you please.” And with that he bowed, taking his time before he let his eyes travel to meet hers.

  Cora thought he was the best-dressed and most educated servant she had ever seen. Or else there was a mistake. He must be a mistake! Given Sally’s wide-eyed stare and raised eyebrows, the girl seemed to agree.

  “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” She was careful to address him formally, just in case.

  “I beg your pardon. Miss Larsen, is it?”

  She nodded.

  “I am Grant Galavyin, Lady Galavyin’s son.” He bowed again, slowly, as if he were used to having the world stop and wait for his lead. His hair fell further over his brow, covering his forehead. “I had an appointment in the city, so I offered to collect my mother’s order, if you don’t mind.”

  Cora felt her cheeks instantly blush and her stomach do funny things inside her belly. Clearly the flush was for her being so naïve. She should have known he was not a servant. The other reaction, she did not dare name.

  “Of course, Lord Galavyin. Please come in. Would you like a cup of tea? It seems the nippy wind outside caught you off guard,” she commented, looking at his hair before her brain could stop her tongue. “I mean, this kind of weather calls for a hot drink.”

  He chuckled, apparently pleased with her candor, and bowed again. “That would be lovely, Miss Larsen. Thank you.”

  “Sally, if you please…” Cora tried to call the girl’s attention, only to realize that her apprentice was glued to the floor, engaged in examining the gentleman as if he were the first male she had ever seen. “Sally!” she called again. She remembered what it felt like to be nineteen, even if her memories of that time were nothing she wished for the girl.

  “Yes, Miss.” Sally curtsied, holding her skirts, and went to do as she was told.

  Cora had a small sitting area next to the window. Two elegant yellow armchairs slightly turned toward one another invited conversation. She offered one to Grant Galavyin and took the other.

  “I am told, Miss Larsen, you are the most sought-after dressmaker in all of London.”

  “Tailoress.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am a tailoress. I can make dresses, but I was trained as a woman tailor. I cut suits as skillfully as any man.”

  The smile that followed his learning this looked genuine even if a little sly. Either that or he was a gifted actor worthy of a West End production. In that case, he could be jousting with her. Cora was weary of condescending men. But what he said next convinced her he was in truth a gentleman.

  “Then I commend you, Miss Larsen, for your skill and vision. This shop is an achievement, I must say.” His eyes traveled from shelves to mannequins, from drawers to the front window. He seemed intent on examining everything, as if he had to report on it later.

  “It was my father’s shop. Once I was competent enough, I made him retire. He worked so hard. It was past the time. He wanted to give us an education, me and my sister, so he labored beyond what most would do. But it’s my shop now. And I’m happy to employ a few other women, like this little lady over here.”

  Sally was just arriving with the tea. Blessedly, she also chose to bring the good china. Cora might not be a wealthy woman, but she knew how to carry herself. She elongated her neck and sat very straight, making sure to let her cup rest without a noise on the gold-rimmed saucer. They sipped the hot drink in silence while exchanging shy smiles. After a little too much quiet, she spoke. “I hope your mother will be happy with the dress, my lord.”

  Grant Galavyin rested his elbows on his thighs and looked sideways at her. “Miss Larsen, I know my father was a baron, and you are a proper and educated woman, but I would be much obliged if you agreed to call me something other than ‘my lord.’ ”

  “Lord Galavyin, I could not possibly do that. You are, after all, who you say you are, and I am what you see me to be, so as we can both see, that cannot happen.” She realized with displeasure that in front of this man her words attained a new level of obscurity and confusion. Familiar worries sat comfortabl
y in their usual spots. Would he think she was a fool?

  From his seated position, he nodded slightly, and a lock of his messy hair fell over his eyes like before. He smoothed it away. What was it that gave him such charm? Even being unable to control his hair was endearing. “I was just trying to be friendly. I am sure I will come here often enough.”

  “You will?”

  “Certainly. To collect the many dresses my mother and my sister Adele are likely to acquire in the future.”

  “Of course. You’ll be most welcome to come in and have tea should the opportunity arise…or should the wind catch you off guard.”

  As if on cue, Sally returned from yet another trip to the backroom, this time to hand him the carefully wrapped dress. Grant Galavyin stood to retrieve it. Then he turned to Cora.

  “Thank you for all your help and for the tea. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Good day to you, Miss Larsen. Miss Sally.”

  Her desire was to call out and ask him to stay a little longer, though she realized the absurdity of the thought. When he walked away, Cora could not help but stare at the line of his shoulders, the strong structure of his back and other parts of his anatomy. “That is a really well-tailored coat,” she said, hoping that Sally could not guess what she was really thinking.

  Chapter Two

  Grant Galavyin was not a conniving man. He was weary of schemers. He detested lies and subterfuges, and he thrived on directness and honesty. Those were the values his father had taught him, and he treasured them above all else.

  But he had to confess he had connived a bit, just this time, with the best of intentions, of course. Something about Cora Larsen had got the better of him, and caused him to do things he usually didn’t do. He was ready to take full responsibility for that. It had all been worth it in the end, so he didn’t regret it one bit.

  He had seen her at a bookstore on Regent Street, her black shiny hair pulled back in an unadorned do, the elegant green frock cut simply but masterly. More importantly, she had been thumbing through Dostoyevsky’s Poor Folk. It was a work that had come to mean much to him, guilty as he felt for having been born into so much privilege through no doing of his own. He was surprised to find a woman interested in the book as well. A sign of the times, he supposed. A good sign.