A Love Made to Measure

by Eliza Emmett

  After a while, she sat down, easing herself into a comfortable position, turning a lush red armchair into a regal piece of furniture. In minutes, she became engrossed in the reading, a crease in her forehead announcing the extent of her focus. He just stood there, pretending to browse the section on travel guides, from where he could remove any number of books and get a good look at her.

  Her long eyelashes danced, hiding her eyes. From time to time she played with a lock of hair wrapped around her finger, and when the information in the book became serious, or, he supposed, when the plot thickened, a deeper frown line grew between her strong eyebrows. When she adjusted her posture on the chair, it was to sit more upright, even more royally. She was delicate and yet strong, light but solidly grounded. She was like both the sun and the moon, and he was blindsided.

  Intrigued, he had made a point of discovering who she was. He had to take a chance. If he let the opportunity pass, he might never see her again. He tried to be subtle. He asked about books first, but not about her. He would not dare.

  “I wonder if you have any good guides on India.” The bookseller had known Grant since he was a little boy. Grant had often begged his mother to allow him to come into the shop to read books while she tried on hats next door. He had been an avid reader since age five, and many of his books had come from this store.

  Mr. Dolin, a Father-Christmas-like creature, had therefore been happy to oblige. He handed Grant a hefty volume on the desired country. He was always one to talk and did not flinch when Grant moved on to the subject of the lovely woman sitting there with a book. Yes, he knew the lady in question well. Her father too. A hard-working, wonderful family. Her shop was just a few doors down Regent Street. Miss Larsen. Cora Larsen. Hadn’t he heard of the couturière who designed the dresses that were the toast of the Season? Apparently, being knowledgeable about fashion would have had its benefits.

  Grant couldn’t believe his luck when two nights later, during dinner, his mother mentioned Miss Larsen’s name, informing him that she was to send her coachman to retrieve a gown later in the week. Grant Galavyin had then simply instructed the man not to leave for the shop without him when the time came.

  And that’s how he found himself having tea with the lovely Cora Larsen who looked like a queen and liked Dostoyevsky.

  ****

  Cora arrived home to find her sister Hattie sewing by the window and their father trying to fix a small clock. Since his retirement, Mr. Larsen had become somewhat obsessed with mending things around the house, or even more with tearing them apart. Small appliances were at risk, but clocks especially did not stand a chance. Nails, screws, and springs could be found all over the house. Challenging each other to find the most pieces was now a game among the members of the household.

  Love and gratitude did not begin to describe the deep feelings Cora reserved for her father. She wanted to protect him with such fierceness that she knew she would do anything for him. He was a most wonderful parent and a caring, devoted friend. While she did not worry one bit about the stopped clocks and malfunctioning mementos, his health was a different issue altogether, one that occupied a great deal of her waking moments.

  “Father, you should save what eyesight you have left.” He was a short, stout man, who wore a pair of golden-trimmed round spectacles. She hung her coat and came to give him a kiss on his balding head. “But somehow, I just know that you won’t.”

  “What for?” he asked raising his eyebrows. “To see the grandchildren you two seem invested in not giving me?”

  Hattie shook her head and intervened, a hand up in protest. “It is useless, Cora. Any conversation just becomes a ruse for him to speak of his daughters’ spinsterhood.” She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and smiled at Cora. Tenderness blossomed in Cora’s chest. She wasn’t short on items to be grateful for.

  “You are not spinsters. You are bright young women. Stubborn young women, but young women nonetheless.” He found another screw and bolted it in place. “It is all my fault, you see. I allowed you to read too much, to learn too much. I answered too many questions. I encouraged it. Learned women find no husbands. They answer back all the time. They have opinions. Who would want that?”

  “Father, you sound positively medieval. Could we ask Nan for some tea? I am chilled to the bone.” Cora rubbed each of her own arms with the opposite hand. Then, wrapping a shawl around her body, she walked toward her father.

  “How was your day, Cora?” He had returned to the poor, dismantled clock.

  “As busy as ever, but I can’t complain. Do you remember Lady Galavyin?” She tried to sound casual. She hoped the high-pitched voice she resorted to when upset or hiding her motives did not give away her nervousness.

  The old man looked over his glasses toward her. A frown line formed on his forehead where his thick, white eyebrows met. He looked as if he was considering the question before going back to work.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. She’s hard to forget, is she not? I knew her husband. I cut Lord John Galavyin’s coats for a long time. A fine gentleman. Proper and kind in every way. A descendant of other fine men, an asset to England. A real loss when he went to the great world to come. She on the other hand…”

  “What? What about her?” Cora sat down with the tea that Hattie had gone and fetched. “Thanks, Hattie.”

  “A commoner. A commoner who, upon marrying a peer, decided she was better than everyone else.” He seemed ready to strip the screw. “She never had a kind word for the likes of me or for anyone else below her station for that matter. Treated everyone like dirt. Kept her nose and her chin up, as if looking down was a horror to be thoroughly avoided. I’d be very surprised if she never took a big stumble, the way she was always looking up to the sky. Pfff.”

  “I’m sure you are exaggerating, Papa,” said Hattie. “Don’t listen to him.” Cora thought her sister seemed to believe there could never be evil in others and instead always tried to uncover the best in people. “Did you meet her, Cora? Was she mean to you? That could not be.” Hattie’s eyes were full of compassion. Cora’s heart filled with affection for her sister, who was so quiet and spent so much time at home that she experienced life vicariously through the news arriving from the shop or the sugary stories she was known to read.

  “Not today. That is to say, she was not in the shop today. And no, she hasn’t been mean to me. She came in for measurements a while ago, but I didn’t take them. We only met briefly. I couldn’t tell you much about her if you asked me, other than she is very elegant and wears her silver hair in an intricate up-do.”

  “Well, what of it then?”

  “Oh, nothing. Only her son. He came to collect her dress.” She could feel the heat in her cheeks again, so she tried looking away.

  “Her son? How unusual.” Her father put his tools down for a minute.

  “Yes, quite.” She brought a hand to her face and let her fingers touch her chin. “He seemed like an unusual man.” She fanned her face with her hand.

  “I meant how unusual he was running errands. The son of a baron, now a baron himself. I remember seeing him, when he was a young lad. But now he must be close to thirty.”

  “Is he handsome?” Hattie was alert now. Her work was crinkled and forgotten on her lap, and her tea was getting cold. “Elegant?”

  Cora in turn, went through the unbecoming motions of choking on her beverage and coughing to disguise her newfound embarrassment. “Some people might think so, I reckon.”

  Hattie did not seem satisfied. “Did you think he was handsome?”

  “Nan!” The old woman arrived with supper at a perfect time, and Cora breathed out with relief. She would have hated to lie, but she would also have loathed to say she did think he was handsome and elegant. Kind and regal. She got up and gave Nan a tight hug.

  Nan only shook her head. “Cora, you are a strange woman. I have cared for you since you were five, and now you greet me as if you hadn’t seen me in years.”

  Cor
a and Hattie’s mother had died when the girls were five and three respectively. Nan had been a young woman then. Her life had been caring for the girls. Cora loved her like she would a mother. She felt great affection and appreciation but liked to think she would have chosen Nan to be a part of her life even under different circumstances. Sometimes the best people came into one’s life outside of blood connections, like surprise gifts when it’s not one’s birthday.

  “Nan, that would be a sad fate. Not seeing you every day. Thank goodness for you.” She placed a kiss on the woman’s forehead.

  Nan shook her head again, but her hidden smile told Cora she was pleased. “Now sit and eat,” she said with loving authority, as if Cora was still a child.

  They ate in pleasant silence, punctuated with bouts of easy conversation. Her father was in good spirits, telling stories and asking questions about the shop. But Cora’s mind kept slipping away, thinking of the handsome man who seemed to have come to steal her peace with his messy hair and polished manners.

  “…don’t you think, Cora?” She only caught the very last part of the question Nan was posing. At that moment, she realized the conversation had continued without her.

  “Absolutely,” she answered, having no idea of what she was agreeing to.

  “Wonderful! Bring us some fabrics if you will then. The chair is small enough that a leftover piece will likely do.”

  From these patches of dialogue, she concluded that Nan wanted to reupholster a chair. It had to be the one with the hole caused by a fallen candle. Cora was glad that, in letting her heart and mind wonder toward Grant Galavyin, she had not committed to anything bigger or more complicated than a small home redesign.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning was even colder than the day before, with winds that punched holes in hats and coats, and arrived at the skin without any qualms or regret. Cora collected some apples from home to give away to the children she often found playing on the streets on her way to work. When she had left-over cotton fabrics, she made coats for them too. Some of the young ones looked so skinny that she worried for them. But then again, she worried for lots of things, both big and small.

  “Thank you, Miss Cora. I love it when you bring us apples,” said little Grace, who couldn’t be more than five. If only she were able to feed the whole city. It all looked so cold and uninviting if one walked away from the manicured parks and shopping districts.

  Inside her shop, however, Cora felt reassured by the coziness of the fabrics that filled the hardwood shelves with color and the tidy calm of the sitting area that always enticed one to have an extra cup of tea. To imagine that only the day before Grant Galavyin had been sitting there and a low fire had been burning in the cast-iron stove. The presence of both the man and the fire had made the whole room warm and hospitable. The familiarity of the shop now brought her even more contentment.

  “Sally, it’s really cold outside. Please make sure we keep the shop warm and comfortable. And I brought some extra apples in case anyone is hungry. Please place them in a bowl on the table in the back. Make sure everyone has tea.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Cora opened the shop and, realizing several notions were missing, decided to brave the streets, despite the weather, in search of threads and special shell buttons for fastening a neckline. She had found her work lacking anyway, often interrupted by thoughts of that strange man whom she might never see again. For that very reason, she rejected such fantasies and, as it often happens with thinking, in doing so only made them stronger. It seemed thoughts of him had come to stay.

  Outside, the piercing wind lingered, and a gigantic cloud blanketed the city. Ideally, it was a day for reading, not for shopping, but in the end, the cold woke her up and motivated her to be efficient and to finish soon. As a reward, she also stopped at the bookstore and got a copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion. If she worked diligently, there would be room for reading and tea later.

  She was balancing a great many bags, having found some wonderful and unexpected silks in her excursion, when a distinctive voice addressed her from behind, sending warmth and chills down her back at the same time.

  When she turned around, Lord Galavyin was holding his top hat to greet her. He wore an elegant necktie held in place with a loose knot and fastened with a pearled stickpin. “I see you’ve been busy. Would you allow me to accompany you and carry your bags? It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Lord Galavyin, how do you do?” Could it be possible that she would blush yet again? Cora put the bags down and extended her gloved hand, only to shiver when her wrist briefly brushed against his. These alarming feelings had to stop. Such restlessness really wouldn’t do. She was older now. Not the young woman who had made a grave mistake because of pretend gallantry. The impropriety of her actions was glaring, yet she did not want to stop.

  “It seems I exceeded myself. I was really only after a few buttons, but I found so many pretty things, I couldn’t resist.”

  “I’m sure you will put all of this to good use.” He smiled again. His eyes seemed to hide nothing. His was a straightforward smile. “I hope you forgive my intrusion,” he added. He walked ever so slightly ahead of her, as if making sure to keep the path open ahead, and looking back to reassure her that he was paying attention. “I come from luncheon with a friend. I saw you from across the street. I know you are perfectly capable of carrying your bags, so I hope you don’t find me impertinent. I thought I would offer anyway.”

  It was her turn to smile. She knew for a fact that her grin was not as innocent as his. They walked toward the shop, and her stretch of the street was visible far too soon. Despite the cold, she wished the stroll had been longer.

  “Do you choose to walk often, Lord Galavyin? Even in such weather?”

  “I do. I enjoy the exercise. I find the cold invigorating, and brisk walking the secret to health.”

  “I see. How is your mother? I expect she is well?”

  “Very well, thank you. I hope your father is well too?”

  “He is. He is indeed.”

  Cora could tell that despite her wishing otherwise, they were still uncomfortable strangers, dancing an uncomfortable dance of social expectations and superficial pleasantries. Why couldn’t they talk about something more substantial, like books? The weather was the worst of all subjects ever considered acceptable for conversation. It was discussed by people who had nothing in common and who didn’t want to ruffle any feathers by bringing up anything that actually mattered. Like politics.

  As if he had read her thoughts, he changed topics quite abruptly. What came before was just the necessary skirting around the real question.

  “Miss Larsen, I was wondering if you intend to attend many events this Season.”

  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. Bad memories surfaced. She stopped them before they could sprout into a new panic by breathing slowly and trying to restore her previous demeanor. In time, she succeeded, and that particularly dark cloud of worry blew away in the wind but not without first leaving her shaken.

  “I beg to differ, Miss Larse
n. An educated woman is never too educated in the eyes of a progressive man, nor should she be in her own eyes. May I ask what books you are interested in, Miss Larsen?”

  Cora could not hide that she was excited about the possibility of speaking of books, finally. “I read anything that is put before me. I will choose Jane Austen over all else, but I have to confess these days I am intrigued by the writings of Dostoyevsky.”

  “Indeed?” Grant Galavyin smiled broadly. “One of my favorites. Then you probably know that just these last few years, he published again. I am told by a traveler friend that his new work is of great interest and has had much success in Russia. Now all we can do is wait for the English translation. I mean, if like me you cannot read Russian.”

  Cora chuckled. “No, I don’t read Russian. I’m sorry I cannot surprise you with that.”

  “It is refreshing to be able to talk about such books with someone. When I broached the subject with my friends, they looked at me blankly, as if they couldn’t imagine why I would care. But I should care, don’t you think, Miss Larsen? The working conditions of many people in London are deplorable. And how many are exploited and live in appalling dwellings? Every English man and woman should care. I’m glad writers bring these issues to our attention.”

  Cora was impressed. “I too am surprised you think of such concerns. They are often on my mind. To have the good fortune of not going hungry when many are. I didn’t know you distressed yourself with these matters.” He was indeed a strange man, in the best way possible.

  “Why shouldn’t I, Miss Larsen? Contrary to what some of my acquaintances would like to believe, the only reason I live in luxury and not in misery is the hand of fate. I often struggle with that knowledge. It was simply luck and not my own doing that put me in a fancy house and a rich family. I feel quite guilty. Not that guilt alone can do any good. If it does not move us to action, then it is a wasted emotion, and I have to confess I am at a loss for what kind of action I should take.”