by Olivia Waite
Miss Narayan’s dark eyes were bright with curiosity. “She and Mr. Samson have been very mysterious about it, Miss Crewe.”
“Allow me to dispel the mystery, then—we are plotting a crime.”
Miss Narayan’s eyes went wide.
Maddie went on: “We are planning to rob Mr. Giles of everything we can. In the open, where everyone can see.”
“How subtle,” Miss Narayan laughed.
Maddie’s lips quirked in acknowledgement. “And now that I have told you that, I ask for your help.”
“And if I refuse?”
Maddie spread her hands. “Then I simply ask you not to tell anyone what we’re planning to do.”
“As if anyone would listen if I told them something so outlandish,” Miss Narayan muttered. She narrowed her eyes, and turned to Mr. Samson. “And you have been a part of this?”
“Since Miss Crewe first asked for my help a few months ago,” he confirmed. His expression was somber, his gaze earnest. “You may have heard my family is thinking of moving into manufacture?”
“That’s what they say,” Miss Narayan replied.
“Well, they happen to be right. My father has been trying to purchase Mr. Obeney’s factory from the manager for fully a year now—but Mr. Giles has put words in the man’s ear and gold in his pocket, and the factory sits empty when it could be putting people to work. And now we learn Mr. Giles is talking of buying the place himself.”
The seamstress folded her arms. “And your father, does he want you to help him run this factory?”
“He and my brothers will—but I’ve convinced him my talents are better served by taking over the secondhand trade.”
Miss Narayan nodded thoughtfully, and turned back to Maddie. “What is it precisely you are asking of me?”
Maddie smiled softly. “Alterations. At whatever price you care to name.”
Mr. Samson broke in. “I’ve told Miss Crewe there’s no better seamstress in Carrisford. Particularly if you’re working with delicate fabrics and eveningwear. But more than that: we needed someone we could trust.” He swallowed, lifting his chin. “And I’d put my life in your good hands, Miss Narayan, if you asked it.”
The seamstress’s eyes widened. “And if I need time?”
“Then I’ll wait.” He smiled, as she stared. “As long as you need. I’ll wait.”
Miss Narayan’s soft lips parted on a sigh that was too soft for Maddie to hear.
“What we need,” Maddie said eventually into the silence, “is six identical gowns. What we have—are these.” She waved at the wealth of fabric heaped on Emma’s worktable, a heap of Pomona green frocks and flounces in a dizzying variety of fabrics. Silks and satins mostly, with a few cotton and muslin dresses. The more one looked, the more the difference in the dyes became pronounced: one having slightly more yellow, another slightly more blue.
Miss Narayan cast one last searing glance at Mr. Samson then moved forward, sorting thoughtfully through the chaos of fabric.
“This hue was extremely popular last season,” Mr. Samson explained, after clearing his throat, “so there were plenty of castoff gowns to choose from. And Mrs. Money seems like the kind of woman to be fashionable, but not to the point of buying a completely new wardrobe every season.” His smile hitched up on one side as his voice turned wry. “Especially in a backwater like Carrisford, where nobody of significance is around to see her.”
“Nobody but all of us,” Miss Narayan said drily, and tilted her head. “How much scrutiny are they expected to withstand? If they must look identical side by side it will be a very different amount of work than if they are passing on opposite sides of the street.”
“Let us say: as identical as you’d make them if they were on a theater stage,” Maddie said.
Miss Narayan’s smile widened. “That gives us a little flexibility,” she said, and rubbed her hands together.
“And you won’t be working alone,” Maddie said. “My friend Emma will be helping—she’s as quick with a needle as anyone you’re likely to find, though most of her experience is in garment construction rather than alterations. And she’ll be making slippers to match.”
“Only one final question,” Miss Narayan said. “How much time do I have?”
“One week,” Maddie said softly.
The seamstress snorted. “You just added fifty percent to my rates, if that’s how fast I’ve got to work.”
“Done,” Maddie said.
Emma was out with John and Cat for her evening off, so Maddie helped Miss Narayan—“Call me Gita, since we’re now in league together”—consider the whole of the project. They began sorting through the gowns, comparing sizes, embellishment, length, and color. “We need one to be presentable very close up, a garment some fine lady would wear in the evening if she wanted to look impressive—but the others can be less precise.”
“One true bride, and five imposters,” Gita said, with a chuckle. “Well, that makes things simpler . . . Do you have any trimming around I could use? Any ribbon or lace or silk scrap? Gold or silver, for preference.”
Maddie ran up and came down with a quarter bolt of gold silk.
Gita stopped and stared at the richness of the silk, liquid and smooth and enchanting. “Where on earth did you come by this?”
Maddie swallowed. “It’s all that’s left of the last broadcloth my mother wove, before she died. I’ve been saving it for something special.”
Gita peered at her. “Wouldn’t you prefer to make this into something you could wear?”
Maddie bit her lip, and shook her head. “My mother lived and died believing that what we did together was more important than what each of us did alone. She might not approve of the crime aspect, but I know she’d be proud we could use some of her work to make life better for everyone in Carrisford.” She stroked one hand down the silk, then pushed it into Gita’s hands. “That’s more important than whether or not one person looks pretty.”
Gita looked askance at this, but accepted the fabric with no further objection. Within an hour, the seamstress had sketched out a plan for the taking apart and reassembling of the various gowns into things that would more or less look similar. This skirt with this bodice, that neckline in the other fabric—it was all a bit dizzying but it gave Maddie hope the scheme would work. “The trim is the key,” Gita said, tapping the gold silk. “If you put the same embellishment on the same places in all the gowns, most people won’t look too closely at the fabrics unless they’re given a reason.” She narrowed her eyes at Maddie. “So whatever you do, don’t give them a reason.”
“I’ll do my best,” Maddie promised, and heard Cat’s voice and John’s and Emma’s laughter as the trio returned home. “Now let me introduce you to everyone else, and we can get to work.”
Chapter Sixteen
Show up after sunset, Sophie’s note had said. So Maddie had worked on her attic loom until the last fingers of daylight slipped below the horizon, then grabbed a quick supper and walked the dusky streets to the Roseingraves’ shop. It was one of those nights where the fog poured in from the sea, and the streets were filled with curling wisps like fingers reaching out to grasp the unwary. Maddie walked fast enough that she sweat a little beneath her cloak, and had to pause to catch her breath outside the instrument shop window.
Even from the outside, she could tell something was different. She knocked, and heard Sophie’s call of “Just a minute!” from inside. She had time for several long breaths to help her racing heart to settle before the door was pulled open, and Sophie’s small, eager self was there to greet her. “Come in,” she said, and stepped back.
Maddie followed her into the shop—and gasped.
A few scattered candles like stars gave a faint, fey light to the space. The tables and shelves of sheet music and smaller instruments had been moved out against the walls and windows, making room in the center of the shop for a lone chair with a cushion. One small table stood beside it, bearing a tankard that was sweating ne
arly as much as Maddie was. The chair faced a piano, one Maddie hadn’t seen before, pale wood shining gold in the candlelight. The piano was placed at right angles so that the person in the chair could see the musician’s hands and profile as they played.
She turned to Sophie, amazed. “What is this?”
“What else?” Sophie ducked her head, but couldn’t hide the glee in her expression. “It’s a concert.”
Maddie’s jaw dropped.
Sophie’s eyes flicked up, then away again. “I thought since you were going to be so busy on the night, that you might . . . that I . . .” She sighed, and straightened, and visibly gathered her courage. Chin lifted, hands clenched tight, eyes daring. “I wanted to play this piece for you all the way through,” she said. “Just once. I wanted to do it when you were able to pay attention. Not when half your mind was running through how to wrap things up with Mr. Giles and Mrs. Money and—and . . .” She buzzed like a tuning fork, vibrating with anxious energy.
Maddie took a seat in the chair, spreading her skirts out with a regal flourish, and picking up the tankard. She held the cool metal in both hot hands like a chalice, took a sip of her favorite cider, and asked: “What’s the piece?”
“I call it: ‘The Hellion’s Waltz,’” Sophie said solemnly, before her smile burst out again in helpless pride. “And it’s the best thing I’ve ever composed.”
Such a frank, plain statement, where Maddie knew Sophie must have been painfully tempted to deflect and demur. Those It’s just tunes or I’m sure it still needs work must have been so difficult not to say. But instead Sophie was offering Maddie her honest thoughts on her own work—even if they sounded overproud or boastful.
That was a boldness she knew must have cost Sophie.
Maddie’s heart threatened to overflow, fizzing like the cider on her tongue. She set the drink aside, pressed her hands to her knees, and nodded.
Sophie shook out her hands, stepped up to the piano, and took a seat. Her fingers fluttered briefly over the keys, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She opened her eyes, breathed in, and struck the first notes.
Maddie trembled as the waltz filled the room. Light at first, a flirt of a melody with sinister undertones beneath. A second tune came in, low and persistent, chasing after the first. They circled one another, closer and closer—until finally they fell into a harmony that was all the more glorious for being unexpected.
Maddie gasped silently as she realized: this was about her. Sophie was telling their story through music, in a way that people could understand, but without any words to expose or condemn.
And all of Carrisford would hear it.
The waltz’s rhythm picked up, more notes pouring from Sophie’s flying fingers. The two melodies danced faster and faster, grace notes and trills popping up like sparks. Maddie was agog, leaning forward in her chair, fearful it was all going to come tumbling down. How could human hands do anything like this? Up and up, higher and higher—the tune grew breathy with altitude—they were going to run out of piano soon—Maddie herself felt like she teetered on a precipice, faint with vertigo—but Sophie paused on the peak and then brought everyone gently, carefully back to earth with a long glissando that ended on a chord like a sigh of spent pleasure.
She pulled her hands from the keys and looked over at Maddie, eyes shining.
Maddie burst into wild applause, clapping so hard her hands ached with it.
Sophie blushed a deep rose and wrapped her arms around herself.
Applause was insufficient. Maddie was up and out of her chair before she knew it, striding over to Sophie, her hands cupping the composer’s face and thumbs tracing away the teardrops that had yet to spill down Sophie’s cheeks. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. She bent and kissed her, her body blocking anyone outside who might see, heedless of anything but the one truth pulsing through her like a heartbeat:
Anyone who could compose a waltz like that deserved to be kissed, as often and as thoroughly as possible. If Maddie had to spend the rest of her life making sure this particular precept was fulfilled, then so be it.
“Thank you for playing for me—thank you for writing such a gorgeous, wild piece of music.” She felt Sophie’s lips curve beneath hers, and echoed the smile. “You could kill someone, writing waltzes like that. How on earth did you fit all those notes in?”
Sophie broke away with a sputter of a laugh. “It’s not nearly as out of control as it sounds, I assure you.” Maddie’s skeptical expression must have said enough, because Sophie turned back to the instrument and began picking out one of the threads of the final melody on the keyboard—slowly, all the tones precisely in place. “A performance is really just a trick,” Sophie said. “It’s supposed to feel natural and expressive, even magical. None of the effort or the hours and hours of practice are supposed to show.”
“How long have you been working on this?” Maddie asked.
Sophie’s eyes were bright with reflected candlelight. “Since shortly after I met you.”
Maddie threaded wondering fingers through the errant locks of Sophie’s brown hair. “So you chose to write a waltz for a woman you’d only just met?”
Sophie leaned into the caress. “No—the waltz suggested itself.” Sophie’s smile widened in pure, honest pride. “I chose to make it as good as I possibly could. A slight shift of melody here, a slight tweak there. Small choices add up.” She ran through a couple variations, showing how the tune had shifted over time. Then her fingers slowed. “I went to Mrs. Narayan’s shop for a gown for the concert.” A few more notes, a minor key. “She told me you’d given her your mother’s silk for the copy gowns.”
Maddie traced one finger down the side of Sophie’s neck. “I saved it for something important,” she replied. “What’s more important than family?”
“What indeed,” Sophie murmured.
“I can’t wait to hear your waltz again at the concert.” Maddie wrapped her arms around Sophie’s shoulders, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “In a proper hall, with the audience wrapped around your clever fingers. Just like I am.”
Sophie’s smile wobbled at little at the corners. “Of course.”
They had dinner with Sophie’s family and made their way back to Maddie’s attic. The room was crowded now with piles of silk programs, plain silk backgrounds with deep blue text. Roseingrave was prominent, as was For the Benefit of the Weavers’ Library and Cooperative Society.
And, to Maddie’s gratification, her beloved lit up at the border of tiny songbirds that framed the text. “Not sparrows,” Sophie said.
“Nightingales,” Maddie confirmed. “And oh, how they’ll sing . . .”
Later, in the darkness with dawn so far off, Maddie lay on her back and stared up at the shafts of moonlight on the ceiling. They crept slowly along the plaster, bending around the beams, slicing across the heavy frame of the loom.
Sophie rolled over and snuggled close, chilled. Maddie felt as much as heard her, Sophie’s lips moving against the side of her shoulder. “Still awake?” she murmured.
“Just thinking.”
Sophie stretched. “About what?”
Maddie slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Sophie’s small, round form fit perfectly against the curve of Maddie’s waist and hip. “What if it’s not enough?” she asked.
Sophie made a sound indicating confusion.
Maddie tried again. “We’re taking out the worst villain of the lot—but the system will stay in place. They used to smash machines, you know? Before, when the power looms were new, the handloom weavers sabotaged a lot of the factory machinery to protest the way the power looms had replaced them. It landed a lot of those weavers in jail or worse—and the power looms stayed all the same. Because the machines aren’t the system.”
“I must have dozed off a little,” Sophie replied with a yawn. “Because my poor brain couldn’t make any sense of what you just said.”
Maddie let out a breath. �
��The problem was never the power loom—it was the people who wanted power looms because they were cheaper and produced faster. It was the way all the factory owners were chasing profits at the expense of workers’ wages and livelihood—their health and happiness. The problem,” she said, “is when people think the factory is more important than the people who work there.”
“Something like that is happening in music,” Sophie said after a moment. “Mr. Broadwood’s piano factory in London can make five new pianos in a single day. And that’s just with people—nobody’s invented a machine for building pianos yet.”
“So what will your father do when they do start building machines to build pianos?”
“Build a better piano-building machine, I expect,” Sophie said, with a faint laugh. “And the faster they make pianos, the more people they will need to tune them.” She paused. “But you already did something like this. When the factories began making cheaper broadcloth than you could weave, you switched to ribbon making.”
“Because they haven’t yet made a machine for designing patterns,” Maddie said. “A Jacquard head can’t punch its own cards. Yet,” she added grimly.
The moonlight gleamed on the metal Jacquard head, as though it were listening.
Sophie stroked a line over her collarbone, fingers soft and soothing. “Yes, there are probably more inventions coming that will upset the way things are done. But you’ve changed course before. And you don’t have to do it alone.” Back and forth her fingers went, the slide of them slightly hypnotizing Maddie. “What if you came to court with me?”
Maddie blinked into the moonlight. “Have you decided to go, then?”
“Well . . .” Sophie’s fingers paused briefly, then resumed their pace. Back and forth, back and forth. “Not as yet. But maybe sooner than I originally thought. A lot of it depends on how things go tomorrow night. But . . . I’ve been thinking a great deal about what my mother said. About running out of time, and not letting my best playing years slip me by. And if I were to go, I’d like to have a companion with me—someone who knows me, and who I could trust among so many strangers. We can tell people you’re my maid—or better, my assistant, someone steady and respectable who manages my schedule and keeps my wild artistic impulses in check. You could even keep designing patterns, so you would have an income of your own. Though I don’t know if you could bring the loom.”