Flames of Desire

by Vanessa Royall

  “You vant go to town schnell, eh?” he grinned. Then he painstakingly hitched the big horses to the coach.

  “Otto, please!” She climbed into the coach.

  The driver turned sullen. “I do mein best,” he protested.

  “I do mein best alle der zeit.”

  He gave her a very hard look, and it unnerved Selena. Then he climbed up into the driver’s seat, favoring his gimpy leg. They set off, the horses unsteady on the ice. Selena tried to decide why Otto’s resentful stare had bothered her. Then she knew. It was the gaze of a subordinate who knows he will soon rise to a better position. But how? And with what assurances? Suddenly, she felt afraid of Otto Kollor.

  The seamstresses were waiting outside La Marinda, just as Selena had feared. Six women, their eyes angry and accusing as they warmed their hands over a small charcoal brazier at curbside. Young boys set up these braziers in winter, charging customers a penny to warm their hands over the glowing coals.

  The seamstresses immediately demanded that Selena reimburse them for the expense.

  “I come in early, Miz Bloodwell, so’s t’ do that sari effect on the muslin frocks fer summer, just like ye told me, an’ then ye wasn’t even here yet. My poor, poor hands be freezin’ cold. Won’t be able t’ sew a stitch fer hours…”

  That was Callie Fox speaking, a big-bottomed, whining woman, whose lack of delicacy was partially excused by speed of performance.

  And Selena remembered that she had told the women to come in early. All she could do was open the door, let them in, and hope they got down to work as soon as possible. With the April opening approaching, Gilbertus Penrod kept dropping by to see how things were going. He had a ten percent interest in the shop.

  Selena had not needed his ten-percent investment, but she had accepted it for two reasons. First, she was pleased at the interest of one of New York’s most important men. Second, she hoped to attract the attention of his wife, Samantha, and, through her, the best clientele in the city.

  Now Callie Fox rushed up and broke Selena’s train of thought.

  “Miz Bloodwell! Miz Bloodwell!” she cried, close to serious apoplexy as usual. “It’s Mr. Penrod at the door! It’s Mr. Penrod at the door!”

  “Well, let him in,” Selena said impatiently. He stopped off regularly to inspect progress, so his visit was scarcely surprising. He came in briskly, and bent over her hand. But his manner was different. She could not believe it for a moment, but the self-assured Penrod was actually tense.

  “How are you, Selena?” he asked, glancing around. No, not merely glancing, he was checking. But for what?

  “I’m fine. We’re a little behind schedule but…”

  He didn’t even seem to hear her.

  “Ah…would it be all right if…if Mrs. Penrod were to stop by…I mean, quite soon, before the clothes are really ready for the opening? To take a look. She has friends and…”

  “Of course it would be fine!”

  This was just the kind of thing for which she had been hoping! The interest and potential sponsorship of some woman who had friends who were interested in—and who could afford—good clothes. “Why, I’d be…”

  Penrod watched Callie Fox until her broad beam disappeared back into the workroom. Then he collected himself and spoke quickly.

  “I’ve got to ask your help,” he said. “Late this afternoon, you may have to provide a service. I do not think it will be dangerous, but it is necessary…”

  “Well, what…?”

  He held up his hand to his mouth, looked around the room again.

  “Could you hide someone here?”

  Selena was startled. Gilbertus Penrod, thoroughly established and formidably reputable, wanted her to hide someone!

  “I’d have to know why,” she said, after a moment.

  “It’s better if you don’t,” he replied.

  Selena remembered a time, long ago, when Father and Brian had discussed just such a question. They had concluded that it would be best if she had something to confess. Penrod disagreed.

  “Best if you know absolutely nothing,” he said again.

  She felt a surge of apprehension pass through her body. By now I should be adept at this sort of thing, she thought. The secrets and maneuvers and desperate machinations of men! They were predictable in only one thing, and that knowledge could not help her now.

  “I’d certainly like to be of help…” she temporized, smiling at him, trying to read his mood and expression.

  Now she regretted even the little she knew about Dick Weddington. His activities held the possibility of dangerous repercussions. And Gilbertus Penrod was surely among the strongest loyalists, an adamant supporter of the King. What else could he be, having reaped the social and financial benefits of colonial New York?

  Penrod was growing increasingly nervous, however. He spoke softly, but his smile was nervous and tight.

  “You will come to no harm, I assure you…”

  “Ah, familiar words,” she retorted. If a man of Penrod’s power needed help from her, needed help badly enough to expose the vulnerability behind his armor of casual superiority, then she was right to be suspicious.

  “The only thing is, I have to know now. It’s a small thing, and won’t take long. It might not even be necessary. But you have the room, and the crannies…”

  He indicated the sewing areas, gestured toward the back rooms, lifted his head toward the ceiling.

  “…and it seemed to me you are a woman I could trust…”

  Selena thought fast. Should she take the gamble?

  “…that I do trust, in fact…”

  Very shrewd of him, she thought. He had already given her the bait: contact with his wife, Samantha.

  “All right,” she said abruptly. “I’ll do what I can. But who is it going to be?”

  “You will find out when the time comes.” He rose to leave. She was still wondering whether she had made the correct decision. There was no way to be sure.

  “If the times comes,” he added. “And I cannot thank you enough.”

  “It’s all right,” she assured him, less than enthusiastically, thinking: Now I’m involved with a rebel spy master and a loyalist leader. Is that good or bad?

  No sooner had Penrod hurried out of La Marinda when Callie Fox approached Selena. The seamstress was still blowing her thick fingers, as if to relieve them from chill, but they were pink with warmth.

  “What’d ’e want, Miz Bloodwell, eh?”

  Selena glanced up sharply.

  “Why…”

  Why did the woman want to know? No. Don’t reveal a thing.

  “Why, Mrs. Penrod may be in later this morning. To look over our gowns. I hope you’re up to schedule on your assignment.”

  “Miz Penrod!” Callie Fox exclaimed, much impressed and a little afraid. And she hustled back to her work.

  For almost an hour after Penrod’s departure, Selena went about the shop, getting it in order. Countless bolts of material, all fabrics, all colors, were arranged in bins, on shelves, in stacks along the walls. Many more, unrolled, uncut, were spread out on tables at which the seamstresses worked. The activity served to restore Selena’s composure. By the time Samantha Penrod appeared, a little before noon, Selena was calm and confident, the mistress of her domain.

  Mrs. Penrod had extraordinary presence. Not a great beauty, she managed by dress, grooming, and a force of character that was immediately evident to Selena to give the impression of strength, warmth, and physical magnetism. She was desirable. But it would take a strong man to hold her interest, to please her, and Selena understood why Samantha Penrod attract fed the most illustrious company in New York. In spite of the situation, Selena felt comfortable in the other woman’s aura.

  “Mrs. Penrod, welcome to my shop. Your husband was here earlier, and mentioned that you might be stopping by.”

  “Call me Samantha, please.” she smiled, removing her gloves, and a lush cloak of beaver and ermine. “Gilbertus has told
me so much about you. And your husband. Do you mind if I have a look at what you’ve done so far?”

  “I wish you would. There’ve not been too many New Yorkers stopping by to make inquiries…” She said it with a wry tone, to which Mrs. Penrod responded:

  “If this city has a future, my dear, we’re going to have to fashion it ourselves.”

  They both laughed, and there was a quality in the woman’s manner and style that Selena liked very much. Wary as she had had to become, Samantha’s warmth and confidence were disarming.

  Careful, Selena. There are things you don’t understand. Mrs. Penrod moved to the long row of hangers on which Selena’s designs were arrayed, and slowly made her way from one to another. She did not speak, merely took each item in turn and inspected it closely for style, stitching, and accouterments. Silence. The seamstresses, openmouthed at the presence of such a well-known woman in this fledgling shop, gaped and stared. Down toward the end of the row, pausing over an evening gown, stark white, and simple as a sari, but bare at the shoulders and throat, Selena saw the color rise in Mrs. Penrod’s face. What was the matter? Was the gown immodest or in bad taste?

  “My God, Selena!”

  “What?” she cried, hearing the anxiety in her voice. “It’s made to be worn with…ah…a gold necklace, or something…”

  “These are beautiful! And this gown is…exquisite. Do I recall Gilbertus telling me you spent some time in India? Why, what you’ve done here is extraordinary…”

  Selena started to thank her, but Samantha cut her off.

  “Not necessary, I assure you. I am the one who should thank you, and there are many other women in New York who’ll be doing that soon. You’re truly gifted…”

  The seamstresses, a little stunned by this wealth of praise, looked at one another, excited and proud. Selena took the opportunity to introduce them to Mrs. Penrod.

  “These are the women who ought to be thanked. What I know of designing, I learned from them, and from the seamstresses back home in…in Scotland.”

  “Scotland? Is that right? Ah, yes. Gilbertus told me. Your father was in the House of Lords, was he not?”

  Selena admitted it, her tone flat and even. Samantha Penrod smiled, seeming to withhold some comment upon the fact. Again, she turned to admire the row of designs. “And what are your plans for showing these?”

  “It was my intention, when the weather gets better, to have a demonstration. Right here at the shop. The only problems are that I don’t really have any models, and that I’m not quite sure how to pass the word around. Sean knows lots of people, but they’re all businessmen, and…”

  Samantha raised her hand. “I must confess, my dear, that I came here this morning with ulterior motives. Each spring, toward the end of April, Gilbertus and I give a masked ball, and I hope you and your husband will be able to attend.”

  “We would be delighted,” Selena answered. This was exactly what Selena had hoped for.

  “I always try to do something to make the event different each year.” Again, Mrs. Penrod glanced at the dresses and gowns. “I thought perhaps it would be interesting this year if some of my friends might wear your creations before and during dinner. After dinner, of course, we costume ourselves for the masque…”

  Selena scarcely believed what she was hearing.

  “It might be a way of introducing your shop, you see…”

  No. More than an introduction. It was an outright gift.

  Mrs. Penrod took Selena’s silence for deliberation and pressed on, seeking to persuade her. But Selena had already decided. Of course she would agree. But, she wondered, why were both of the Penrods so interested in her?

  Finally, arrangements were made, plans discussed. Mrs.Penrod invited Selena to lunch, but business was pressing, there was much to do, and Selena had to decline. Samantha extended her hand, smiling, and the two women parted, friends already. Selena decided her wariness had been nothing more than the result of agitation, although she was still puzzled by this sudden stroke of fortune. And the seam-stresses were overjoyed.

  “Goodness, ma’am! A fine lady lak that. An’ she took me hand, too, yes she did. Are we goin’t’ be the best shop in New York? What d’ye think?”

  “We may already be the best shop in New York,” Selena told them, proud of them, pleased with herself. Only Callie Fox sought the cloud around the silver lining.

  “You think you’re something, don’t you now, Miz Bloodwell? T be a hangin’ out with the rich swells…”

  “What’s the matter with you, Callie? No one’s forcing you to stay here.”

  A bitter smile. “Facts, Miz Bloodwell. I need the money, and you need me. I want more money, truth to tell.”

  Selena smiled, and attempted to cut the woman off. “All right,” she said, loud enough for the others to hear, “you’ve done a fine job, and we’re going to do very well. We haven’t sold a single gown yet, but we will. So, starting this week, you will each receive an extra half-pound wages.

  “A half-pound!” they exclaimed. It was quite a lot of money.

  “Only a half-pound?” Callie Fox whined, but went back to her work.

  “You’re slower than the others today, Callie,” Selena responded, in a moment of anger for which she was soon to be sorry.

  “I always do my work, no matter how long it takes,” Callie replied sullenly.

  Selena pondered how she would attempt to deal with Penrod’s request, and she was pleased when it began to snow heavily in the early afternoon. Her first plan had been to get the women out of the shop by telling them that she absolutely had to return home early today. But now, as the sky darkened and the wind drove rattling flakes of snow against the shop window, she saw the seamstresses glance at her every few minutes. Let us get home before the blizzard sets in.

  Several times, Selena went to the window and watched the people hurrying past, bent into the wind, then returned to her desk, murmuring, “so much work, and now a storm,” just loudly enough so that they could hear her. Finally, as if submitting to the forces of nature, she said, “All right. It’s no use. You’d best get on home. But be here bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  The women bundled up in their cloaks and scarves and boots, called their good-byes, and went out.

  Every one of them, that is, but Callie Fox. The big-bottomed seamstress bent over her work, her lower lip stuck out like that of a belligerent pig.

  “Callie, I said you could leave. The storm seems to be getting worse.”

  Callie Fox did not deign even to look at Selena. “You criticized my work,” she said accusingly. “I’m going to finish what I started, just like I always do.”

  Selena fairly danced with frustration and annoyance. She had everything well-planned, should Penrod’s mysterious caller appear. She had even managed to dismiss the seam-stresses. But now Callie Fox was kicking up a row.

  “Look, Callie, I must close up the shop and get home myself, before we’re snowbound here.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Callie answered, a shrewd peasant glint in her eye. “Where’s your driver, Otto Kollor? Did you expect to walk back to Bowling Green?”

  Now Selena used her initial stratagem: She had to get home early. Otto would be along any minute.

  “But you criticized my work!”

  “Callie, I’m sorry. Now, please…”

  It happened then. The door crashed open and a man rushed in. He was breathing heavily and had obviously been running hard. He wore dark, nondescript clothing, and had a ragged, faintly incongruous beard.

  “Where?” was all he said. It was more a command than a question.

  Selena had considered the problem all day. There was no cellar in the building, and the upstairs did not even have a closet. Anyone seeking a man in La Marinda would first look among the rows of hanging gowns or among the piled bolts of cloth. She had thought of another possibility, and although the hiding place was not inviolable, it was the best she could think of. But she had intended to be seated
at the sewing machine herself. Instead, to Callie’s speechless outrage, she pressed the man down beneath one of the machines. Callie had been working her slow way across the hem of a gown, a long train of cloth falling to the floor. Selena pulled it up, arranged it, saw the man hunched down next to the footrest, and draped it over him. For a good measure, she tossed the remnant of another bolt of cloth onto the machine, a careless, haphazard sprawl of fabric.

  “Back to work,” she ordered, just as a British soldier burst into the shop, winded and panting.

  “Did ye…did ye spy a…a man come running…minute ago…”

  He paused, gulping air, looking around. Another solider appeared in the doorway, musket at the ready.

  Selena feigned fear, and stepped backward, between the soldiers and the machine under which the man was hiding. Callie Fox, red as the uniform coats the soldiers wore, seemed angry and about to speak.

  “What is this?” demanded Selena forcefully, to cut the seamstress off. She was certain now; Callie Fox could not be trusted. But who could be trusted?

  “Ma’am, begging your pardon, but we’re going to ’ave t’ search this building.”

  He wasn’t begging anyone’s pardon; his voice was harsh.

  “No. Where is your authority?”

  The first soldier smiled mockingly. “We don’t need any authority. What are you? One of them rebels?”

  “I’m a loyal British subject.”

  “That’s what they all say,” replied the soldier with the gun. “We seen a man run in here, and we’re lookin’ for ’im.”

  “You saw no man run in here. This is a simple dress shop. Now, if you don’t mind…”

  She moved forward a little, as if to escort them to the door.

  “Halt,” said the soldier with the musket, raising it slightly.

  “All right,” Selena said, thinking that she had resisted enough. “I’m sorry,” she said smiling, “it’s just that you startled us. I am a loyal subject, as you can confirm. My husband is friend to Lord Ludford…”

  The soldiers looked at each other, properly impressed and mollified.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am We didn’t mean t’ bust in ’ere, but we was on the chase, y’know ’ow ’tis. Still, we must ’ave us a look around.”