Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase [68]
She wouldn’t let him disturb her in any way. She was very, very happy. She’d achieved her goals.
“Which set of unfortunate women is it?” he said. “I’ll tell my secretary to make a donation. If they can make anything of those dresses, they’ll have earned it.”
“The Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Females.” She could have added that she and her sisters had founded it last year. They’d learned at an early age more than they wanted to know about indigence and the difficulties of earning a living.
But her past was a secret under lock and key. “Some of our girls have gone on to become ladies’ maids,” she said. “The majority find places as seamstresses, for which there’s always need, particularly during mourning periods.” Luckily for them, the court was frequently in mourning, thanks to the British royal family’s penchant for marrying their Continental cousins.
The butler entered, followed by a footman carrying a tray of refreshments to sustain his grace during the wait for her ladyship.
Marcelline was famished. She’d been waiting on Lady Clara since this morning, and had not been offered a bite to eat or anything to drink. But mere tradesmen did not merit feeding.
Oh, would the girl never be dressed? How long did it take to tie on a bonnet and throw a shawl about one’s shoulders? One would think, given her anxieties about Marcelline ruining his life, Lady Clara would not leave them alone together for above half a minute.
But they were hardly alone, with servants going to and fro. Not that Lady Clara had anything to worry about, servants or no servants.
The only designs Marcelline had were upon her ladyship’s statuesque person—and her father’s and future husband’s purses.
That was all.
She was very, very happy.
The silence stretched out, broken only by the servants’ comings and goings.
Then, at last, at long last, Lady Clara reappeared.
Marcelline stopped sorting for long enough to make an adjustment to her ladyship’s bonnet—it was not tilted precisely as it ought to be—and to twitch her cashmere shawl into a more enticing arrangement. Her shawls were very fine. One could not fault her there.
Having arranged Lady Clara to her satisfaction, Marcelline stepped away, made a proper curtsey, and returned to her work.
She was aware of Clevedon’s big frame passing not far from her. She was aware of the muffled sound of his boots on the carpet. She heard the low murmur, his voice mingling with Lady Clara’s, and the latter’s soft laughter.
Marcelline kept busy with her work and did not watch them go.
And when they were gone, she told herself she’d done a fine job, and she’d done nobody any great wrong—a miracle, considering her bloodline—and she had every reason to be glad.
That evening
The gown Mrs. Whitwood had returned lay on the counter. The enraged customer had come and gone while Marcelline was dancing attendance upon Lady Clara Fairfax at Warford House.
Sophy had soothed Mrs. Whitwood. Sophy could soothe Attila the Hun. The dress would be remade. The cost was mainly in labor, the smallest cost of making a dress. Still, it cost time—time that Marcelline, her sisters, and her seamstresses could be spending on other orders.
If this kept up, they’d be ruined. It wasn’t simply that they couldn’t afford to keep remaking dresses. They couldn’t afford the damage to their reputation.
Marcelline was studying the dress, deciding what to change. “Who worked on it?” she asked Pritchett, her senior seamstress.
“Madame, if there is a fault with the workmanship it must be mine,” Pritchett said. “I supervised every stitch of this dress. But madame can see for herself. It is precisely as madame ordered.”
“Indeed, and the details, as you know, are of my own design,” Marcelline said. “It’s very strange that another dress should appear, bearing these same details. The angle and width of the pleats of the bodice