Seven
Across town, Thérèse Renauld had started that day with a problem of her own. And that problem was called Madame LeMonde.
Thérèse was actually French, unlike many of her contemporaries, including Madame LeMonde. It was fashionable in London to patronize a French modiste, and so every one of her competitors, saving a few who had been established for decades and served the older members of the upper classes, had suddenly sprouted French accents and lineages. Thérèse’s fashions would not appeal to a dowager of four score, but they were becoming rapidly sought after by the younger, most fashionable of the ton. Lady Daphne FitzRoy wore Renaud gowns exclusively, and now that she was willing to wear colors other than pink and not drape herself in bows, other ladies of her set had taken notice.
Even the Duchess of Mayne had bought two gowns and a pelisse from Thérèse and had promised to return. The patronage of a duchess was nothing to scoff at. Indeed, it was a sign that Madame Renauld was making a name for herself. And that brought out the worst in her competitors, namely her nemesis, Madame LeMonde. Madame LeMonde, according to Phaedra, had “done it again.”
“I have not had enough coffee,” Thérèse said, opening Bleuette’s cage and placing her inside. The parrot immediately began preening and fluffing her feathers. “Betsy!” she called, then looked at Phaedra. “Betsy ees still with us?”
Betsy appeared, her blond hair pinned neatly in a bun. “Yes, madame?”
“Will you see to Bleuette thees morning and bring me un café au lait.” She gestured to Phaedra to follow her to her office in the back. It was a small office, but the door opened into the room where her seamstresses worked, allowing Thérèse to oversee their progress when necessary. The girls had not yet arrived, but their stations were all neat as a pin. Thérèse produced a key from her reticule and unlocked her office. She had taken to keeping it locked after several design sketches had gone missing a few months ago. She motioned to the couch and took the padded chair behind her worktable. A quick perusal of her space showed her everything was as she had left it. Phaedra had been with her from the start. She had been a seamstress for the shop’s last owner, and when Thérèse had bought the store, Phaedra had stayed on. Thérèse had quickly seen the young woman’s value. She was smart and hard-working and had an eye for which colors and materials would best suit a client. Thérèse had soon made the woman the manager of Madame Renauld’s and had never felt a moment’s regret.
Betsy entered with a tray holding the coffee and set it on the worktable, a safe distance from the papers filled with sketches of gowns. “Lady Royce will be here at eleven,” she said. Thérèse glanced into the seamstress’s workroom and spotted Lady Royce’s gown, displayed on a dress form.
“What progress on Mrs. Bartlett’s pelisse?”
“I will ask Mrs. Farmer when she arrives, but I believe it is almost finished,” Phaedra said. Mrs. Farmer oversaw the sewing and was an accomplished seamstress herself. She often attended to the more delicate final touches on a piece.
“C’est bon,” Thérèse said. Mrs. Bartlett was not titled, but she was very wealthy. Thérèse, like any good businesswoman, cared as much for wealth as prestige. She gestured for Betsy to depart and after a sip of her coffee raised her brows at Phaedra. “Well?”
“Mary Marker did not come to work yesterday. Her friends Anne and Meg said she was sick, but I sent a spy to Madame LeMonde’s.”
“Go on.” But Thérèse already knew what she would say.
“She is there. That makes the third seamstress Madame LeMonde has stolen from us in a year.”
“Thees cannot be tolerated. I pay our girls a good wage.”
“Madame LeMonde offers them more and then a few months later reduces their wages. She does not care if they leave after that. By that time, she has all the information on your designs she desires.”
“And mes filles have not realized thees yet?”
Phaedra adjusted her black hair, which was swept over one shoulder instead of in an elegant chignon as usual. “They have, but Mary Marker apparently needed the blunt now. Her son is sick and needs a doctor.”
“Then why did she not come to me? I have told them to come to me. You will speak to mes filles today, oui?”
“I was thinking of calling a morning meeting.” Phaedra smoothed her hair over her temple. She did not normally fuss with her hair. “I will remind the girls that you’re here to help, and that if they leave for LeMonde, or anyone else, you won’t hire them back.”
“And no other modiste will either. No one wants a traitor. Phaedra, what ees wrong with your face? Why do you hide it?”
Phaedra stilled. “Nothing, madame. I thought I’d try a new style with my hair today.”
Thérèse narrowed her eyes. “I prefer it out of the way.” She waved a hand. “Go and rearrange it before we open.”
“Yes, madame.” She rose and then sat back down again. Thérèse said nothing. Waiting. Phaedra swallowed. “I can’t put it up today, madame.”
“Let me see,” Thérèse said.
Phaedra lifted her hand and pushed the hair back. A mottled red bruise marked the light brown skin at her temple and the upper part of her cheek.
“Where else did he hit you?”
“It were an accident, madame.” Phaedra had pulled herself out of poverty in the rookeries and taught herself to sew. She’d worked hard to speak in a way pleasing to the ladies of the upper class. But her accent grew heavy when she was tired or upset.
“He hit you on accident? A prizefighter does not hit by accident.”
“I made him angry.”
Thérèse rose, too irritated to sit still. “That ees no excuse. I am often angry when a sleeve ees sewed wrong or a hem poorly tacked. I do not beat mes filles.” She gestured to the work room.
“He’s a man. He can’t control his temper.”
Thérèse gaped at her. “Thees ees a lie, an even bigger lie than Madame LeMonde, that snake, tells. You do not deserve thees treatment, Phaedra. You will leave him and find another man.”
Phaedra bit her lip, and Thérèse saw tears in her eyes. She had never seen Phaedra close to tears, not even when the Marchioness of Ware threw a vase at her because her pregnancy had made her waist too thick to fit in the dress she’d ordered. Phaedra had caught the vase and then patted the marchioness’s shoulder while she sobbed.
Thérèse knelt before Phaedra. “Tell me.”
“I have thought of leaving,” Phaedra said, wiping at her eyes.
Thérèse sat back on her heels. “But he will not let you. Ees that why he hit you?” When Phaedra did not answer, Thérèse gently took her arms. Phaedra winced. Thérèse released her immediately. “So the bruises we do not see are worse than those we do. Go home. You should not be here today.”
Phaedra shook her head. “I would rather be here, madame. I want to work. I need to keep busy.”
“Very well.” Thérèse had often used work to distract her from her own problems. Sewing or sketching were wonderfully calming for an anxious mind. She had known men like Phaedra’s prizefighter. She had fled her home and family in Toulouse to lose herself in Paris because of a man like that. She had been fortunate enough to find work in Paris and to make herself into the businesswoman she was today, but the back alleys of Paris and London were littered with the women who had not been so fortunate.
“I should have believed you,” Phaedra said.
Thérèse raised her brows.
“You told me never to trust them. Men, that is. You told me I was better off without them. Now I don’t know what to do.” She closed her eyes and whispered. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me.”
“I won’t let him,” Thérèse said, though how she would stop a prizefighter she did not know. “You leave thees to me.” The door to the workroom opened, and several seamstresses filed in, chatting quietly and shaking the rain off their coats.
“But madame—”
“No questions. Time to work.” She shooed Phaedra away.
“Yes, madame.” Phaedra rose and gave the girls a smile, chatting with each as though nothing was amiss.
Thérèse closed her door and sipped her coffee, which had gone cold. No, she could not stop a prizefighter. But perhaps she knew someone who could.
* * *
BY LATE AFTERNOON MODESTY had read all of the letters twice, her face burning, her heart aching, her head throbbing. She wanted the letters to be wrong. After the first time she read them, she made herself read them all again, because she was certain she’d misunderstood something.
But, of course, she hadn’t. She might be sheltered and naïve to the ways of the world, but she wasn’t dull-witted.
The letters were from another woman. A woman who was not her mother, although some of the letters were dated from the time when her mother had been alive. The early letters had made Modesty’s cheeks heat. She had read Song of Solomon in the Bible, and these letters were just as eye-opening. This woman, who signed her name as Fanny, wrote of her longing for Samuel Brown. It was a physical longing. She’d described it in great detail. She’d also described what she wanted Modesty’s father to do with her and what she’d enjoyed the last time he’d visited her.
The letters spanned years, and the later letters were less passionate and more of a practical nature. Fanny talked of her children—their children. Modesty had not known her father had another family and other children. She had not known there was another woman in his life, a woman who was like a wife to him. He sent this woman money and he visited her on occasion. Modesty had never known. She had never even suspected that every Sunday, while her father preached truth and light and against the evils of fornication, all along he was lying to everyone he knew and fornicating for years.
But perhaps he was not lying to everyone he knew. Perhaps he was only lying to her? Perhaps everyone but her knew.
Her mother had known.
That was the most shocking letter of all. One of the letters mentioned Catherine Brown. Fanny wrote that she was relieved Samuel’s wife had forgiven him. Did that mean Modesty’s mother knew the relationship continued? Had she condoned her husband’s infidelity? Had she too pretended to be good and pure and, in reality, led a life of lies and duplicity?
A tap sounded on the door, and Lady Lorraine entered. “I have sent the first batch of letters,” she said entering the room. “Did the letters give you any clues as to the whereabouts of your aunt? It would help to know if she lives in London or...” She wrinkled her brow and looked down at Modesty, sitting on the floor with the letters strewn about her. “Are you well?”
Modesty wanted to say, Yes, I am quite well. Thank you for asking. But she couldn’t pretend. She would not pretend. She would not lie.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not well at all.”
The lady moved forward, her eyes wide. “What’s happened? Has something in the letters upset you?”
“You could say that.” Modesty jumped up and kicked at the letters. “He is a liar, my lady. My father. He lied to me for years.” She began to pace, feeling the need to move. She was so angry, angry like she’d never been before in her life, and she could not contain her feelings. She had to do something with that emotion. And she would not cry. No. No more tears for her lying father. Where was he now? With his mistress? With his other family? And did he care that Modesty was scared and alone? Had he even sent so much as a note to assure her he was alive?
She wasn’t sure how much of her thoughts she said aloud, but it must have been enough that Lady Lorraine began to understand the nature of things. “I am certain he cares. Something must have happened to prevent him from sending word. I still think we should seek out your aunt—”
“Do you know what I think, my lady? I think I am tired of wearing this black, itchy dress. I am tired of standing on street corners half the night and telling loose women they are bound for hell. I am tired of having beer and curses thrown on me—and much worse, I assure you. I have tried to follow my mother’s example for years. I have tried to be good.” Up and down the carpet, back and forth she walked.
“Of course, you have.”
“But my mother looked the other way while my father sired children with another woman. We lived in poverty so he could send any spare money he had to this other woman. I thought my mother was so good and pure. But she was weak and pathetic. I hate her. I hate them both.”
“My dear, you don’t mean that.” Lady Lorraine sat on a chair. “You’re angry right now. You’ve realized that parents are human, like the rest of us. They make mistakes.”
“They never allowed me to make mistakes,” Modesty said. “They expected me to be perfect. I don’t want to be perfect any longer. I want...” She looked around the chamber, not certain what she wanted. And then her gaze landed on Lady Lorraine. The lady looked so lovely in a green dress with sheer sleeves and that gauze at her throat. She even had a green ribbon woven through her light brown hair.
“I want ribbons,” Modesty had said. “I want a pink dress.”
Lady Lorraine’s eyes widened. “Not pink with your coloring. What about yellow?”
“Yes. Yellow. I want a yellow dress with ribbons. I want to let my hair down.” She ripped off the black hat and unpinned the cap she wore, then shook out her hair so it fell down around her in long, auburn waves.
Lady Lorraine nodded with excitement. “I’ll send word to a modiste, and my lady’s maid is a wonder with hair.”
“I need somewhere to go. An assembly?” She’d dance all night, even though she knew no dances. Mr. Payne would teach her. She didn’t know why she should think of him. He’d pawned her off on Mostyn’s wife. But she wanted to see him again. She wanted him to look at her as he had that morning in his bedchamber. She wanted to steal a kiss and see what it felt like.
Lady Lorraine was shaking her head. “There aren’t any assemblies this time of year.”
“The fight then. What are they called? Mills? I want to attend the mill tomorrow night.”
Lady Lorraine clapped her hands. “That would be most exciting. Leave everything to me. Why don’t I have a bath sent up? You bathe and refresh yourself while I see to the modiste and the prizefight.”
“And the ribbons. Don’t forget the ribbons.”
“Lorrie!” came a male voice that made Modesty jump.
“It’s just Mostyn,” Lady Lorraine said. “I’ll send up the water.” She left and Modesty heard her call. “Ewan, I need ribbons!”
As soon as Lady Lorraine departed, Modesty had second thoughts. She had spent years doing everything she had been told. She had dressed and behaved soberly and humbly. She had been frugal, buying only the necessities and eating very simply. She dared not even allow herself to look at a display of pretty hats or imagine what it would be like to eat one of the sugary confections she sometimes saw when passing by tea rooms. She never drank anything stronger than tea, never swore, never went anywhere but church and to rail against sin. She’d never danced, never read anything beyond the Bible and books of sermons, and never even played a card game.
And what had been the point of all the deprivation? To be as perfect as her mother? Well, her mother’s life had been a lie. To please God above? Modesty rather doubted God cared if she wore a pretty dress or danced. After all, even the Bible said there was a time to dance. She wanted to dance.
A tap sounded on the door, and Modesty turned, wondering if Lady Lorraine had found some ribbons already. But it was two footmen with a large hip bath, followed by a maid with a towel and a wooden box. The footmen set the tub down, and the maid opened the box. “Would you like me to scent the bath water, Miss?” the maid asked. “I have scents of rose, lavender, or lemon.”
Modesty looked down at the box and saw vials of scents as well as soap for the body and the hair. “I don’t know which to choose,” she said. “You choose.”
“Yes, miss.” She went to the tub and soon the scent of lavender filled the room. “Would you like me to help with your bath?”
Modesty shook her head. “I can manage.”
“Then I’ll stoke the fire and return with a robe for you to wear after you bathe. Shall I have your garments cleaned for you, miss?”
Modesty wanted to tell her to burn them, but she had learned never to be hasty or impulsive. “Yes, please.”
The maid bobbed and hurried away. Modesty undressed and sank into the fragrant water. She felt as though she was washing her old self away and revealing the new.