“I have a personal message to deliver to you, my lady.”
“From my impossible husband?” It was a safe guess, as Lord Maccon was the only one who would employ a ghost rather than some sensible means of communication, like perhaps waking up his own wife and talking to her before he left for once.
The ghostly form swayed a bit up and down, Formerly Merriway’s version of a nod. “From his lordship, yes.”
“Well?” barked Alexia.
Formerly Merriway skittered back slightly. Despite copious promises from Alexia that she was not going to wander about the castle looking to lay hands on Merriway’s corpse, the ghost could not get over her fear of the preternatural. She persisted in seeing imminent exorcism behind every threatening attitude Alexia took, which, given Alexia’s character, made for a constant state of nervousness.
Alexia sighed and modified her tone. “What was his message to me, Formerly Merriway, please?” She used the hall mirror to pin on her hat, careful not to upset Angelique’s hairdo. It perched far to the back of the head in an entirely useless manner, but as the sun was not out, Alexia supposed she did not have to mind the lack of shade.
“You are to go hat shopping,” said Formerly Merriway, quite unexpectedly.
Alexia wrinkled her forehead and pulled on her gloves. “I am, am I?”
Formerly Merriway gave her bobbing nod once again. “He recommends a newly opened establishment on Regent Street called Chapeau de Poupe. He emphasized that you should visit it without delay.”
Lord Maccon rarely took an interest in his own attire. Lady Maccon could hardly believe he would suddenly take an interest in hers.
She said only, “Ah, well, I was just thinking how I did not like this hat. Not that I really require a new one.”
“Well, I certainly know someone who does,” said Floote with unexpected feeling from just behind her shoulder.
“Yes, Floote, I am sorry you had to see those grapes yesterday,” Alexia apologized. Poor Floote had very delicate sensibilities.
“Suffering comes unto us all,” quoth Floote sagely. Then he handed over a blue and white lace parasol and saw her down the steps and into the waiting carriage.
“To the Hisselpenny town residence,” he instructed the driver, “posthaste.”
“Oh, Floote.” Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window as the carriage wheeled off down the drive. “Cancel tomorrow’s dinner party, would you? Since my husband has chosen to absent himself, there is simply no point.”
Floote tipped his head at the retreating carriage in acknowledgment and went to see to the details.
Alexia felt justified in turning up on Ivy’s doorstep without announcement, as Ivy had done that very thing to her the evening before.
Miss Ivy Hisselpenny was sitting listlessly in the front parlor of the Hisselpennys’ modest town address, receiving visitors. She was delighted to see Alexia, however unexpected. The whole Hisselpenny household was generally elated to receive Lady Maccon; never had they thought Ivy’s odd little relationship with bluestocking spinster Alexia Tarabotti would flower into such a social coup de grace.
Lady Maccon swept in to find Mrs. Hisslepenny and her clacking knitting needles, keeping wordless vigil to her daughter’s endless chatter.
“Oh, Alexia! Tremendous.”
“And a good evening to you too, Ivy. How are you tonight?”
This was rather an imprudent question to ask Miss Hisselpenny, as Miss Hisselpenny was prone to telling one the answer—in excruciating detail.
“Would you believe? The announcement of my engagement to Captain Featherstonehaugh was in the Times this morning, and practically no one has called all day! I have received only twenty-four visitors, and when Bernice got engaged last month, she had twenty-seven! Shabby, I call it, perfectly shabby. Although, I suppose you would make it twenty-five, dearest Alexia.”
“Ivy,” said Alexia without further shilly-shallying, “why bother to lay about here awaiting insult? You clearly require some diversion. And I am in just the humor to provide it. For I do believe you are in dire need of a new hat. You and I should go shopping for one.”
“Right this very instant?”
“Yes, immediately. I hear there is a divine new shop just opened on Regent Street. Shall we give it our patronage?”
“Oh.” Ivy’s cheeks pinkened in delight. “The Chapeau de Poupe? It is supposed to be very daring, indeed. Some ladies of my acquaintance have even referred to it as fast.” A little gasp at that word emitted from Ivy’s perennially quiet mama, but that good lady did not offer any comment to companion her inhalation, so Ivy continued. “You know, only the most forward ladies frequent that establishment. The actress Mabel Dair is supposed to stop in regularly. And the proprietress is said to be quite the scandal herself.”
Everything about her friend’s outraged tone told Alexia that Ivy was dying to visit Chapeau de Poupe.
“Well, it sounds like just the place to find something a little more unusual for the winter season, and as a newly engaged lady, you do realize you simply must have a new hat.”
“Must I?”
“Trust me, my dearest Ivy, you most definitely must.”
“Well, Ivy dear,” said Mrs. Hisselpenny in a soft voice, setting down her knitting and looking up. “You should go and change. It would not do to keep Lady Maccon waiting on such a generous offer.”
Ivy, pressed most firmly into doing something she wished to do more than anything else in the world, trotted upstairs with only a few more token protests.
“You will try to help her, won’t you, Lady Maccon?” Mrs. Hisselpenny’s eyes were quite desperate over her once-again clicking needles.
Alexia thought she understood the question. “You are also worried about this sudden engagement?”
“Oh no, Captain Featherstonehaugh is quite a suitable match. No, I was referring to Ivy’s headwear preferences.”
Alexia swallowed down a smile, keeping her face perfectly serious. “Of course. I shall do my very best, for queen and country.”
The Hisselpennys’ manservant appeared with a welcome tea tray. Lady Maccon sipped a freshly brewed cup in profound relief. All in all, it had been quite the trying evening thus far. With Ivy and hats in her future, it was only likely to get worse. Tea was a medicinal necessity at this juncture. Thank goodness Mrs. Hisselpenny had thought to provide.
Lady Maccon resorted to painfully pleasant discussion of the weather for a quarter of an hour. None too soon, Ivy reappeared in a walking dress of orange taffeta ruffled to within an inch of its life, and a champagne brocade overjacket, paired with a particularly noteworthy flowerpot hat. The hat was, not unexpectedly, decorated with a herd of silk mums and here and there a tiny feather bee on the end of a piece of wire.
Alexia forbore to look at the hat, thanked Mrs. Hisselpenny for the tea, and hustled Ivy into the Woolsey carriage. Around them, London’s night society was coming to life, gas lights being lit, elegantly dressed couples hailing cabs, here and there a reeling group of rowdy young blunts. Alexia directed her driver to proceed on to Regent Street, and they arrived in short order at Chapeau de Poupe.
At first Alexia was at a loss as to why her husband wanted her to visit Chapeau de Poupe. So she did what any young lady of good breeding would do. She shopped.
“Are you certain you wish to go hat shopping with me, Alexia?” asked Ivy as they pushed in through the wrought-iron door. “Your taste in hats is not mine.”
“I should most profoundly hope not,” replied Lady Maccon with real feeling, looking at the flower-covered monstrosity atop her friend’s sweet round little face and glossy black curls.
The shop proved to be as reported. It was exceptionally modern in appearance, all light airy muslin drapes, with soft peach and sage striped walls and bronze furniture with clean lines and matched cushions.
“Ahooo,” said Ivy, looking about with wide eyes. “Isn’t this simply too French?”
There were a few hats on tables and o
n wall hooks, but most were hanging from little gold chains suspended from the ceiling. They fell to different heights so that one had to brush through the hats to get around the shop, and they swayed slightly, like some alien vegetation. And such hats—caps of embroidered batiste with Mechlin lace, Italian straw shepherdesses, faille capotes, velvet toques that put Ivy’s flowerpot to shame, and outrageous pifferaro bonnets—dangled everywhere.
Ivy was immediately entranced by the ugliest of the bunch: a canary-yellow felt toque trimmed with black currants, black velvet ribbon, and a pair of green feathers that looked like antennae off to one side.
“Oh, not that one!” said both Alexia and another voice at the same time when Ivy reached to pull it off the wall.
Ivy’s hand dropped to her side, and both she and Lady Maccon turned to see the most remarkable-looking woman emerging from a curtained back room.
Alexia thought, without envy, that this was quite probably the most beautiful female she had ever seen. She had a lovely small mouth, large green eyes, prominent cheekbones, and dimples when she smiled, which she was doing now. Normally Alexia objected to dimples, but they seemed to suit this woman. Perhaps because they were offset by her thin angular frame and the fact that she had her brown hair cut unfashionably short, like a man’s.
Ivy gasped upon seeing her.
This was not because of the hair. Or, not entirely because of it. This was because the woman was also dressed head to shiny boots in perfect and impeccable style—for a man. Jacket, pants, and waistcoat were all to the height of fashion. A top hat perched upon that scandalously short hair, and her burgundy cravat was tied into a silken waterfall. Still, there was no pretense at hiding her femininity. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and melodic, but definitely that of a woman.
Alexia picked up a pair of burnt umber kid gloves from a display basket. They were as soft as butter to the touch, and she looked at them to stop herself from staring at the woman.
“I am Madame Lefoux. Welcome to Chapeau de Poupe. How may I serve you fine ladies?” She had the hint of a French accent, but only the barest hint, utterly unlike Angelique, who could never seem to handle the “th” sound.
Ivy and Alexia curtsied with a little tilt to their heads, the latest fashion in curtsies, designed to show that the neck was unbitten. One wouldn’t want to be thought a drone without the benefit of vampiric protection. Madame Lefoux did the same, although it was impossible to tell if her neck was bitten under that skillfully tied cravat. Alexia noted with interest that she wore two cravat pins: one of silver and one of wood. Madame Lefoux might keep night hours, but she was cautious about it.
Lady Maccon said, “My friend Miss Hisselpenny has recently become engaged and is in dire need of a new hat.” She did not introduce herself, not yet. Lady Maccon was a name best kept in reserve.
Madame Lefoux took in Ivy’s copious flowers and feather bees. “Yes, this is quite evident. Do walk this way, Miss Hisselpenny. I believe I have something over here that would perfectly suit that dress.”
Ivy dutifully trotted after the strangely clad woman. She gave Alexia a look over her shoulder that said, as clearly as if she had the gumption to say it aloud, what the deuce is she wearing?
Alexia wandered over to the offensive yellow toque she and Madame Lefoux had so hastily warned Ivy off of. It completely contrasted with the general sophisticated tenor set by the other hats. Almost as though it wasn’t meant to be purchased.
As the extraordinary patroness seemed to be thoroughly distracted by Ivy (well, who wouldn’t be?), Alexia used the handle of her parasol to gently lift the toque and peek underneath. It was at that precise moment she deduced why it was her husband had sent her to Chapeau de Poupe.
There was a hidden knob, disguised as a hook, secreted under the hideous hat. Alexia quickly replaced the hat and turned away to begin innocently wandering about the shop, pretending interest in various accessories. She began to notice that there were other little hints as to a second nature for Chapeau de Poupe: scrape marks on the floor near a wall that seemed to have no door and several gas lights that were not lit. Alexia would wager good money that they were not lights at all.
Lady Maccon would not have thought to be curious, of course, had her husband not been so insistent she visit the establishment. The rest of the shop was quite unsuspicious, being the height of la mode, with hats appealing enough to hold even her unstylish awareness. But with the scrapes and the hidden knob, Alexia became curious, both about the shop and its owner. Lady Maccon might be soulless, but the liveliness of her mind was never in question.
She wandered over to where Madame Lefoux had actually persuaded Miss Hisselpenny to don a becoming little straw bonnet with upturned front, decorated about the crown with a few classy cream flowers and one graceful blue feather.
“Ivy, that looks remarkably well on you,” she praised.
“Thank you, Alexia, but don’t you find it a tad reserved? I’m not convinced it quite suits.”
Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux exchanged a look.
“No, I do not. It is nothing like that horrible yellow thing at the back you insisted on at first. I went to take a closer look, you know, and it really is quite ghastly.”
Madame Lefoux glanced at Alexia, her beautiful face suddenly sharp and her dimples gone.
Alexia smiled, all teeth and not nicely. One couldn’t live around werewolves and not pick up a few of their mannerisms. “It cannot possibly be your design?” she said mildly to the proprietress.
“The work of an apprentice, I do assure you,” replied Madame Lefoux with a tiny French shrug. She put a new hat onto Ivy’s head, one with a few more flowers.
Miss Hisselpenny preened.
“Are there any more… like it?” wondered Alexia, still talking about the ugly yellow hat.
“Well, there is that riding hat.” The proprietress’s voice was wary.
Lady Maccon nodded. Madame Lefoux was naming the hat nearest to the scrape marks Alexia had observed on the floor. They understood one another.
There came a pause in conversation while Ivy expressed interest in a frosted pink confection with feather toggles. Alexia spun her closed parasol between two gloved hands.
“You seem to be having problems with some of your gas lighting as well,” said Alexia, all mildness and sugar.
“Indeed.” A flicker of firm acknowledgment crossed Madame Lefoux’s face at that. “And, of course, there is the door handle. But you know how it goes—there are always kinks to work out after opening a new establishment.”
Lady Maccon cursed herself. The door handle—how had she missed that? She wandered over casually, leaning on her parasol to look down at it.
Ivy, all insensible of the underpinnings to their conversation, went on to try the next hat.
The handle on the inside of the front door was far larger than it ought to be and seemed to be comprised of a complicated series of cogs and bolts, far more security than any ordinary hat shop required.
Alexia wondered if Madame Lefoux was a French spy.
“Well,” Ivy was telling Madame Lefoux in a chatty manner when Alexia rejoined them, “Alexia always says my taste is abysmal, but I can hardly see how she has much ground. Her choices are so often banal.”
“I lack imagination,” admitted Alexia. “Which is why I keep a highly creative French maid.”
Madame Lefoux looked mildly interested at that. Her dimples showed in a little half-smile.
“And the eccentricity of carrying a parasol even at night? I take it I am being honored by a visit from Lady Maccon?”
“Alexia,” Miss Hisselpenny asked, scandalized, “you never introduced yourself?”
“Well I—” Alexia was grappling for an excuse, when…
Boom!
And the world about them exploded into darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Proper Use of Parasols
An enormous noise shook the structure around them. All of the hats on the ends of their
long chains swung about violently. Ivy let out the most milk-curdling scream. Someone else yelled, rather soberly by comparison. The gas lighting went out, and the shop descended into darkness.
It took a moment for Lady Maccon to realize that the explosion had not, in fact, been intended to kill her. Given her experiences over the past year, this was a novel change of pace. But it also made her wonder if the explosion had been intended to kill someone else.
“Ivy?” Alexia asked the darkness.
Silence.
“Madame Lefoux?”
Further silence.
Alexia crouched down, as much as her corset would allow, and felt about, willing her eyes to acclimatize to the black. She felt taffeta: the ruffles attached to Ivy’s prone form.
Alexia’s heart sank.
She patted Ivy all about for injury, but Miss Hisselpenny seemed unscathed. Light puffs of breath hit the back of Lady Maccon’s hand when she passed it under Ivy’s nose, and there was a pulse—shallow but solid. Apparently, Miss Hisselpenny had simply fainted.
“Ivy!” she hissed.
Nothing.
“Ivy, please!”
Miss Hisselpenny shifted slightly and murmured, “Yes, Mr. Tunstell?” under her breath.
Oh dear, thought Alexia. What a terribly unsuitable match, and Ivy already engaged to someone else. Lady Maccon had no idea that things had progressed so far as to involve murmurings in times of distress. Then she felt a stab of pity. Better to let Ivy have her dreams while she could.
So Lady Maccon left her friend as she lay and did not reach for the smelling salts.
Madame Lefoux, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. She had apparently vanished into the blackness. Perhaps seeking the source of the explosion. Or perhaps being the source of the explosion.
Alexia could guess as to where the Frenchwoman had disappeared. Her eyes now partly adjusted to the gloom, she made her way along the wall toward the back of the shop, where the scrape marks were located.
Changeless pp-2 Page 7
