A Lady of Hidden Intent

by Tracie Peterson

  Catherine nodded. It was easy to see that Mrs. Danby was a woman used to imposing her wishes on others. Catherine went to the closed door on the opposite side of the room. “Martha?” she called as she opened the door.

  A young woman appeared. She was a pretty sort with a tight, trim waist and lovely brown hair. She wore gold-rimmed glasses, much the same as Mrs. Clarkson, and smiled broadly. “How may I assist you, Catherine?”

  “Please measure Mrs. Danby. We will need a full accounting, and I am charging you to record the findings very faithfully.” Martha smiled, understanding that Catherine meant for her to take her time so that she might draw out the younger of the Danby women. Mrs. Danby no doubt knew the type of gown that she desired, but Winifred probably had given it little thought.

  With Mrs. Danby escorted to the measurements room, Catherine took a seat opposite Winifred. “Now, Miss Danby, if you would be so kind as to tell me what type of gown you would like.”

  Winifred looked up, appearing rather startled. “I . . . uh . . . my mother . . .”

  “I do not mean to be disrespectful, Miss Danby, but I am certain your mother will speak her mind on what she believes you would like. However, I would rather hear from your own mouth what this might be.”

  “Mother means well,” Miss Danby offered. “She can be a bit nervous about these matters.” She looked at the floor again.

  “Miss Danby—”

  “Please call me Winifred,” the young woman suddenly blurted out. The look on her face told Catherine that she’d surprised herself as much as anyone.

  “I would like that,” Catherine replied, trying to sound as if the request were perfectly normal. The social classes demanded otherwise, but Catherine had learned to change her thinking about society and the separation of the classes since her move to America. “You must, in turn, call me Catherine.”

  “Thank you,” Winifred whispered. She had gone back into her shell, as if embarrassed by the entire exchange.

  Catherine wanted so much to put her at ease and considered the woman and her small frame for a moment. “I believe a skirt comprising a solid piece with perhaps tulle bouillons above the hem would serve your petite frame better than flounces. You would be rather lost in all of that frippery.” She began to sketch it out on a sheet of paper. “See here what I mean.”

  Winifred leaned forward as Catherine’s design came to take form on the page. “Yes,” she whispered. “I like that very much.”

  “And perhaps we can create a bodice where the tulle puffing is repeated. If we can create a bodice in this fashion with the corsage cut low, then trimmed in the bouillons, it will allow for modesty. The same tulle can be drawn along the neckline, then be used in the sleeves as well. Do you mind baring your arms and shoulders?”

  “No, not really.” Winifred continued to watch. “I could not have drawn this better myself. Not that I have much talent for drawing. My watercolors are tolerable, but I have no skill with charcoals.”

  Catherine was glad to see the young woman revealing a bit more of herself. “I find watercolors to require a great deal of talent.” Catherine put a few more details on the skirt sketch, then raised her gaze to Winifred.

  “What materials and colors are you fond of? For a gown of this style, my thoughts would lean toward satin or silk. Your coloring would suggest something bright and feminine.”

  Winifred blushed, as if once again embarrassed. “I am told I’m fond of puce.”

  “You’re told that, eh?” Catherine’s tone suggested amusement, but in truth she felt very sorry for the girl. “Winifred, if you truly like that color, we can use it, but I believe it is much too dark.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?”

  “You really need a more festive color.” Catherine eyed her seriously for a moment. “I would not want you to choose a dark color, although we could trim it in something dark. I think lavender would be lovely on you. We also offer some wonderful shades of pink and dusty rose that blend well. Your coloring would also easily bear ivory, which could be decorated with any number of colors. Think about it. You needn’t decide this moment.”

  “Mama will no doubt want to make the final choice,” Winifred said. “We should ask her.”

  Catherine leaned forward. “I wish to know what you like.

  I find that I can quite easily influence overbearing mothers when I know what would be pleasing to their more modest daughters.”

  Winifred smiled. “I like you very much, Miss . . . Catherine.

  I have never had a dressmaker who was willing to stand up to my mother. I believe I would very much like the gown to be some shade of pink or rose,” Winifred said rather conspiratorially.

  Catherine nodded with just a hint of a smile. “Then it shall be.”

  “Winifred, they are ready for your measurements,” Mrs.

  Danby announced as she came from the back room.

  Winifred rose and headed for the door. Catherine felt sorry for her. The young woman was beautiful and refined, and there was certainly no sense in her mother pushing her at men.

  “Now, I have an idea in mind for my own gown,” Mrs. Danby began as she took her seat. “But, of course, I want the design to be yours. After all, your work is the talk of the town.”

  Catherine pushed aside the sketch she’d worked on for Winifred, but Mrs. Danby picked it up. “Is this what you had in mind for my daughter?”

  “Yes. I believe it will complement her . . . assets . . . as you put it.”

  Mrs. Danby looked at the sketch for several moments before putting it down. “I believe it will.”

  Catherine hadn’t expected the older woman’s acceptance of her design, but she didn’t really have a chance to say anything as Mrs. Danby launched into a tirade of ball gowns from the past that were most displeasing. After nearly five minutes, Catherine stopped her.

  “I am afraid my time is limited today. Perhaps you could tell me what you do like.”

  Mrs. Danby looked at her for a moment before suddenly declaring, “Flounces. I like flounces.”

  Catherine nodded and began to sketch out a skirt with three tiers of lace flouncing. “Perhaps lace over silk?”

  The older woman thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, that sounds quite regal. I hear from your speech that you are English.

  I would like a gown that would be suitable for court. I want the finest gown of any other woman in this town. I am willing, also, to make it quite worth your time and trouble to make the other gowns less . . . less . . . exotic.”

  “Less exotic?” Catherine questioned.

  “Yes. I want to stand out at the party. I want every other woman there to die of envy when they see my gown.”

  Catherine tried to imagine a ballroom with Mrs. Danby sweeping through, ladies dropping to the floor in death as she passed by. Did people never listen to the words they spoke?

  “And what of the bodice?” Catherine questioned, moving on quickly.

  “I want it low. I want my husband to take note,” she said rather smugly. “I still have a good figure, and I mean for him to remember that fact.”

  Catherine looked at the woman momentarily. She had to be at least sixty years of age, but it was true that her petite frame was rather well filled out. “Perhaps this,” Catherine said as she quickly sketched a bodice. “We call this style corsage à la Grecque . You can see that it is low and off the shoulder. The bodice is comprised of vertical pleats that accentuate the bosom.”“Oh, I do like that.”

  “It was more popular in the forties, but we can recreate it and give it a completely refreshed look. And I happen to know something similar was recently recreated for Her Majesty Queen Victoria.”

  “Oh, that’s simply divine. Yes, that’s the style I would want for my gown.”

  Catherine nodded. “And may I suggest the sleeve short and tight at first, then trailing down with lace that would imitate the flounces, like this.” Catherine drew three tiers of material that came to the elbow.

  “Th
at is perfect. Oh, but I can scarcely imagine how I will ever wait for the gown to be created.”

  Catherine looked up and could see from the woman’s expression that she was already imagining herself and the response she’d create. “What colors do you have in mind?”

  Mrs. Danby looked at Catherine only a moment before opening her mouth. “I want whatever will make it look the richest. Perhaps a gold?” She looked at Catherine as though awaiting her approval.

  “Let me look at what is available and give you several ideas from which to choose. We will have new materials in from France any day now. I am sure we will find something suitable in that selection.”

  “Of course. How exciting!” Mrs. Danby nodded in great satisfaction before adding, “But there must not be another gown made with the material you use for my creation. Upon this I insist.”

  “You may discuss that matter with Mrs. Clarkson. I have little say over such affairs.”

  Winifred reemerged at this time. She looked at her mother and then to Catherine before lowering her gaze to the floor. With her quiet, sweet demeanor, Catherine imagined that in another time and place, they might have been good friends.

  “I will collect a variety of samples. I would like to suggest a delicate pink or perhaps rose color for your daughter’s gown.

  It will make a good show against her creamy complexion. We can trim it out with a choice of colors, but I would also consider some real roses on the neckline.”

  “Oh! Oh! That sounds so marvelous,” Mrs. Danby said, clapping her gloved hands together. “Oh, but I wish I were twenty again. I would show them all a thing or two.”

  Catherine had no doubt the woman would create quite a show at that. “I will also have a more detailed sketch for you in a day or two.”

  Mrs. Danby took hold of her daughter. “Come, Winifred, we must allow Miss Shay to get on with her other customers.

  I am so excited. I know I shan’t sleep a wink until I have that gown in my possession.”

  “I will send word when the materials have arrived,” Catherine promised as she got to her feet. “When the materials are available, we can also discuss the laces and trims.”

  “Of course, Miss Shay. Thank you so much. We shall look forward to our next meeting.”

  “You look very lonely in this room.”

  Carter looked up to find an attractive young woman standing by the door. She wasn’t the same girl who had come to serve him tea and cakes earlier. That girl was hardly more than a child. No, this young lady was a woman full grown, and it appeared she had learned the art of enticing men with her looks.

  “I am Felicia. I work as the Second Hand. That’s a position just under the foreman. I have a great deal of experience,” she said suggestively.

  Carter found her completely wanton and looked back to the book he’d been glancing through.

  “Are you so very shy you will not speak to me?” The words fairly purred from her lips as she sauntered across the floor. “I’m quite entertaining.”

  Carter looked up. She was a pretty blond thing with a figure that demanded notice, even from behind the heavy cotton apron.

  “I am certain you speak the truth.”

  Felicia grinned. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I have given you my name and even more.” “Felicia, what are you doing out here?” Mrs. Clarkson demanded as she came into the room. “You have more than enough work to keep you busy. Not only that, but Lydia is asking after you. Go see what the child needs.” She turned, dismissing the young woman. “Mr. Danby, may I offer you more tea?”

  Carter watched Felicia leave. She was not happy about it, but it was clear she’d heard his name and was probably even now committing it to memory. “

  I am fine, thank you, Mrs. Clarkson. I do not require anything else.” He thought of the young woman he’d met earlier. Miss Shay had an odd sense of familiarity about her. He would have sworn he knew her. Yet how many dressmakers had he been introduced to? She must be, he acknowledged, his first.

  “Very well. I am certain your mother and sister will soon join you. I have, even now, Miss Shay’s next customers waiting.”

  “Speaking of Miss Shay,” Carter said, putting aside the book and getting to his feet, “I wonder if you might tell me more about her. My mother says she is much sought after for her creations.”

  “Oh yes. She is quite talented. When in France this summer I showed several of her drawings to my friends in fashion. They were quite impressed. I would not find it unusual at all to see her name mentioned with the likes of—”

  “Oh, there you are,” Carter’s mother declared as she came into the room. “Come, we must get home. I have so many things to accomplish yet today.”

  Carter felt a brief sense of disappointment that he couldn’t further question Mrs. Clarkson about Miss Shay. He was even more displeased to realize that Miss Shay had not come to see them off.

  “Were you pleased with the ideas Miss Shay created?” he asked as he extended his arm to assist his mother out the door.

  “Oh, goodness yes. The woman is so very talented. I shall be quite pleased to utilize her services over and over. She understands me completely.”

  “And what of you, Winifred?” Carter asked, looking back over his shoulder as they descended the outside stairs.

  “I liked her very much. I felt she completely understood me, and I her. It was as if we had known each other for many years.”

  Carter nodded but said nothing. It was strange, he thought, but he had the same sensation.

  CHAPTER 4

  Catherine rose early the next day, hoping to talk to Selma and Dugan privately before the household was awake to overhear. In the kitchen, Selma was already at work frying up sausages and potatoes. The girls ate a hearty breakfast together at five-thirty every morning and started their day’s work at six, a routine with which they were all quite familiar.

  Explaining the situation from the previous day, Catherine waited for Selma’s comment. The older woman considered the matter solemnly for several minutes while she turned the sausages.

  “I believe there is little to worry over. You are much changed in the five years since Mr. Danby last saw you,” Selma began. “You hardly look the same. Then you were but a girl of ten and seven. You wore your hair in ringlets and had not yet acquired a woman’s figure. He only met you for a short time amidst his busy travels. Not only that, but you go by a different name—there is not even that fact to associate you with his memories.”

  “I thought of all this myself,” Catherine whispered, “but his expression suggested that he found something familiar in me.”

  “Perhaps, but again, what if he does remember you? He is an American and not at all associated with your father or his business. He most likely has no knowledge of what happened to your father. If he should remember you, it would hardly be a lie to tell him your family fell on hard times and you moved to America with us to better your fortunes. I’ll speak to Dugan on this matter, but I would not let it worry you. Mr. Danby is most likely no threat to us.”

  Catherine wanted to believe this. She prayed it might be so. In fact, she’d wrestled in thought and prayer throughout the night, wondering if God had suddenly overlooked her protection.

  Later in the day, after the last of the afternoon appointments was concluded, Catherine sat down to work with the newest of the sewing staff. Beatrix was only fourteen and had not yet come to live at Mrs. Clarkson’s house. She was new to her training but very talented. The girl was the eldest of a large Irish family, with three brothers and three sisters her junior. Spirited and bright, Catherine found Beatrix a joy to work with and teach.

  “See here,” Catherine said as she took hold of the pattern, “we can increase the bust in this fashion.” She took a pencil and drew along particular lines as Beatrix nodded.

  “I’ve had to do that for me mum.”

  “Good, then you’re already familiar.” Catherine stood back and handed the pencil to Beatrix. “Now show me
how you would best expand the waist for a thicker woman.”

  Beatrix studied the pattern for a moment. “I would be cuttin’ a fuller side seam to begin with.” She traced it out and then straightened. “I would maybe be takin’ a smaller dart in the front and maybe eliminate the darts altogether in the back.”

  “That could cause the garment to drape awkwardly,” Catherine stated. “See on this piece?” She drew Beatrix to another table and showed her a blouse bodice that had been cut but not put together. “Maintaining the darts will allow for some semblance of narrowing at the waist, even if the dart is very small.”“Aye, I can be seein’ that now.”

  “Catherine!” a young woman declared, entering the room as though she owned the place.

  Catherine looked up to find fifteen-year-old Lydia demanding her attention. The girl had a way about her that always demanded something. “What is it, Lydia?”

  “I need you to approve this bodice. I’ve basted it together, and Felicia says it’s perfect.”

  Used to Felicia’s interference, Catherine sighed inwardly but was careful to show no emotion. “Sit down, Lydia.” She turned to Beatrix. “Go back to the pattern and show me how you would increase the sleeves for a woman with heavy arms.” The girl went immediately to the task.

  Catherine took up Lydia’s bodice and began to look it over for problems. “This gap will not do,” she told the girl. “Do you see here how the pieces of the bodice must fold in to each other?”

  Lydia looked at the lines of the garment. “I did it the way Felicia told me to, and she said it was fine.”

  “But Felicia is not the one who has to approve your work,

  Lydia.”

  Toying with her braid, Lydia’s expression was haughty rather than contrite. Catherine put the piece down and looked at the girl. “Do you not like working here, Lydia?”

  The girl seemed to immediately understand the implication. Catherine continued, “I cannot move you up to the position of Improver if you cannot learn to properly drape material and fit patterns. I know you are having difficulty adjusting to living here at the sewing house, but that cannot be an excuse for slothful work and insolent behavior.”