A Love Made to Measure

by Eliza Emmett

  “Reverend, have you got a minute?”

  “Certainly. What can I do for you, Lord Galavyin?”

  “I was wondering, and please tell me if I cross some invisible line of propriety, if I could make a steady financial contribution to your project. I learned a lot today, beyond acquiring the very useful skill of making potato soup, of course, and it would be my way of saying thanks.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. That could mean we would be able to feed more people. It’s wonderful.”

  “I just have one condition. I would prefer that Miss Larsen and the others did not know of our agreement. I’ll make arrangements with my bank. And here is my card, should you ever need anything else.”

  “Generous and humble. If that is what you wish.”

  “That is the way it needs to be. Oh, and do you think you could give this coin to that boy Toby? He seems so smart and intrepid. I hope he is fine with the idea, and can put it to good use.”

  “Thank you. I knew a friend of Cora’s had to be a good person.” The vicar agreed not to say a word, and he and Grant shook hands.

  The two men went on to talk about light topics and common interests, like country walks and the dealings of parliament. But despite being in the middle of a conversation, a minute later Grant had temporarily forgotten about the man standing in front of him. He saw Cora hugging a couple of kids and laughing. Her presence could brighten a whole room. People were drawn to her like ants to molasses, and so was he.

  “She is something special,” the vicar said reminding Grant of his existence.

  “I had already figured that out.” He extended a hand and the vicar shook it formally once again.

  Grant walked Cora to the hackney, whose poor coachman was sleeping under a blanket. By then, he must have been waiting for a whole three hours, including the time Grant hoped the man had spent in a pub. But he hadn’t been completely neglected. He was the last of the people to get a hot and hearty bowl of soup, and like the rest of them, he seemed to enjoy it a great deal.

  ****

  The streets were already dark and almost silent. Above them, only the canopy of trees was making satisfying swooshing noises. The cold had receded, and a light warmer wind announced the approach of spring.

  Lord Galavyin walked Cora to the door, wearing a wrinkle in his brow, and asked, “I wonder if propriety would require that I come in and explain to your father the lateness of the hour and the fact that it is just the two of us.” This last part he said in a murmur, which made Cora smile and the skin of her arms prickle with pleasure. They were alone, weren’t they? She hadn’t even considered it a problem.

  “Do not worry, Lord Galavyin. My father is used to my long evenings serving soup. He will think nothing of it. Except that he will commend me for my selflessness.”

  He took her hand in his. “This was very…educational.” His palm was still warm, and she suddenly envisioned it traveling to the nape of her neck. In a second, it was more than just a vision. It was an avid desire, so strong she imagined it actually happening: their faces getting closer, his chin lowered toward her mouth, goose bumps on her skin, the heat of his hand burning her neck, and—

  “I wonder if next time you would allow me to take you to one of my favorite places as well?”

  “What? Oh, very well. Quid pro quo. It’s fair.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” she laughed. “That’s less than twenty-four hours away.”

  “Which means almost twenty-four hours too late.”

  That made her blush a little. It was impossible to say no. She had tried to surprise him, to plant it in his mind the idea that they were too different, yet he had taken it all in his stride.

  “Very well. Tomorrow it is. Same time, same place?”

  “Yes. I will collect you from the store at half past five. Good night, Miss Larsen.” Holding his hat, he bowed to her, and after climbing down the steps he bowed again, and a third time when he got to the hackney. She wasn’t ready for the night to end, so with reluctance she went into the house. In the warm sitting room, she was a little dizzy, still sensing the kiss that could have been, scorching her lips.

  ****

  “Is it not too late to go there?”

  Cora sat next to Grant in the coach, and they were headed to the British Museum. He was so happy he could hardly keep the feeling out of his voice. He wore a handsome new coat hoping she would notice. Of course she would notice. She was Cora Larsen, the most excellent tailor. She in turn was wearing the prettiest dress in silk, velvet, and lace. It was becoming, beyond any notions of what was fashionable that particular year, which he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyway. He suddenly remembered her question was still unanswered.

  “Ordinarily, it would be, but there is a special lecture tonight, and with that, not only will the general areas of the building be open, but so will the reading room. I have a reader’s ticket. Aren’t you lucky?”

  She smiled at him, and the whole world was right for a moment. He wished to sit closer to her, but didn’t want to insult her in any way, so he kept his distance suddenly noticing the sounds of the town around them. In the distance, bells announced the end of the five o’clock mass. The horses trotted through the streets, their hooves clopping in tandem on the cobblestones. A cacophony of voices reminded him of the existence of other people, and the splashes of puddled water made obvious that it had rained recently. In no time, they were in front of the magnificent building of the museum, his favorite in all of London.

  The reading room had been completed thirteen years before, when he was still a young lad. He didn’t rest until he was issued a reader’s ticket, the kind reserved for researchers. Since then, he had spent many delightful hours browsing the magnificent collection and getting lost inside his favorite books, especially George Eliot’s.

  It was an impressive structure, made of glass, iron, and concrete, and it boasted the latest technology in ventilation and heating. He felt appropriately small in the room, surrounded by so much knowledge and wisdom. He wanted nothing more than to share this place with Cora Larsen.

  He extended a hand to catch hers as she exited the coach, and he felt the electricity that resulted from their touch. Looking at her, he could tell she felt it too. It showed in the way her cheeks turned rosy and her breathing a little swifter.

  “Tonight’s lecture is an account of an archeological expedition to Egypt. The presenter will be showing some artefacts. I hope you like it.”

  She nodded.

  “But we have time to see some works before the event starts.”

  They talked while walking through the beautiful halls, stopping at their favorite pieces. He felt bold when he told her he wished he was an artist to paint her portrait. They visited Roman antiquities, British watercolors, and she explained to him some principles of color theory. Finally, they arrived at the reading room.

  A church-like silence infused the place with an aura of sanctity. Grant had such reverence for these books that sharing them with Cora felt a splendid prospect. Almost without realizing, he took her hand in his and perused the stacks. Soon they were both breathless and blissful. They commented on their favorite finds and noticed the gold leaf on the spines, and circled the room faster and faster.

  “I cannot think of anyone else I would like to share this place with, Miss Larsen.”

  “I’m glad to hear. It would be difficult to be a proxy to someone better who just didn’t show.”

  “I can guarantee there’s no one better than you, Miss Larsen. Believe me when I say I’ve searched everywhere.”

  “Maybe you were searching in all the wrong places.” She had travelled to an area behind one of the stacks and let her face peek out from behind one of the frames.

  “Oh?” he said realizing this had become a game of hide-and-seek.

  “High society. Palatial homes. That is where you searched, is it not?” She moved to yet another area of the stacks, leaving only a t
rail of her whispers behind.

  “Yes, Miss Larsen, mea culpa.” He tried to find her by letting her faint voice be his guide.

  “Oh, he speaks Latin. But the question is, does the seamstress?”

  Now they were almost running, and some of the other readers turned their heads to see better and to disapprove.

  Cora then took a wrong turn and almost landed in his arms. She stopped right before they collided. They were so close he could smell her perfume. It was fragrant like roses but not too sweet. He dared take a small step closer, and was glad that she didn’t retract. He was hoping to kiss her and made every effort to convey that with his eyes, and still she didn’t move. When he was about to close the distance and take her lips in his, the censorial and intentional loud cough of an old patron, who was looking at them over the rims of his glasses, stopped him.

  Spell broken, Grant took a step back and her hand again. That kiss would have to wait, though it couldn’t be too far. “Come, the lecture is about to start.”

  Chapter Five

  A week after the cooking adventure and the museum expedition, Cora was still happy about how well Grant Galavyin fitted in among her group of do-gooders and how similar their tastes in art and books were. She sang while embroidering, and hummed throughout her morning walk, remembering the reading room. She was hard at work on a dress with a lace bodice when the door of her shop opened abruptly, allowing yet another gush of cold air in. She turned to see Lord Galavyin who stood there, his hat in his hand, and his manners much altered. He didn’t even smile. His hair was, as usual, tousled, his coat just as elegant, but this time something other than steadiness and innocence dwelled in his eyes. She thought it fear, but perhaps it was embarrassment or even a touch of despair. Or maybe it was all of them combined.

  Mindful of her employees and especially Sally, who was always close by, she whispered. “Lord Galavyin. Are you looking to serve soup again so soon, or are you hoping to paint my portrait after all?”

  Still he didn’t smile. “I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment?”

  Her stomach dropped, and she retrieved her own smile from her lips.

  “Yes…certainly.”

  “Would you sit, Miss. Larsen. Please.” He indicated the small sitting area where they had tea the last time. She sat at the very edge of the armchair and looked at him.

  “What do you know of your shop and the group of buildings in which this and other commercial establishments are housed?”

  Cora could not imagine the reason for the question. “Well, I know my father was a tenant here for a long time. This is where he started his business, where he worked for all those years, and where I built my shop after him. It is a wonderful property, given the reputation of Regent Street with its paved sidewalks, its elegant shop windows one after the other, and its curving layout. Tradition in this business is as important as craftsmanship, and being in this area means patrons will continue to come. They like being seen here. They love walking this street.”

  “Do you know anything about the owner?”

  “No, we pay through an accountant. My father was always responsible for the lease, and after so many years, I hope you don’t find me pretentious in thinking of ourselves almost as owners. I don’t understand your concern.”

  “Has there been any incident recently? Any change or dispute involving the property?” He sounded breathless, each inhalation a struggle of mingled words and whistling noises. He sounded nothing like the calm, collected man of before. He had not smiled, flirted, or joked with her.

  “No. Things have been as quiet as ever. The shop prospers, and we pay what is due. I believe we are the kind of tenants any landlord would be happy to have. Lord Galavyin, what is the matter?”

  At this point, Sally came into the room and curtsied when she saw the baron. Cora hid her anxiety and the urgency of knowing what was wrong behind a tender smile.

  “Sally, could you please join the seamstresses and string these little pearls for me? Rows of ten, if you would.” The young woman acquiesced, grabbed the supplies, and left the room. Cora hoped for no more interruptions. “Please, continue, my lord.”

  He wiped his brow and massaged his temples. He looked to the ground and out of the window. Cora could clearly see he was avoiding her eyes and the unmistakable connection they felt every time their gaze met. With a finger, he drew invisible pictures on the upholstery. And then he breathed in once more and delivered the news.

  “Miss Larsen, the owner of this property is my uncle, and he demands that you vacate it within the month.”

  ****

  There was little that Cora took for granted in the world. She valued her father’s love, Nan’s dedication, and Hattie’s companionship above all else. She believed in hard work and friendship, was perpetually grateful for the roof above her head, never wasted food and always said a silent prayer for the abundance of it that she enjoyed. But the shop? That she had taken for granted. It had always been there, like air and nightfall, like afternoon rains and flowers in the spring. It was a given. It was hers. She never thought it could be otherwise and never planned for its absence.

  When Lord Galavyin delivered the blow, she wanted to cry, ignoring the fact that she was in front of him. But she also wanted to scream at him, blame the messenger for his family association. She wanted to escort him out of the shop, and lock the door behind him, and more than anything, she wanted to go back to work, to what was one of her only certainties—her job.

  But she didn’t do any of that. She stood up, she tightened her fists, and she closed her heart, like a good woman should do. She thanked him for the visit and for delivering the intelligence. She bid him good day. She delicately closed the door and the curtains, and she made sure the shop was empty. Only then did she collapse in one of the chairs, exhausted. And she looked at the ceiling for a long time, as if it could provide answers and a solution.

  Of course before he left, Grant Galavyin had tried to intervene. He offered to help her find a new place, to do anything she might find appropriate. He was vexed by the news, he said, incredulous. He claimed he would argue with his uncle, inquire about the reasons behind this senseless demand. But she knew blood ties were strong. What chance did a days’ old acquaintance have against blood ties? Was he the kind of man who only acted as an errand boy for his family? Should she be surprised, given that they met when he collected his mother’s dresses? She didn’t enjoy seeing him torn between allegiances and unsure of what to do next.

  At home Cora did not have the courage to break her father’s heart, so she put on a mask of normalcy and forced a smile to rest on her lips. She sat through dinner moving her food around the plate, her stomach tied in the tightest of knots. The fact that Nan had cooked a good chicken and peas with carrots didn’t prevent nausea from rising in her throat. She was wobbly with worry and broken with disappointment.

  He had seemed like a good man, a strong man. Why hadn’t he been able to prevent this from happening?

  The well-known pang of panic showed its ugly face yet again. When one is a worrier, its familiarity is almost comforting. It gives the illusion of control. But Cora did not welcome it anymore. She had glimpsed something more desirable—happiness, even love—and she refused the company of that old foolish emotion as best as she could. Yet, the more she tried to keep it away, the more the bony fingers of angst constricted her throat, making it hard to breathe.

  “Why so quiet, Cora?” Her father asked, touching her hand gently.

  “I am just tired. Don’t worry yourself.” She took his hand and held it tightly in hers.

  Hattie didn’t ask any questions at dinner. Cora suspected the lack of questions showed her sister knew something was amiss. They had an invisible bond that seemed to link each to the other, to signal when to speak and when to hold the silence.

  But once the sisters were alone in their bedroom, once there was quiet around them, and quilted blankets for comfort, and half-lights for courage, it became impossi
ble to keep up any pretenses.

  “Do you intend to tell me what the problem is, or should I just sit here fretting?” Hattie sat on the bed, with her legs stretched under the covers.

  Cora began to tell Hattie what had transpired. Of course, she only spoke of the shop and the family. Hattie listened in silence. Her hand covered her mouth from time to time. When she finally spoke, it was with much apprehension in her voice.

  “What are we going to do, Cora?” She squeezed the bed covers as if they were soaking wet.

  “You are going to promise not to utter one word of this to our father.”

  Hattie assented with a nod.

  “And I am going to find out what the matter really is.”

  It was to be a sleepless night, but the morning, she thought, might bring some answers, however cruel they might be.

  ****

  Grant Galavyin fidgeted in the expanse of the grand salon in his London home. He sat, and then he stood, only to sit again a minute later. If he should ever fall in love with a woman, it would not be by courting her day after day, or by being introduced by family members at a fancy ball. Not by discovering common histories or acquaintances one after another. If he were ever to fall in love with a woman, it would be by way of a thunderbolt, a complete breach between what life had been before and after her. Storms and flashes of light would let him know it had happened. And as clear as day or as obvious as rain, when he first saw Cora Larsen, lightning and thunder struck.

  What irony in life had caused him to be the messenger of such awful news? What prank of destiny had now made him the last man she was likely to want? What fate could possibly await their budding friendship after this?

  His affairs lay in a dark well at the moment, and his thoughts about the depth of those troubles were interrupted by the arrival of his sister Adele. She smiled at him and adjusted her blond braided hair.

  “Hello, brother,” she said with her usual cheerfulness.