by Shana Galen
Everyone who had served closely with Mostyn in the war knew he couldn’t read very well. Although Colonel Draven also had a stake in the studio, Rowden suspected Lady Lorraine was far more involved in its operations than anyone but Mostyn himself. It was her connections that brought the initial clientele in for lessons, and it was obviously her participation in the actual business affairs of the studio that were making Mostyn’s such a success.
“Well,” Chibale said, coming to stand beside Rowden. “That’s done.”
Yes, it was. Rowden was relieved.
“How about another round?” Chibale suggested.
Mostyn shook his head. “Lesson in a quarter of an hour.”
Chibale nodded toward a set of leather sacks filled with grain. “Let’s see how you do against those. Your left hook could be stronger.”
Rowden wanted to object that he was done for the day, but he had to win the fight with Abraham Strong and win it soundly. Then the German couldn’t possibly refuse to fight him again.
LADY LORRAINE CHATTED all the way to her home. Modesty hardly heard what she said. She was too busy gaping at the ornate interior of the carriage. The door handles appeared to be gold and the curtains framing the windows were velvet. As a child, the chance to sit in the back of a wagon or take a brief ride in a hackney was an enormous treat. And of course, she had seen the conveyances of the upper classes pass by on the street. Lady Lorraine’s was by no means the grandest she had seen. Once she had glimpsed the Duke of Devonshire’s and had stopped to stare.
But even in her wildest imaginings about the interior of the Devonshire carriage, she had not imagined comfort like this—plush seats, a soft blanket and hot bricks to keep her feet warm, and Lady Lorraine had even produced a tea service.
“Ah, here we are,” Lady Lorraine said, and it took a moment for Modesty to tear her gaze from a panel under Lady Lorraine’s seat, which she had been informed held a small library.
Modesty looked out the window and spotted a small white house with trees out front and greenery across the door. It was not one of the terraced houses but freestanding. She imagined in the spring the trees were lovely with green leaves and buds. The empty flower boxes in the window were probably filled with color. “It’s lovely,” she murmured.
“I should have had the greenery removed after Epiphany,” Lady Lorraine said, “but I rather like it. The front of the house looks so bare without it.”
The carriage halted and a footman came forward to lower the stairs and open the door. Lady Lorraine alighted with ease and Modesty followed more clumsily.
The interior of the house was just as spectacular as the carriage. The foyer was wide and airy with a grand marble Y-shaped staircase. While Modesty looked up and up at the high ceiling, Lady Lorraine spoke with a housekeeper who gave Modesty dubious glances before taking her coat. Then Lady Lorraine led Modesty to a small pale blue parlor where she immediately sat on a couch and put her feet on a footstool. A small white and brown dog trotted in, sniffed at Modesty, and then climbed on the couch and put its head in Lady Lorraine’s lap.
“This is Welly,” she said, stroking the dog’s soft ears. She sighed. “The problem with pregnancy,” Lady Lorraine said, “is that I am tired all of the time.”
Modesty glanced at Lady Lorraine’s midsection. There was just the slightest protrusion where her waist would be. As even the mention of pregnancy embarrassed Modesty, she quickly turned the subject. “I am sorry to trouble you. I assure you, you needn’t have gone to this much effort on my account.”
Lady Lorraine waved a hand. “When I have my breath back, I will write a few letters and we will discover what there is to know about your aunt Augusta Ryan. Until then you are welcome to stay here. It is just Mr. Mostyn and me, so obviously we have plenty of room to spare.”
“His boxing studio must do very well,” Modesty said before she could think better of such a comment.
But Lady Lorraine laughed and did not seem offended. “Mr. Mostyn is absolutely making a name for himself in addition to the notoriety he had acquired from being a war hero and a younger son of the Earl of Pembroke. But this house was a wedding gift from my father, the Duke of Ridlington.”
Modesty had been to a wedding breakfast once or twice. She had given the newlyweds a basket with bread and jam. Clearly, she had stepped into a different world.
Uncertain what to say in response to Lady Lorraine, Modesty pulled the packet of letters from her pocket and looked at them. She had not been able to read them earlier that day. She had wanted to. She had even stared at them for a long, long time, willing herself to open the first one.
“Do you require privacy?” Lady Lorraine asked. “I can certainly give you privacy. I can retire to another room or have one readied for you or...what is the matter?” She rose and went to sit beside Modesty. A moment later the dog trotted over as well.
“I am a great coward,” Modesty said, wiping her eyes. She must stop crying and acting as though her father was dead. She must have hope and faith. She must be strong. Modesty couldn’t ever recall her mother crying, and Modesty must show the same resolve in difficult times. God was still with her and though it might feel as though the whole world was against her, she knew that was just her fear speaking.
“You cannot be a coward,” Lady Lorraine said, patting her shoulder. “You spent the morning with my husband and Lord Rowden. That takes a great deal of courage.” She smiled.
“Lord Rowden? Do you mean Mr. Payne?”
“Yes. I forget that he is Mr. Payne now. His father is an idiot.”
Modesty knew she should not gossip, but she still hoped Lady Lorraine would continue. Instead, the lady tugged at a bell pull and when the door opened to admit the housekeeper, she said, “Is Miss Brown’s chamber ready? Show her to it, will you? She requires some time to refresh herself.”
Modesty rose and Lady Lorraine took her arm. “Are the other items in your valise as...black as these?” she asked, indicating Modesty’s dress and hat.
“Yes. We believe sober dress shows humility.”
“It certainly does. If you would like a change of clothing, I might be able to find something suitable. You and I are not of a similar size.” This was true as Lady Lorraine was several inches taller than Modesty and had more womanly curves, though that might have been due, in part, to her condition. Even so, Modesty could never wear the sort of clothing Lady Lorraine wore. It was not even afternoon, and she wore a gown that revealed her collarbone and showed the swells of her breasts. A gauzy fichu did nothing to hide the flesh on display. “Nell might be able to find something. She is my lady’s maid. Send for her, will you?” she directed one of the footmen standing outside.
“Come down when you are ready,” Lady Lorraine said. “I will fortify myself with tea and then begin my correspondence. I have to think who is still in Town,” she said almost to herself as she turned away.
Modesty followed the housekeeper, a Mrs. Keefer, to a chamber on the second floor. It was a small chamber but still grander than any Modesty had ever seen. It was papered in mint green and contained a large bed with an inverted V-shaped draping of silky fabric at the head. There was also another of those chaise longues, this one in cream, and a table with a pitcher of water and a basin.
“The fire hasn’t had time to warm the room much,” Mrs. Keefer said. “But you should be cozy enough in a quarter of an hour.”
“I am perfectly cozy now. Thank you.”
The housekeeper turned to leave then hesitated and turned back again. “I hope you don’t think to take advantage of my lady. She is trusting and kind, and sometimes those qualities cloud her judgment of people.”
Modesty understood the warning clear enough. “I assure you, I have no ill intentions. I am grateful for her generosity.”
“Good. Mr. Mostyn is a gentleman, but he is protective of Lady Lorraine and her unborn babe. I wouldn’t want to anger him.”
Modesty wouldn’t want to anger him either. She nodded and
when the door closed, she removed her hat and went to the wash basin. She washed her face and hands then took a seat on the longue and stared at the letters. She had put it off long enough. Nothing in these letters could change her life more than it had already been changed.
She didn’t mind that some of it had changed. If she never had to stand outside a tavern and yell about sin again, she would be perfectly happy. But she did miss her father, and she missed the routine of their days and listening to his sermons on Sunday. She missed the comfort of being in her own home and knowing what the next day would bring. Now everything was uncertain, and she feared life would never return to what it had once been. More importantly, she worried she might never see her father again.
Modesty opened the first letter and began to read.
And then she understood how very naïve she had been because, after only a few words, she realized her whole life had been a lie.
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. S
he 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.
