“An apprentice, Miss Fitzwilliam?” he asked, desiring to hear her speak. Even just a single word. “That is rather unorthodox, is it not?”
She looked up shyly.
“I believe my aunt is teasing, Mr. Timmins. However, it is true that I am to assist her here, in this shop. It is my pleasure to do so.”
“These are very fine fabrics,” he commended, moving over to touch the amethyst silk that she was painstakingly folding. “Do you care much for hats, Miss Fitzwilliam?”
“I admire the craftsmanship very much,” she replied. “My aunt is an expert in her artistry.”
He smiled, pleased by the cadence of her voice.
“I hope that I may be half as good as this.”
He turned to look at Agnes, who was watching them closely.
A frown corrugated her forehead, prompting Percy to take a step backwards. He had moved much too close to Miss Fitzwilliam, that much was certain.
“Might I glance at your designs, Mr. Timmins?” Mrs. Hepworth asked firmly.
“Certainly, Mrs. Hepworth.”
He crossed to the counter and laid his folder on the varnished surface, taking out his four least-favourite designs. He wished to keep the best for another time, when he had improved his reputation and enlisted the services of this former messenger. Even so, Mrs. Hepworth looked over them with admiring eyes, her fingertips tracing the edges of the intricate drawings. A moment later, Miss Fitzwilliam appeared at his side, peering at the designs for herself. With her standing so near, he did not quite know what to do with himself. Feeling his throat constrict awkwardly, he simply allowed himself to look upon her profile, admiring it in the same way that Mrs. Hepworth was admiring the designs.
“These are exceptionally beautiful,” Miss Fitzwilliam said, touching a sketch of a jewelled brooch. “Would this be in coloured glass or real jewels?”
“Coloured glass, I should imagine, though the effect would be similar,” he replied.
“My niece has an excellent eye,” Mrs. Hepworth interjected. “Might I purchase this design from you, Mr. Timmins? I believe my clientele would admire it greatly. I would, of course, give them your name, and put aside a small commission for your troubles. And, if it sells well, I should certainly like to consider purchasing more.”
Percy stared at her in happy disbelief.
“You would, Mrs. Hepworth?”
“Of course. These designs are exceptional,” she assured. “If you leave your direction with me, I will see to it that you are suitably recompensed.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hepworth.”
He turned over the design and grasped a quill from the nearby inkwell. Carefully, he noted his address on the back of the page and gave further thanks to Mrs. Hepworth for being so generous.
“If you linger here awhile, I will bring through a contract,” Mrs. Hepworth said, turning her attention to Miss Fitzwilliam. “Whilst I am arranging the contract with Mr. Timmins, Letitia, could you be a dear and go into the store-room? I require an inventory of all of our velvets.”
“Where may I find this inventory?” Miss Fitzwilliam asked.
Mrs. Hepworth chuckled softly.
“No, my dear, I require you to create an inventory for our velvets. It is an important part of the job, and I must know what we have in our stocks if I am to produce this design.”
“You wish me to do it?”
She nodded.
“Yes, my dear. Now, if it is not too much trouble.”
Her light blue eyes held a steely glint, as they assessed her niece. Percy had a feeling that his presence was responsible for this sudden dismissal of Miss Fitzwilliam. After all, he had been staring somewhat.
As Miss Fitzwilliam bowed her head and attended to her duties, disappearing into the back of the shop, never to be seen again, he felt a flicker of disappointment.
He should have liked to have spoken to the young lady a while longer, but it seemed that such a delight was not meant to be. Indeed, as soon as the contract was settled, and the addresses had been exchanged, he was soundly kicked out of the millinery with a cursory, “good day to you, Mr. Timmins.”
As he walked away from the shop, cheered by the success of his design sale, his mind drifted towards the beautiful young woman folding amethyst silk.
The deep, rich purple had been a striking contrast to the sapphire of her eyes, and the peaches and cream complexion of her skin.
Indeed, no matter how he tried, he simply could not shake her image from his mind.
Sitting on a park bench for a moment, filled with a sudden impulse, he took out a length of charcoal and began to sketch her likeness on one of the blank pages of his design book.
Even if he never saw that young woman again, he was determined not to forget the image of her.
It had inspired such colour and creativity in his brain, bringing forth a flurry of new ideas.
My first muse, he thought, with a smile.
A necessary attribute for any designer.
And, with him returning to Upper Nettlefold at the end of the week, he knew the timing could not have been better.
For there, deep in the heart of the rural countryside, the memory of Miss Letitia Fitzwilliam and those intense eyes of hers would keep his ideas from drying up.
Chapter Three
Letitia had hoped to practice her newfound customer-facing skills on the young man who had entered her aunt’s shop, but he had vanished long before she had finished with the velvet inventory. She did not know why she had smiled at him in such a friendly manner, given her current melancholy towards gentlemen in general, but he had appeared with such effervescent earnestness that it had been almost infectious. With is tall, broad-shouldered stature, elegant neck, unruly, dark curls and grey eyes, there had been a hint of Gothic intrigue about him, though she put that down to reading one-too-many Mysteries of Udolpho.
Every dark-haired man seemed fascinating and enigmatic. Yes, and we must not forget that is why you are here in the first place, she chided herself. The charms of a similarly dark-haired young gentleman had been the very shackles by which she had chained herself to her present unhappiness. Indeed, she would not have been in the shop, working away, had it not been for a man named Phillip Gillingham. He had fooled her with promises of love and brought nothing but shame to her door.
“Are you finished with the velvets, Letitia?” her aunt asked, as Letitia stepped back out into the shopfront.
“I am, Aunt.” She handed over the pages, which had been diligently marked.
“Excellent work. Now, if you would—” The shop bell jangled, cutting Agnes off.
A young lady and her mother entered, already cooing over the beautiful hats and bonnets in the window. Agnes flashed Letitia a conspiratorial glance.
“Perhaps, you may develop your sales skill with these fine ladies, Letitia? See if you can make some suitable suggestions for their needs.”
She pushed Letitia gently towards the two women, leaving Letitia with no choice but to oblige. Smoothing down the front of her pale pink cotton dress, she walked over to the customers with a bright smile upon her face. They smiled back, already eager to make a purchase.
“They are like exotic birds, are they not, resting so elegantly upon their perches?” Letitia said, gesturing to the exquisite pieces in the window. “Mind you, this teal bonnet with the turquoise ribbon would look even more remarkable, resting upon locks as dark as yours, Miss. The contrast would be rather arresting, if you would allow me to say so.”
The dark-haired young lady blushed with delight, a broad smile crossing her face. “Do you think so?”
“Well, why not try it and see? This is merely for show — yours will be to your exact dimensions and measurements, and will fit like a dream,” Letitia replied, taking the teal bonnet from its perch, and helping set it atop the young lady’s head.
In truth, it did look remarkable, for all the right reasons. Even the girl’s mother looked astounded, seeing such a handsome accessory at
op her daughter’s head. It suited her perfectly.
“Mama, may I have it? Oh, please say that I may!” the young lady cried. “This would look so lovely with that turquoise gown of mine.”
The mother smiled. “If you like it that much, then you may have it.”
Letitia remained with the young lady, whilst her mother crossed to the counter to speak with Agnes. Together, they looked at several more hats, and took a glance at some of the designs on offer. Naturally, the mother’s eye was caught by the new design that Mr. Timmins had brought in, after Letitia had suggested it would match her complexion. They had settled on it, with the mother asking for it to be made in a ruby-red satin to match an evening gown she wished to wear to the Duke of Norfolk’s birthday celebrations. And, by the end of an hour, the two women had departed with orders for two hats and four bonnets.
“You are a natural, Letitia,” her aunt commended.
“It is not too difficult to match colours to complexions,” she replied, with a note of satisfaction. She had not intended to throw herself into employment with open willingness, but the fabrics and the designs had motivated her without her even realising it. All she had to do was look at a person to know which styles and colours would suit, all of it borne from her own personal knowledge of fashion. In St. Alban’s, she had always been considered sartorially gifted, though she had not expected London to share her taste.
It was a pleasant surprise to discover that they did.
~~~~~
Her sartorial success continued throughout the entirety of the next fortnight, with her reluctance giving way to a tentative excitement. Every morning, she arose in her plain chambers with a somewhat cheered heart, knowing that she would get to spend the day amongst beautiful accessories, matching them with the equally beautiful elite of London’s high-society. It was all the colour she could look forward to, in the drab apartments she now called home. Her desire to spend time amongst the social elite was not quite selfless, however.
The ladies who entered the shop seemed to appreciate her opinion and her firm resolve in steering them away from unflattering colours and styles. Her candidness amused them, and her respectfulness appeared to have won their approval. She could not hope to match them, as she was without title, and had abandoned St. Alban’s in a degree of disgrace — though it had been kept secret between only those involved — but that small sliver of acceptance gave her some optimism for her future.
After all, she had been dearly accepted in St. Alban’s, beyond the need for titles and whatnot. Not too long ago, she had almost been destined for a peerage by marriage… though it had not worked out as she had hoped it might. Still, that had strengthened her resolve.
If she could mingle with the elite there, then she could do it here, too.
“You are to attend the Earl of Gloucester’s Ball in Covent Garden?” Letitia said excitedly, clasping her hands together. “Well, how very exciting. Oh, how I wish I could be fortunate enough to attend such an event. How glittering and glorious it must be.”
She was discussing a fur-trimmed winter bonnet with Lady Amelia Eglantine, who had come in with her mother, the Countess of Dartmoor. In truth, she hoped that, by conversing freely with the young lady, her social enthusiasm might transform itself into an invitation. She had already attempted the endeavour with several other high-society ladies, to no avail, but she was not easily deterred. She was nothing if not persistent.
“Oh, it is truly magical, Miss Fitzwilliam,” Lady Amelia enthused. “You would think yourself in heaven, if you were ever to attend.”
Letitia feigned humility. “I could never hope for such a thing, My Lady, though I have often dreamed of what it might be like. Although, you know, a friend of mine used to have gatherings over the festive period — Lady Meredith Holborn of Hove — and I used to think that I had stepped into a completely different world. Her parties were unlike anything I had ever seen.”
Lady Amelia frowned.
“I do not know of Lady Meredith Holborn. Mama, do you know of her?”
The Countess shook her head. “She must not socialise much with the ton, for I have never heard her mentioned in polite society.” Letitia’s cheeks burned furiously.
Lady Meredith was an old friend whom she had not spoken to in years, but she had been her one stepping-stone into an invitation, and the attempt had failed. Now, she was more embarrassed than ever, with no invitation to soften the blow. Nobody knew of her small world beyond London, and nobody cared to know. Moreover, they did not wish to bring her into their circle of society. To them, she was a mere milliner’s assistant who could choose a perfect hat and knew what fabrics would go best, but she was not fit for the same social reaches that they graced.
They trusted her with their accessories, but not with their society. It incensed and infuriated her in equal measure. How could London be so different to St. Alban’s? How could she be accepted there, but not here? How had she been reduced to nothing more than a young lady with a fine eye for detail, who was to be spoken to in the shop but avoided on the street? She could not comprehend it. More and more, with the passing days, that initial excitement turned to exasperation, and her festive cheer turned sour before it had even had a chance at sweetness.
Chapter Four
Percy sat behind the counter at Timmins’ Fabrics and Bonnets, watching his grandfather sleep in the corner chair. They had not had a customer since before noon, and his grandfather had been asleep since three o’clock. It was now nearing six, and Percy longed to shut up for the evening. However, he did not have it in his heart to rouse his elderly grandfather, who seemed so comfortable by the fire. With the winter chill creeping in more and more, it was a rarity to find a spot where his grandfather could be warm.
He had been back in his home town of Upper Nettlefold for a fortnight, with a list of orders to complete by the following week. After his visit to Hepworth’s Millinery, he had enlisted the services of the former express rider and forged a contract between them. The man, who responded only to “Ginger” was due to arrive on the twelfth of December to collect the items, before delivering them upon his return to London. It was a risky venture, but Percy hoped that it would pay off.
“We must build our future, Grandfather,” he murmured to the sleeping old man, his mind drifting back to thoughts of Miss Letitia Fitzwilliam.
He had thought of her a great deal since leaving London and had called upon many of the ideas that her image had brought forth. Many of his designs had focussed on shades of sapphire blue, and pastel hues, reminiscent of the dress she had been wearing that day, and the colour of her eyes.
He turned to the back of his design folder and looked at the sketch, which had already faded somewhat since he had first drawn it, the charcoal smudged in places. Still, he could envisage her face if he closed his eyes a little. In truth, he did not know why he could not forget the young woman, for he had seen many beautiful young ladies in London, and they had not enraptured him in the same way.
He did not know if it was the haunted expression in those eyes of hers, or the enigmatic half-smile that had been upon her lips, or the soft cadence of her sweet voice. Whatever it was, he could not forget her. Indeed, several times, he had contemplated riding all the way back to London, just to visit Hepworth’s and speak with her once more.
“What could you possibly hope to achieve?” he asked himself, closing the design book upon Miss Fitzwilliam’s smudged face.
For now, she would have to remain a muse — an untouchable vision of a woman, so remarkable that to meet her again would ruin the illusion.
At least, that is what he was forced to convince himself of, as he walked over to his grandfather and roused him gently.
His family needed him here in Upper Nettlefold. After all, his dear grandfather had already resolved to give him the business, making these new orders all the more important.
They would see the future of Timmins Fabrics and Bonnets flourish or fail, and he prayed that all of this har
d work would be worth it in the end. Departing on a fool’s errand to London would do nobody any good, especially as he did not know what he might do if he ever returned to see her. Stand awkwardly and make trite conversation? No, that would not do. It was better left alone.
And besides, he had been away from home for much too long already in the last year. A muse like Miss Fitzwilliam was best left in fantasy, where there could be no heartache or disappointment, only inspiration and unending flow of beautiful ideas.
After all, the Miss Fitzwilliam was already one of his bestsellers, topping the orders list by a mile. A bonnet of sapphire blue with an azure ribbon, and a fan of clipped peacock feathers spreading out from a glinting brooch of green and blue glass.
Every time he looked at a finished bonnet, and placed it in a box to be sent, he thought of her. And that was good enough.
Chapter Five
As the first snowflakes began to fall upon the city of London, settling over every vile and glorious thing alike, Letitia found herself staring out of the window of her bedchamber. She had feigned sickness that morning, complaining of an ailment of the stomach.
After several attempts to disprove her ill health, her aunt had given in and gone to the shop without her, leaving Letitia to languish in her bed in a state of abject gloom. In truth, she had not been able to face another day in the shop, hearing of all the wondrous events that the social elite were invited to.
That might have been her life, not so long ago, but her actions had ensured that she was forced out of that dream when the truth had been discovered.
I fell in love with the wrong brother, when I might have found true happiness with Edward. Phillip fooled me, and he tricked me, with no intention of ever making good on his empty promises. But how could I blame Edward for what he did? He kept my secret, did he not? He might have ruined me, but he did not.
Miss Fitzwilliam's Christmas Redemption Page 2
