by P. N. Elrod
And yet women talked the same the world over. The middle sister-wife had been keeping careful track of the various fashions that had been displayed.
"I want the evening dress in crimson. I believe it was the sixth dress," she said. Miss Carr went down her list to verify that it was so. "I shall also have the walking costume in midnight blue with white fur, the ninth selection. I shall look very elegant in it, should I not? The morning costume, number two in black and cream striped silk, is very handsome. I think highly of the fourth gown, the tea dress, although the dusty pink will not suit me. Does it come in other shades?"
"Of course, Countess. I have squares of the colors available for you to examine," Miss Carr said, adding up the value of each costume in her notepad and coming up with a most attractive sum, and the other two had not chosen yet!
Disconcertingly, the countesses appeared to divine her thoughts.
"You must not think we are extravagant, my dear Miss Carr," said the eldest, raising an eyebrow dark as a raven's feather on her pale forehead. "It is only our due from our lord and master. For the trouble he has caused us, he owes us much, to the very last coin in his treasury! Plucking us up from our native soil, and making us endure this arduous and dull journey into a foreign land… you must forgive me," she said, charmingly apologetic. "I mean no disrespect to your homeland, and you have been the most welcoming of hostesses."
"Not at all," Miss Carr murmured, embarrassed to overhear such private arguments between husband and wives. "It is difficult to travel such distances, although the summer is the best time in which to do it. How was your journey to England?"
"Abominable," said the middle one. "On the terrible little boat upon which we embarked from our beloved Rumania we sailed through a horrendous storm. All of our trunks were washed overboard. We barely came ashore with the vitals for existence still in our grasp."
"Your lives?" Miss Carr asked, gasping with excitement. There was an indefinable pause before the eldest broke the silence that had fallen.
"So to speak. And Magda retained our jewel box," she said, with an approving nod to the second-eldest wife. "She is always one to hold on to opportunity. Luckily our bankers had already received our letter of credit. If our lord had only followed our advice we might have saved the vessel—but he never does listen."
"We smelled the storm, but he enjoys such things," said Countess Magda. "Never mind that we have lost our whole wardrobes and everything we held dear."
He wrecked the ship on purpose? Miss Carr wanted to ask, but didn't dare.
"But, he will pay," said the eldest avidly, licking her red, red lips. "He will pay dearly. This is only the beginning of the price."
"Oh," Miss Carr said, uncomfortably, wishing to change the subject away from such personal issues. "Well. Did you land at Southampton?"
"No," said the youngest, sulkily. "Whitby."
"My goodness," said Miss Carr, with great excitement, "then you must have heard of the shipwreck there! It was in all the newspapers. A ship called the Demeter ran aground, steered by a dead man's hand."
Miss Carr thought the event sounded like a romantic and strange play that sent a frisson up her back when she'd heard. It was not gossip, but news, so it was a fair subject to broach, by Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs's rules. But it failed to intrigue her guests.
"How very… interesting," said the eldest countess, after another pause. "No. We had not heard of such a shipwreck."
The last mannequin curtsied lightly as she did her final turn, and slipped from the room.
"Well, Countesses," Miss Carr said, nervously. This was the moment when they would either make an order or find an excuse to leave. "Have we shown you anything that would suit you?"
"Oh, yes," the eldest countess said, with a lift of her dark brows. "We have seen many things that we wish to have. As you may guess, price is no object."
"Then, if you permit," Miss Carr said, "allow us to take measurements at this time, so that when you give your order, we may start at once tomorrow upon your choices."
The senior countess looked at the other two. "Yes, this would be acceptable to us."
With the assistance of three of the seamstresses, Miss Carr helped the countesses out of their gowns. Their velvet dresses, oddly heavy for the climate and the season, had a musty air about them, as though they had been hanging in a closet or folded into a chest for a very long time. Their undergarments were also curious, being extremely old-fashioned, albeit of the best fabrics and lace. One of the seamstresses prepared to wrap a tape measure around the bosom of the Countess Magda, when she jumped back in surprise.
"Oh!" she cried. Miss Carr hurried over to see what was the matter.
Spinning down along its own thread from a web just under the lady's décolletage was a large black spider, very much alive. Miss Carr looked at the countess in puzzlement. The creature was so large she could not possibly have missed knowing it was there. Perhaps she had no fear of them. Perhaps she liked them. Perhaps having a spider about one's person was a foreign custom, like the English tradition of letting a money spider walk across one's palm.
"Oh," the countess said, glancing down at the object of their curiosity. She seized a feather from the display in the vase on the side table, and whisked it to the floor. The spider promptly ran underneath a chair. Miss Carr made a mental note to send one of the page boys in to hunt it down and kill it as soon as the visitors were gone. When the ladies' measurements were complete, the seamstresses offered them dressing gowns and assisted them to sit down.
"And now we will show the line again," Miss Carr said. "You may stop any of the mannequins if you wish to try on her costume. Please let me know which you wish to order, or to add to the list for later consideration."
In the end the Countesses Dracula amassed an enormous order. Hardly a mannequin came and went without one of the three insisting that she must have the costume, with all the appropriate accessories and underthings.
"And when may we expect to have the first fitting?" the eldest countess asked, as the eighth model put in her appearance. Miss Carr glanced up from her notebook.
"I believe that Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs will say that it can be a week hence, er, also at night if you require."
"We do. You can do all this in a week?"
"Indeed, yes, madam," Miss Carr said with pride. "We have the best staffed and most efficient workrooms in London. I trust you will be satisfied not only with our workmanship, but with our promptness."
"That is most satisfactory. Ah! Here she is again."
Miss Stimson had returned for her second appearance in the perfect, pearl-white satin dress.
"Enchanting," said the youngest countess, her blue eyes wide. "We must have one of those."
"Two," said Countess Magda.
"Would you care to try it on?" Miss Carr offered politely, jotting the style number into each of the two younger ladies' measurement charts.
"Perhaps not now," said the eldest wife. "There is so much else to see."
"But, she must stay," the youngest wife insisted. Miss Stimson received her silent instructions from Miss Carr, and took up a languid-seeming stance against the wall near the vase of feathers, with one arm resting lightly on the table top. It was actually a restful posture, designed to ease the back when one of the mannequins must remain standing for a long time. Another girl swirled into the room in a walking costume of leaf green with sage trim. The countesses chattered to one another with delight, though their eyes kept returning to Miss Stimson.
Miss Carr was quite dizzy with delight by the time she finished writing up the order. Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs would have to put the workrooms on full alert, but it would be worthwhile. This order would be the talk of the industry. The last model was displayed and retired. The eldest countess clapped her hands.
"Brava," she said. "This is all very good. And now, we are feeling rather famished. Perhaps you may furnish us with that little refreshment?"
Their red mouths looked almost predatory, their
white teeth sharp as an animal's. At once Miss Carr was horrified at herself for even thinking of such a comparison. "Of course!" she said. "Forgive me for not offering again." She nodded to one of the seamstresses, who left the room and sent in the page boy. Miss Carr gave the order for tea, sandwiches, and cakes. She risked a discreet look at her watch. The hour was long after midnight. She hoped the day's bread would still answer. Knowing that they would have night visitors who might require sustenance, they had wrapped a fresh loaf as well as they could.
The final group of mannequins began to withdraw. Miss Stimson, seeing release at hand, crossed the room to join her companions.
"Oh, no, don't go," the youngest countess said, catching Miss Stimson by the arm. "You must join us for our meal."
She drew the girl beside her and held her quite close. Miss Stimson looked unhappy, but she was afraid to refuse. She knew what it meant to them all if she should displease the customers.
She smiled tremulously, looking to Miss Carr for rescue. Miss Carr was uncertain what to do, and wished the owner was there. She knew no respectable Englishwoman would touch another person so familiarly, but these were foreigners. She fancied that she saw their mouths open as if they would eat the girl right there.
What to do? The gown was lovely, and the girl did look lovely in it. Perhaps the countesses just wanted to have it there under their eyes while they discussed the final details of their order. Since the financial arrangements had not yet been concluded, Miss Carr was as paralyzed as Miss Stimson. She watched in horrified fascination as the youngest countess reeled in the girl like a fish until they were virtually eye-to-eye. Suddenly, the blond woman let out a horrified cry and threw the girl away from her. The girl landed in a heap of white silk on the floor. The countess pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the mannequin's neck.
"What is that?" she cried.
Miss Carr went to help Miss Stimson up and investigate the problem. About the girl's neck was a tiny chain. Miss Carr hadn't thought a thing about it except that it accessorized the neckline of her gown and drew attention tastefully to the bare shoulders. Hanging from the fine chain was a minute gold cross, a small personal item that belonged to Miss Stimson herself. The mannequins were permitted to wear such jewelry as long as they were handsome and in good taste. The tiny cross was real gold, classic in shape and irreproachably modest. Miss Carr hadn't thought that the countesses might not be Christians and would find the symbol offensive. They didn't look Jewish. Perhaps there was another faith they followed in the Balkans that went along with polygamy.
"I am so sorry," Miss Carr said, lamely, searching for words to repair the damage.
"I can see that we are not welcome here," the blonde said, rising to her feet with flashing eyes.
"Don't be silly," Countess Magda exclaimed, tugging on her sister-wife's sleeve. "Clothes, sister! This will be our only opportunity. He never shows remorse. You know that. We must take advantage of this indulgence as we can."
"Ladies, please," Miss Carr appealed to them, seeing hundreds of pounds fly out the window on night-borne wings. "If the bauble offends you, I shall remove it."
"Please do," said the eldest countess, swiftly. "That will suffice." There was a muffled outburst from her co-wife, but it was quickly quelled by a fierce glance.
"I am so sorry, Miss Carr," Miss Stimson whispered, her fair cheeks crimson. "I thought it would be all right. Please don't sack me."
"It is not your fault," Miss Carr said, unfastening the tiny clasp and gathering the chain in her palm. "I will put this in the dressing room on the table. In future let us choose a different jewel for you to wear."
The girl's gratitude shone in her eyes. "Thank you, madam." She gave an uneasy glance over Miss Carr's shoulder at the visitors. "I… I do wish you would not leave me alone with them."
"Nonsense," Miss Carr said briskly. "They will do you no harm. They merely wish to look more closely at the dress. Allow them to examine it as they wish."
"Yes, madam," the girl whispered.
"Refreshments, Countesses!" Miss Carr announced, as the page boy entered, pushing the laden tea cart. She was grateful for the distraction. It also gave the mannequin time to recover herself and resume her station near the wall. The visitors waited as the page poured tea and offered sandwiches all around.
"That is very nice," the eldest countess said, accepting a cup with a slice of lemon floating on the amber tea in one of Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs's heirloom cups. "Very nice. All is most satisfactory."
"Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will go and prepare the papers for your approval," Miss Carr said.
"Yes, yes," said the Countess Magda. "Everyone go away. We wish to talk among ourselves. Not you, my dear," she said, taking the girl's hand as Miss Stimson attempted to follow. "We wish you to stay with us."
The last thing Miss Carr saw as she closed the door on the salon was the girl's frightened eyes.
The invoice took little time to prepare. Miss Carr had but to transfer to it the name and price of the gowns ordered, note the name of the buyers and their impressive-sounding address. Carfax Abbey, Sussex. The owner would be pleased with everything from this night's work.
She returned to the salon in time to see the mannequin staggering back to lean against the wall, pale as a ghost, with a few drops of blood on her neck. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, and the silk ball gown was on hooks against the wall. No doubt one of the countesses had wanted to try it on, but the blood was a puzzle. Perhaps Miss Stimson had been injured by the pins holding the incomplete stays together, which had to come off over the head. Miss Carr checked the gown for spots. The girl seemed to have had the presence of mind not to bleed on the dress. Miss Stimson stood looking at her employer with the dazed expression of a sheep.
"Are you all right?" Miss Carr asked.
"Yes, madam," the girl said, rather stupidly. She blinked at the lamp, her pupils shrunk to pinpoint size. Miss Carr saw how pallid she was, red rings around her eyes very much in relief to the parchment color of her skin, and put it off to the lateness of the hour. No wonder she had scratched her neck. "It's a trifle bright in here, madam."
"Perhaps," Miss Carr said. "You have done well, Miss Stimson. I will tell Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs so. You may retire and take tomorrow off. But I expect to see you here bright and early Thursday morning."
"Yes, madam." The girl tripped clumsily out of the room. Miss Carr was tired too, but she didn't dare to give in to the sensation. Thankfully, the visitors read over the invoice with little interest. The eldest countess signed her name at the bottom beside the sum total, a colossal number that made Miss Carr want to dance, if only she wasn't so tired.
"Our bankers are Coutts & Co. The count has a substantial letter of credit with them. This should take a substantial bite out of it." As if it was part of an old joke, the senior countess showed her teeth, and the other two laughed. "We thank you very much for your hospitality, Miss Carr, but we must now be going."
Miss Carr dropped her half-bow, half-curtsy gratefully. It was after one in the morning. She'd be lucky if her bespoke cab would still be outside.
"Very well, Countesses. May I say, on behalf of the House of Feldon, that it has been a great pleasure to serve you? Is there anything else at all with which I may assist you?"
"No, thank you," said the youngest, rising from her grand chair and licking her lips. Miss Carr noticed again how very, very red they were. Was that a drop of rouge on her chin? "We have got everything that we came for."
Long-Term Investment
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
The coffins bothered him, no doubt about it. Ever since the foreign gentleman had hired him to supervise his warehouse, the coffins had bothered him—that, and working late, although he was not completely alone at any hour, for even at night the London docks bustled; ships tugged restlessly at their moorings out in the Thames and those secured to the vast wooden piers strained at the lines holding them. Lamps gave off a fuzzy glow, tingein
g the docks with gold and lighting the busy efforts of all who labored here. Activity was everywhere: longshoremen worked steadily, loading or removing cargo from the waiting holds; sailors from a hundred foreign ports polished brightwork, swabbed decks, inspected rigging, bucked cargo, hauled lines, all as if it were midday. Many of the office windows in the warehouses were lit, testimony to the industry of the owners of the vessels as well as the men they hired. The brackish smell of bilgewater and the odor of tar hung on the air, stronger than the clean scent off the distant sea, although there was a tang of salt in the fog.
Edward Hitchin sat in the dusty office above the warehouse floor and tried to keep himself busy. The foreign gentleman— calling himself Carfax—was paying him well: ten shillings for a day's work, and twelve when he had to remain past nine at night, handsome wages for a young man from Stepney who was little more than a watchman. He was determined to keep the job as long as possible, for he liked the jingle of coins in his pocket and the respectful nod from the patrolling constables.
A ship was due in from Varna, and Mister Carfax had told Edward to expect another load of coffins. "Not that we haven't a fair supply on hand already," he had added before leaving Edward alone. "Still, it is good business, is it not, to have an ample supply. Coffins are a long-term investment, are they not?" He had chuckled, which Edward found disquieting, but there were so many things about Mister Carfax that gave him pause that this chuckle seemed a minor intrusion.
"Too true," Edward said to himself as he looked out the window and down onto the warehouse floor where several dozen elaborately carved coffins were stacked. He had been thinking about Carfax's remark all evening—that coffins were a long-term investment; he had decided that in its way, the observation was witty. Coffins always got used, eventually. Another load of them and the warehouse would be more than half-filled, and that load would arrive in a matter of hours.
