Page 29 of Pride & Petticoats

The remainder of the night was mostly a blur to Charlotte. She’d blocked out much of it because she did not want to remember the things she’d seen. She’d gone to Adelaide Cooper ’s and helped Cade drag her father home, and then she’d sat up all night and most the rest of the day, nursing his overindulgence in play, women, and drink. And when he’d finally sobered up, she’d held him while he cried and apologized and begged her forgiveness.

She’d little time for apologies. Charlotte had gone to the shipping offices and began to put things in order. By the time Thomas had returned, she’d liquidated all the assets her father hadn’t lost and convinced several of her father’s good friends to loan her money. But no matter how much she and Thomas pleaded, the men her father owed would not accept substitutions for what they’d won. Half of the business—her father’s half—went to Beauford Porcher, one of her father’s competitors in the shipping industry, and her brother retained control of his own fifty-one percent only through sheer force of will. They held on to the house because Cade’s family owned the bank and was willing to overlook a few missed payments on the mortgage, but Charlotte had had to sell almost everything of value to salvage the family share of the shipping business.

In the end it had been sheer desperation and shame that drove her father and brother to attempt to run the British blockade with smuggled goods. If they’d succeeded, the profits might have been enough to restore the family to something of its former standing—monetarily, if not socially— but their failure and death had been a worse blow than any measure of poverty she’d ever had to endure.

After her father’s death, Charlotte had made a last effort to salvage the family business. She’d gone to Porcher and told him she had several investors abroad interested, and if he gave her perhaps six months, she’d have the funds to buy back what her father had lost.

Porcher was no fool, and he said immediately, “You thinking of Cade Pettigru. Is that it?”

Taken off-guard, she’d nodded.

Porcher had sat back, lit one of his long, sweet cigars, and said, “Do you know where he is? Do you even know if he has any money?”

“You leave that to me, Mr. Porcher,” Charlotte had said. “All I want from you is your word that if I return with the money, you’ll sell my father’s share of the business for what it’s worth.”

He was silent for a long moment—long enough for Charlotte to hear the creek of the cedar boards in the grand house and the call of a pine warbler, and smell the light fragrance of a magnolia tree—then he said, “I’ve always liked you, Miss Burton. You take after your mother, and she was a fine lady, even if she lacked taste in her choice of partner. Further, Eliza Lou has always been partial to you.”

He gestured at the French doors with his cigar, and Charlotte glanced out to see his daughter walking the grounds with a cluster of her friends, their parasols brushing against the profusion of roses twined among the wrought-iron gates.

Porcher smiled and added, “I myself have always been partial to you as well. You have spunk, Miss Burton. And that’s a quality we need if this country is going to stand on its own two feet. The British haven’t beaten us yet, and if the next generation has as much spunk as you, the damned redcoats never will.”

Charlotte had smiled and gone away with assurances that, were she to return with ample funds, Beauford Porcher would sell her the Burton business back. She had no such assurances that Cade would be able to help; regardless, she and Addy had packed their meager belongings and set off for England.

Charlotte blinked and registered the gray, foggy view from Dewhurst’s window. And now she was here: the London town house of a British aristocrat. One thousand dollars. Was it enough to endure the next few hours with Dewhurst’s family and friends? Enough to endure Dewhurst himself for God knew how long?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap on her bedroom door, which promptly swung open, admitting Lady Dewhurst, Lydia, and a petite, fine-boned woman with dark hair and exotic eyes.

“Here she is!” Dewhurst’s mother said when Charlotte turned from the window.

“Mon dieu!” the dark-haired woman exclaimed. She paused to look Charlotte up and down. “C’est terrible. You said is to be much work, but this . . .” She gestured feebly at Charlotte.

Charlotte’s first impulse was to tell the Frenchwoman where she could put her opinions, but she held her tongue, and was surprised to see Lydia Dewhurst step forward.

“Well, Madam Vivienne,” Lydia said, appearing to admire her tan kid leather gloves, “we called on you because everyone who is anyone says you outfit all the incomparables. But if this is too much for you, we can call on Madam Bichon. I am certain she can work wonders.”

The Frenchwoman’s eyes grew small and slitted, and Charlotte decided that Madam Bichon and Madam Vivienne were perhaps not the best of friends. Not only that, but Lydia Dewhurst was not as insipid as she might first appear.

“Attente.” Madam Vivienne raised a hand. “I have not said I cannot outfit the pretty mademoiselle. She has—ce qui est le mot—many attributes. Not the hair. Not the skin. But the figure c’est tre´s bon. You wait. I will make her into un diamant.” Then she added more quietly, “I do much better than la chienne—Madam Bichon.”

Charlotte wasn’t certain whether she should be pleased or insulted—pleased that Madam Vivienne could make her into a diamond but insulted that the woman thought the task so difficult. Charlotte’s French was elementary, so she could not follow a great part of the discussion that ensued as the three women conversed in a jumble of French and English. It appeared, however, that they were discussing what colors, fabrics, and styles would suit her. Charlotte’s attention went from Lady Dewhurst to Lydia to Madam Vivienne and back again while the women debated, conjectured, and suggested. Apparently, Charlotte’s own opinion was not needed.

A few moments later, she was hustled onto a padded, satin footstool that seemed to have appeared with Madam Vivienne. There she was stripped to her plain petticoat, turned this way and that, measured, prodded, and poked with fingers and elbows and pins. Madam Vivienne was a virtual whirlwind, everywhere at once and with hands to spare. She always had a measuring tape, pins, a bolt of material, and a sketchbook and pencil at the ready.

When Charlotte’s legs began to tire and the muscles of her arm ached from holding them extended, she ventured to inquire—very politely, she thought—whether they might soon be finished. She was quickly set to rights on that account.

“Charlotte!” Lydia exclaimed. “We’ve only just begun. We’ve measured you for opera dresses, theater dresses, and evening dresses—”

“Non, non!” Madam Vivienne said. “Keep the hands out. Comme ceci.” She extended her arms again, and Charlotte sighed.

“But why do I need theater dresses and opera dresses?” Charlotte said. “Won’t the same dress work for both?”

All three women stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending.

“Well?” Charlotte demanded.

“Actually,” Lady Dewhurst said, “We were to cover dinner dresses next.”

Madam Vivienne jabbed Charlotte with another pin, and Charlotte sighed in resignation. An hour later, she’d been fitted for not only the dinner and opera dresses, but morning dresses and carriage dresses, walking dresses and riding dresses, promenade dresses and garden dresses. Her eyes were glazed over with talk of muslins and silks, when she looked up and spotted Dewhurst lounging, shoulder jammed against the far wall of her room.

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