Page 12 of A Secret Correspondence
Mother scowled.
He dropped his arm. “I understand what you are saying.” Rising, he took his cat and started toward the door. “I will consider it. If you would like to begin compiling that list, you may.”
“It could onlyhelp,” she said defensively.
Samuel wasn’t sure who she was trying to help, but he knew it wasn’t him.
Chapter Four
Sometimes even the sunlight was not enough to make a house call enjoyable. Marguerite shifted her bag to the other arm and inhaled the fresh air as she walked down the country lane. A breeze moved through the tree branches overhead, dropping dry leaves down along the path like spinning fairies.
The elite Faversham estate was her least favorite to pay a call to. She had always struggled with those who valued their station above all else. Lady Faversham refused to visit Marguerite’s shop, but her patronage was worth the effort of walking clear to her estate.
Marguerite felt it was a fair trade: she brought her bag full of fashion plates and fabric samples, her notebook, pencil, and a good deal of patience, and typically walked away from the appointment with enough funds to keep the shop closed for the rest of the day, should she wish to. And that was only half of what she was owed. The remainder would come once the gowns were completed.
She arrived a quarter-hour before the set appointment time and went directly to the servants’ entrance, using the metal knocker to rap on the door.
“Oh, good. You’re here.” A wiry, thin woman with circular spectacles stood in the threshold. Her black gown was snug, the chatelaine at her waist jingling with her movements.
“Good morning, Mrs. Knutton.” Marguerite wiped her shoes on the mat before stepping inside the kitchen. A flurry of activity forced her to the side quickly. Red-faced maids scurried about while the cook stood at the worktable, chopping onions.
“This way,” Mrs. Knutton said, directing her through the bustle of activity.
“You must be preparing for another event.”
“The Lord and Lady are to have visitors of great import soon. We’re preparing everything for their arrival.” Her eyes flicked to Marguerite. “I believe that is why my lady has sent for you as well, madame. She must have new gowns for her various functions, of course.”
“It is an eccentricity I shall never argue with.”
This earned her a small smile. “I imagine not.” Mrs. Knutton opened the door to the parlor where they typically met for fittings. “If you will wait here?”
“Yes, thank you.” When Marguerite was left alone, she crossed to the small round table painted with hummingbirds and exotic trees and began to lay out fabric samples, opening the books to the fashion plates she had previously marked, ones she believed would suit Lady Faversham’s stature.
Once Marguerite was prepared, she stood in front of the table and looked around the opulent room. Everything was dressed, from the gilded frames to the adorned mantle. Even the high ceilings were frosted with dripping white plaster in an intricate design set against the pale blue wall. It was beautiful, calling to mind a room she remembered from her youth. Marguerite didn’t recall much from her homeland, but occasionally a memory would flash, and she would know instinctively that it was connected to her parents.
The parents she’d had to leave behind in France.
The door opened, sweeping her strange memories away at once. She pasted a pleasant, neutral expression on her face as a footman stood sentinel and Lady Faversham came into the room. If there was a person who believed herself of the greatest import, it was this woman.
Marguerite would not be surprised if the woman forgot to back out of the room should she ever meet the queen.
“Madame Perreau, I am so glad you could come.”
“It is an honor, my lady.” Marguerite curtsied low. “Your note implied you have a number of upcoming events. I have taken the liberty of finding a few gowns that might suit your purposes.”
Lady Faversham held her gaze, her beady eyes unwavering. “These visitors are different. I will need your particular expertise, as a portion of the party hails from France.”
Marguerite’s heart began to thump. She had carefully balanced her heritage with the reality of where she had spent her life, and never before had her knowledge of France been called upon so directly.
“It isveryimportant that I am rigged out in the first stare of fashion. You understand, I’m sure.”
“Of course, my lady. I always do my very best to give you first-rate gowns.”
Lady Faversham leaned closer, her stale breath washing over Marguerite’s face. “These must beevenbetter.”
Goodness. First the Kimballs, and now this. If every one of her patrons wished for her to increase her skill this month, she was going to let some of them down. She was only human, after all.
“When do your visitors come, my lady?” Marguerite asked.
