Page 18 of A Secret Correspondence
“If my mother wants grandchildren, yes.”
“I see.”
He shrugged. “I am not opposed to marriage. Merely the idea that I will marry the first wealthy woman to approve of me.”
Marguerite did not miss the emphasis he placed on finances or the bitter edge to his words. She wished he had told her all this through a letter, that she might be able to respond openly with her honest opinions. Holding her tongue was veritably painful.
“Enough about me.” He shot her a self-deprecating smile. “I do not wish to bore you, madame. Tell me, how many women have desired elaborate gowns to impress the Faversham guests?”
“A good portion of the town.”
“I thought as much.” He sighed as a breeze rustled between them. “Peacocks, the lot of them.”
The buildings of Harewood came into view, promising a near end to their walk and conversation. She was both relieved and disappointed, for she found she could speak to him at length.
“That is rich, coming from one who dresses as you do, Mr. Harding.”
He stopped in the road, and Marguerite feared she had gone too far. His smile put her concern to rest. “Bravo, Madame Perreau. Bravo.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was threatening to widen. “You care about clothes. It is not a fault. But do not look down on others for doing the same.”
“I have been justly chastised. Thank you for putting me rightly in my place again. It was needed.” He lifted a finger asthough he wished to make a point. “Though, if I may defend myself, I dress very much for my own pleasure and not for others’. There is a distinction.”
“We can agree on that score.” Marguerite often designed gowns for women who had the sole purpose of attracting the attention of various gentlemen. They did not choose colors to please themselves, but to stand out in a ballroom. The advice she had given to the Kimball ladies a few weeks ago had been some of her best in recent months, and she hoped it helped Miss Kimball make a lasting impression on the right sort of man.
They reached the front of the shop. Mr. Harding lifted his hat and bowed to her. “Thank you for humoring me. I enjoyed our walk, madame.”
“As did I. Good day, Mr. Harding.”
“Good day.” He bowed, leading Valentine to the mounting block at the end of the buildings and climbing into the saddle.
If nothing else, that walk had proven how safe Marguerite was from discovery. Mr. Harding hadn’t the least idea she was his secret correspondent. She was used to blending into the back of rooms, unobtrusively going about her business as the more important set conducted theirs.
Samuel’s discussion with Lady Faversham had been a good example of what she had often endured in her life. They had not even noticed when Marguerite left the room.
Marguerite removed her key and unlocked her door. Something fell to the floor as she pushed it open, and she reached down, lifting the folded sheet of paper. Had it been wedged in the doorjamb? She had not noticed it.
Closing the door to the sound of the bell overhead, she turned the paper over, but there was no direction on the front. Odd. Most of her patrons were happy to visit her shop. Occasionally she made visits to various houses, but usually becausethe women had difficulties with mobility or made it financially worth her time, as Lady Faversham did.
Marguerite set her bag on her work counter and carried the letter into her back room. She pushed open the door to the stairwell and climbed up to her single bedchamber. The drapes on the window were closed, so she nudged them aside to draw them open. Light flooded her private space, and she could not remove her gaze from the small writing table set in front of the window.
She peered through the thick panes onto the street below, but Mr. Harding could no longer be seen.
Sitting at the writing table, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper to start a new letter to Mr. Harding. Knowing he didn’t suspect her gave her confidence to write at least once more. She could not leave things so suddenly.
But first, she should see what patron needed her help enough to leave a note. She unfolded the thick paper and a soft blue ribbon fell onto the table, the damask pattern faded but familiar, igniting an old memory that flitted on the edge of her mind. She ran the silky ribbon through her fingers, reaching for the rest of the memory, until she reached the end where it had been freshly cut. Everything else about the ribbon was aged, but the cut had happened recently.
She unfolded the paper and found a short note written in unfamiliar, hurried writing.
This is only the beginning.
A cold prickle of alarm ran over her neck, making her hair stand on end. The beginning ofwhat, precisely?
Marguerite turned the paper over, but there was nothing else. She held up the ribbon, searching for the memory it had called to the outer reaches of her thoughts, but could not placeit. Had Mrs. Gladstone sent it? But the old modiste would have no reason to act in such a cryptic manner. The letters they exchanged were infrequent, but Marguerite knew Mrs. Gladstone was no longer working. The woman had closed her shop and gone to live with her sister in Kent. Arthritis had stiffened her fingers and she could no longer hold a needle properly. She could not have written this.
Which begged the question: who did?
Chapter Seven
