Page 33 of A Secret Correspondence
Taking an entire day to visit Paul had not been a waste of time, exactly, but Marguerite should have used that day to work on clothing for her patrons. Instead, she was forced to use additional candles for the following three evenings to make up the time missed in order to complete her final two ballgowns.
Miss Snubbs wore the second of those gowns now in Marguerite’s parlor, turning to look over her shoulder and admire the small train on the back. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “What do you call this color, Madame Perreau?”
“Rose.” It was a dusky pink sarsnet, ruched at the bosom, with a gauze overdress embroidered with roses. Miss Snubbs looked quite fetching. If she took Marguerite’s advice and wore her brown hair entirely off her neck, she would look both regal and youthful at the ball that evening. Particularly when the train was pinned up for dancing.
“Rose,” Miss Snubbs repeated under her breath. “It sounds romantic.”
“Perhaps it will bring you good fortune.”
“One can only hope. The gentlemen in this town are thin onthe ground.” She sighed, moving away from the mirror and beginning to remove the gown, satisfied with how it fit. “I had once thought Mr. Harding might have shown an interest—but alas, the man is merely a flirt, it seems.”
Marguerite’s heart picked up its rhythm. She had continued passing letters with Samuel over the last week, despite knowing whom she was conversing with and recognizing he did not know who she was. It had taken a good deal of fortitude to ride beside him in his curricle and pretend not to be affected by his concern. It had been so long since anyone had felt the need to ascertain Marguerite’s safety. She was unused to the feeling.
It was a strange revelation to discover that she hadlikedit. Stepping off the post chaise and seeing Samuel waiting there had lifted her heart and given her a measure of instant relief. When she discovered he was there expressly to drive her home, she did not know exactly what to do with that emotion.
Her first inclination was to bask in it, which was dangerous. Instead, she had buried it in a pile of work. Keeping busy was what she did best.
Now that Miss Snubbs had mentioned Samuel, though, Marguerite could not resist the opportunity to ask after him. She helped the woman step out of the gown, keeping her gaze on the fasteners. “Has he been a disappointment?”
“That is not the word I would use.” Miss Snubbs lifted her walking dress. “The man is smitten with Miss Farrow. I did not realize they even knew one another.”
Cold shock fell into Marguerite’s gut. She grew still, holding the ball gown out, the open back flopping limply to the side.
“At the Faversham card party the other night,” Miss Snubbs said, “everyone remarked about what a handsome couple they made. I did my best to seem pleased for them.”
“There are other gentlemen,” Marguerite said, but even she could hear how hollow her words sounded.
Miss Snubbs sighed. “I am tired of wishing for a gentlemanto ask me to dance. I do hope this gown brings me luck, or I am afraid I will soon cease attending balls altogether.”
“No,” Marguerite said, holding her gaze. “Do not let them win. You are a prize, Miss Snubbs, and you are radiant in this gown. Absolutely radiant.”
Marguerite helped her finish dressing and boxed up her gown. When the fitting appointment was completed, she walked Miss Snubbs to the door, wishing her well. The woman walked away with a measure of uncertainty that tugged at Marguerite’s chest. Samuelwasa flirt. The man seemed to always say just the right thing to make a woman feel at ease.
But still, Marguerite knew him on a deeper level due to their letters, and she knew him to desire a wife and a love match. When she spoke to him in her shop, or during their ride the other evening, there was an ease between them she imagined was the predecessor of true friendship. If she had not been a modiste, or he had not been genteel, perhaps—but no. That was never a safe game to play.
Shaking away that dangerous line of thinking, Marguerite let herself outside and locked her shop. After the last few late nights, she needed to replenish her supply of candles. The sunlight was deceptively bright, for the chill reached through Marguerite’s pelisse the moment she stepped outside. She waited for a carriage to pass before beginning across the road.
“Madame Perreau!” the vicar called, forcing her to stop. His kind eyes sparkled. “I was fortunate to meet Harewood’s French visitors on Sunday. Has that been a treat for you?”
She did not want to disappoint Mr. Chatham, but surely he understood that she had no connection to the Faversham party. “I had that same fortune when they visited my shop. They were very polite.”
“Indeed, indeed.” His grin grew wider, a feat she had not realized was possible. “A lively group.”
“Very much so.”
“Ah,” Mr. Chatham said, peering behind her. “Is that man not a member of the very group we are discussing?”
Marguerite did not want to turn and look. It would be rude, and extremely obvious they were speaking of the oncomer, but the vicar waited, blinking expectantly. She glanced over her shoulder to see Armand walking her way. “Indeed, I believe he is.”
“Good day, sir,” Mr. Chatham said loudly. “Have you had the opportunity to meet our fine modiste? You cannot find a better seamstress in England, guaranteed.”
Armand approached them, his dark eyes shaded beneath the brim of his hat. He wore a blue coat cut to reveal a tan patterned waistcoat and gold-chained pocket watch. “I have the fortune of Madame Perreau’s acquaintance.”
“Splendid.” Mr. Chatham glanced away. “I need to speak to Mrs. Leeks. If you’ll both excuse me.”
Marguerite wanted to sink into the hard packed earth. If the vicar meant to be subtle about connecting Marguerite and Armand, he had done a terrible job of it. “I do not wish to keep you, Mr. Leclair. I was just on my way to the chandler’s.”
“May I accompany you?”
