Page 46 of A Secret Correspondence
Marguerite could tell her friends some of the facts of her history, as she did last night, but she could never be entirely honest with them. What would they think of her? What sort of danger would that put her in?
Time passed slowly over the course of the morning as she funneled her focus into the lavender stalks climbing over the fan, creating a beautiful floral piece she hoped would entice a patron soon. When the bell over the door rang, her back was sore from sitting so long on her stool. She glanced up to see Armand step through, a woman’s gloved hand resting on his arm.
Hesitation and fear wrapped around Marguerite’s body, but she did not allow them to show. She forced a smile to her face and rose, putting the fan on the counter. “Good morning to you both.”
Another couple entered the shop after them.
“We’ve come for ball gloves,” Armand said. “Miss Delacourruined her pair during supper last evening, and her maid cannot repair them. Do you have any?”
“I might.” Marguerite crossed the shop to the section containing her long gloves. “If these do not fit, we can measure your hands, and I could have some made quickly.”
“Oh.Merci, madame.”
Marguerite pulled out two pairs of long, white satin gloves she thought would fit the petite woman, and Miss Delacour tried them both on.
The English woman approached to observe while her brother walked the perimeter of the shop. Miss Harrelson pinched the fabric between her fingers.
“You made the gown for Lady Faversham, did you not?” Miss Harrelson asked. “The one she wore to the ball last night.”
“I did.”
“It was incredible,” she said. “I have never seen her look so regal. You know that is her deepest wish, do you not? To upstage the queen.”
“I am not certain anyone has that ability.” Though Marguerite could easily believe that goal.
Miss Harrelson snickered. “No, but she gave it her best effort yet last night, and she certainly has you to thank for it. You are very talented.”
“I will take this pair,” Miss Delacour said, holding up one set of gloves. “They are perfect.”
“Very well.” Marguerite was grateful to be pulled from the deluge of Miss Harrelson’s praise. “I will wrap these for you.”
“Not just yet.” Miss Delacour lifted a graceful hand. “I would like to look at the ribbon again.”
“Of course.” Marguerite took the gloves to the counter and placed them on a square of paper, but did nothing further. She watched Mr. Delacour pretend to find the muslin interesting, then sigh heavily and look at his pocket watch.
“Shall we go for a pint?” he asked Armand. “Surely the ladies can walk across the street when they are finished.”
“You may.”
Mr. Delacour gave Armand a flat-lipped expression. The way his curly hair was pushed forward, coupled with his expression, made him look all the more pouty. “Harrelson had the right of it, staying home. I will wait outside.”
“Very well.” Armand waited for him to leave before meandering toward the counter. “All ladies take a long time to make decisions, no?”
“Not all women.”
“Do you take a long time, mademoiselle?”
Marguerite held his dark brown eyes. “Madame,” she reminded him.
“Forgive me.”
She picked up the fan again and poked her needle in it, pulling the violet thread through the panel to create a shadow on the lavender stalk. “No, I do not. I often know precisely what I would like.”
“I had thought that would be the case.”
Marguerite looked at him. He leaned close enough she could smell his shaving soap, a fine mix of scents that was unlike anything she recalled smelling before. It was likely expensive. Was he able to afford it by extortion? Forcing young ladies into giving up their family jewels?
No, that was unfair. Until she knew more, she could not fault Armand entirely. But why would he ask her about the state of her ability to make decisions unless he wanted to know if she was going to choose to make the trade with him?
