Page 16 of The Secret Word
“You’re going to have to start going to ton events,” Billy said next. “If you are serious about the girl, that is. Her father wants her to be in fashion, and that will have to be up to you, for the old dragon he has sponsoring her is not up to the job.”
“I am not invited to ton events,” Chris pointed out.
“You will need to change that.”
How do you suppose I can perform that miracle?” Chris asked, not quite daring to let his mental scoff show in his tone.”
“I am sure you’ll think of something,” Billy replied. “I have faith in you, Christopher. You’ll need a better wardrobe, though. Actually, even to take Miss Wright riding or driving in Hyde Park, you’ll need to look more like one of them and less like asolicitor or a clerk. I suggest a visit to Pettinger’s. Here is their card.”
Billy handed over the piece of pasteboard. “If that will be all, Christopher, we both have work to do.”
Which, since it had been Billy who summoned him, was either irritating or funny. Chris opted to chuckle and make himself scarce.
He worked until seven that evening, catching up on the bookkeeping he’d neglected earlier in the day. Then he strolled home to the rooms he rented in one of Billy’s buildings. He hadn’t intended to stroll past Pettinger’s, and it wasn’t on his direct route. But apparently his legs were taking instructions directly from Billy, because there it was on his left as he walked. The lights were still on, but someone was closing the shutters over the expensive bay window, where a single tailor’s dummy displayed a gentleman’s evening coat, with a top hat tipped at an angle over the neck.
“Good evening,” Chris said, and the man replied in kind.
“You do not happen to be Pettinger, do you?” Chris asked. Surely not. The man was no more than Chris’s age—mid-twenties. And Billy had been using the tailor for his own elegant clothing for at least the last decade.
“NotthePettinger,” the other man acknowledged. “I’m Stephen Pettinger, one of his sons. Were you looking for my father? He has finished work for the day. In fact, he has gone out to dinner with a local widow, and my brothers and I have high hopes!” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.
Chris grinned back to acknowledge the man’s revelation before saying, “I just happened to be passing. I did want to make an appointment, though. My employer tells me I need a whole new wardrobe. I am going courting, you see, and the lady is used to gentlemen of fashion.”
“You’re Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Mr. Stephen Pettinger. “Mr. O’Hara told my father you would be visiting. Look, if you’d like to come inside, Mandy—she’s my brother David’s wife—has made far more stew than we can eat. You can join me and my other brother, Thomas, for dinner. We can have a chat while we eat.”
Chris finally left the Pettinger household at ten that evening, having been measured and even fitted—the Pettingers kept a number of half-made items in various sizes that could be fitted to a customer and supplied in a day or two.
He had ordered buff pantaloons for daytime wear, others with a different cut for riding, and several pairs of breeches for evening wear. He had coats to go with all three, all in black. “Black is fashionable,” Mr. Thomas Pettinger had conceded, when Chris had expressed a preference for that color. “But we would not wish people to assume you are in mourning, Mr. Satterthwaite,” and in the end, they persuaded him to order coats in dark shades of navy, gray, a bright, bottle green, and even a very dark red.
Hats, too. The Pettingers did not themselves make hats, but they displayed those made by another merchant, and measured for them. He chose a black silk flat-topped hat in the collegian style for evening, and a tilbury in cream beaver for day time. His own bicorne was pronounced tolerable for more casual occasions.
He had also tentatively chosen fabrics for an array of waistcoats, which would be, he had been told, his point of difference. “You will express your character and personality in your waistcoats, Mr. Satterthwaite,” Mr. Stephen Pettinger instructed. “Fabrics, cut, number of buttons, stitching. Those, and the way you tie your cravat. The leisured classes make a study of such things, and if you wish to appear as one of them,you must, at the very least, hire people who know how to choose for you.”
“You will need to see them in daylight,” said Mr. David Pettinger. “Return tomorrow morning so we can fill the order as quickly as possible.”
“You will also need cravats, stockings and shirts,” Mr. Thomas advised. “Those you have are all very well for a tradesman… but you have expectations, Mr. O’Hara says.”
That set Chris back on his heels. He had been swept away by the enthusiasm of the brothers Pettinger, but what was all this going to cost? He asked, finally.
“Oh, that is not a problem. Mr. O’Hara said to send the bill to him,” Mr. Stephen said.
Not likely. “I would prefer not to be beholden to Mr. O’Hara to that extent,” Chris said. “How much?”
“Will a round figure do, or do you want a detailed accounting?” asked Mr. David, beginning to scribble amounts on a notepad.
“A round figure. A detailed accounting can wait for the final invoice,” Chris told him.
Mr. David bent over the pad and his pencil flew, while Mr. Thomas wrote the names of recommended purveyors of cravats, stockings, and shirts.
“And shoes,” Mr. Stephen added. “Your boots are acceptable, Mr. Satterthwaite, or will be with a better polishing agent. But you will need dancing shoes and walking shoes.” He frowned. “You have riding boots, of course?”
More money. “No, Mr. Pettinger, I do not have boots specifically for riding. Do I need them?”
The three brothers exchanged glances, and Mr. Stephen acted as their spokesperson. “If your family was in good standing with Society and you were known to be wealthy, Mr. Satterthwaite, any deficiencies in your personal presentationwould be regarded as eccentricities, and would be tolerated. But it is my understanding that neither of those fortunate conditions apply?”
Sadly true. His family—his immediate family—had no standing at all in Society, and he was far from wealthy. “You are correct,” he admitted.
“That being the case, you need to give the impression by your clothing, your demeanor, and your speech that you are well-born and have independent means. That is, if it is important for you to be accepted in ton circles?”
