Chapter 14
Amelia’s stomach flipped as she clambered out of the carriage. Stephen silently held up a hand to help her down, his signet ring glittering in the sunlight. She pretended she had not seen it and jumped down onto the cobbled street.
Mrs. Potts’s was situated in a very nice part of London.
The streets here were cleaned at least once a day, sometimes more.
Street sweepers prowled the pathways, filthy, bristling brushes at the ready, keen to shove away a pile of dung or a particularly foul-smelling puddle out of the way of some lady or gentleman.
The street sweepers had never offered to help Amelia when she scurried along the streets every morning at the crack of dawn, ready to begin work.
That was the routine. She would leave home while it was still dark to make the long walk between their house and the modiste’s, and would arrive just as the sun was rising, ready to prepare the shop for the expected procession of customers.
What time was it now? Midday? The flow of people in the streets was just beginning to ebb in time for luncheon. Emmeline did not stop for luncheon herself, preferring to avoid the new fashionable meal altogether. Which meant that her employees did not have lunch either.
“This is the place, then?” Letitia enquired, clutching at her grandson’s arm and leaning heavily on her cane. She gestured with the cane at a yellow-painted store with mannequins wearing fine dresses in the window.
“Yes, that’s it,” Amelia responded, glancing this way and that.
The carriage had stopped on the opposite side of the road, so they would have to cross it. She was used to it, of course, and seized the moment between a large hackney cab and a slower-moving ox-drawn cart bearing heavy barrels. She reached the other side unharmed and glanced back.
Her heart sank. Letitia seemed particularly nervous about crossing the road, glancing fearfully at the large carts.
Stephen was trying to soothe her, clearly preparing to hustle her across.
She would move more slowly than he or Amelia, and the carts and cab drivers generally did not bother to slow down for pedestrians.
Amelia was just wondering if she ought to go back and help when a cold hand clamped around her elbow, making her shriek.
Spinning around, she found herself staring at the too-pale face and black false front of hair belonging to Emmeline Potts.
“Well,” Emmeline hissed. “You saw fit to turn up, did you?”
“Emmeline, I can explain.”
“And so you shall, but not in front of my shop. I won’t bawl like a fishwife in the street. Come inside at once.”
Emmeline was not as tall as Amelia, but she was sturdier. Certainly strong enough to tighten her grip and haul Amelia across the pavement and into the shop.
The shop was empty. A short, thin woman of about five-and-twenty stood in the center, her eyes wide, bearing a tray of buttons.
This was Simone, the second employee. She was something of a dogsbody, fetching and carrying and helping with sewing wherever needed, but she rarely set foot on the shop floor.
Judging by her neat black dress and carefully pinned-back hair, she seemed to have taken a step up in the world in Amelia’s absence.
Emmeline dismissed her with a wave of her hand. Simone obeyed, shooting Amelia a sympathetic look.
“Well?” Emmeline demanded, folding her arms tightly. “Where have you been? It’s been three days, and there has been no word from you. I sent Simone to your house, thinking perhaps you’d all been carried off by the plague or something, but no, it was closed up, and no one answered her knocks.”
“Things have been rather complicated,” Amelia admitted, swallowing. “But I did not mean to leave you in the lurch. If I could have sent you a message, I would have.”
“Oh, tosh. You think I’m a soft touch, don’t you? You think you can do as you like. Well, you are in for a nasty surprise, little madam. Simone can do everything you can, including managing customers. What do you have to say to that, hm?”
Amelia let out a shaky breath, staring pleadingly up at her employer.
At one-and-forty, Emmeline Potts had done relatively well for herself. It was not easy for a modiste to compete with the juggernauts of London fashion, especially a modiste who had not been to Paris and was not French.
Of course, most of the modistes in London were not French, and simply had the bright idea of calling themselves Madame this or that and affecting a French accent. Being from Liverpool, poor Emmeline had never quite managed a convincing accent, and so her shop remained just that—Potts’.
Perhaps it was the constant feeling of not being good enough—not being French, specifically—that had left poor Emmeline with a sizeable chip on her shoulder and a propensity to torment her employees.
Amelia swallowed, realizing that she needed to answer, and quickly.
“I had to go away,” she said.
I was abducted seemed like a foolish thing to say, and might engender unwanted consequences.
Emmeline gave an incredulous laugh. “And you really think that is a good enough excuse? I think not.”
Amelia bit her lip hard, tasting copper. “Emmeline, do I not work hard for you? How many days have I come in early, long before dawn, and stayed to work into the night? You don’t pay me for those hours, do you?”
“No, I pay you to finish the job.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “But I never have time to finish the work you give us. I told you so many times that Simone and I are overwhelmed. If you were to hire somebody else—”
“Enough. I am not wasting money on another seamstress just because you are lazy. Here is what will happen. Since you were not here to manage the sizeable Muthrie order, we were late in delivering. I had to knock a little money off the price to placate Mrs. Muthrie. You’ll be paying that money back out of your wages, as well as working on half-pay for the rest of the month to make up for the work you missed.
You may also consider it a punishment for treating me with such disrespect. ”
Amelia pressed a hand to her forehead.
If I were at home and not with Stephen, half-pay and such a penalty would put us on the streets.
“You think that is fair?” she forced out.
Emmeline sniffed, placing her hands on her ample hips and lifting her chin. It always seemed to irk her that she had to lift her head to meet Amelia’s eyes.
“I think it is more than fair,” she hissed.
“I think that I ought to dismiss you on the spot. How dare you treat me like this? How dare you disobey me? You owe me your hard work, and if you cannot get work done in the hours I pay you for, well, of course you must stay later. Did you think of complaining about it? Did you—”
“Are we interrupting?” drawled a male voice from the doorway.
Amelia flinched, and Emmeline almost jumped, eyes widening.
There stood Stephen, with Letitia peering in from behind him, under his arm.
Color rushed to Amelia’s cheeks.
How long had he been standing there? Did he hear me being scolded by my employer? How humiliating.
“No, no, you are not interrupting at all!” Emmeline laughed nervously, scurrying forward.
She bobbed an ungainly curtsy, the jet-black ringlets of her false front of hair bobbing over her forehead.
“I was simply scolding my seamstress, I’m afraid.
She is most lax in her work. Well then, Amelia, go back.
There’s a deal of mending and work for you to do.
Get started, Simone will show you what to do. Now, sir—”
“It is Your Grace,” Stephen gritted out, stepping into the shop.
Letitia scurried in after him, and the door banged shut behind her.
Emmeline flinched, shuffling backward. “Your Grace. I… I see. Well, I am keen to help you, I…” She paused, realizing that Amelia was still standing behind her, and shot her a glare of pure rage and incredulity. “Amelia, what are you about?”
Amelia cleared her throat. “Emmeline, this is what I was trying to tell you. His Grace is the reason I missed work.”
Emmeline’s eyes went very wide. “I… What?”
Oh, bother. How to explain it?
While Amelia was fumbling for an explanation, any explanation that did not make her look like Stephen’s mistress—what a thought—Letitia spoke up.
“We have discovered a connection between Amelia’s family and our own,” she said sweetly. “We simply insisted that Amelia and her sisters come to stay with us, and in our overzealousness, we did not give her the chance to let you know that she would not be coming for work. The fault is ours.”
That still sounds like abduction, Amelia thought, biting back a sigh.
Emmeline, however, did not seem to put two and two together. She wrung her hands almost absently, her beady blue eyes darting from Stephen to Letitia to Amelia and then back.
“A… connection?” she managed.
“A friend in common,” Letitia clarified.
Emmeline gulped audibly. “Well… I… I did not know.”
Stephen fixed her with a long, withering look.
Emmeline slowly but surely retreated into herself, her shoulders coming up to meet her ears as if she were a tortoise shuffling back into its shell.
“I came here to spend a great deal of money, Mrs. Potts,” Stephen murmured, his voice almost thoughtful.
Somehow, there was still a hint of menace in it.
Emmeline clearly heard it, paling further.
“Miss Holt wished to come here to bring that business to you and to see you. Imagine my shock at stepping through the door just now and hearing you berate and scold our dear friend in such a manner. And on the shop floor, where any ordinary customer could walk in and see. For shame, Mrs. Potts.”
“I suppose I was overly harsh,” Emmeline said. “But I was concerned. I had no idea what had happened to her.”
“I ought to have contacted you earlier, Emmeline,” Amelia ventured, offering what she hoped was an apologetic smile.