Chapter 10 #2
be wearing a Claremont original. Trust me.”
“How long do the enchantments last?” Emmy’s clouds had ceased moving in the first hours of her imprisonment, robbing her of
her only distraction.
With a wink, Clara leaned closer. “They’ll outlast us all.”
Surely Clara wasn’t foolish enough to lie to her customers. “How?”
“Hard work, Miss Fairchild. As a young entrepreneur, I never rest.” Clara flourished her hand over the rows of fabric and
mannequins. “Well? Which of my lovelies catches your eye?”
They were all gorgeous, and Jack would be furious if she didn’t purchase at least one, but Emmy could not bring herself to please the dressmaker. Not yet. “Do you have anything else?”
Clara’s smile tightened. “Picky, are we? Not to worry; I have plenty more.”
As Clara sauntered away, Emmy tried to quell the fire in her chest. It’d be far easier to play nice if there weren’t so many
damn people watching her. The same people who had watched when she’d been up on that stage, trying desperately to prove her
innocence.
The same people who’d watched, unflinching, as her beautiful gown was slashed open.
As Papa was shot.
“Miss Fairchild?”
To hell with Jack. Emmy would not give a cent to Clara Claremont.
“Excuse me, Miss Fairchild?”
Emmy nearly choked on her own spit. She knew that voice. Knew it as well as her own.
It was woven into all her memories, a thread tethered to the very core of who Emmy was. It was the voice she’d heard after
her mother had died: It’s all right, let her go, it’s all right. The voice that had filled endless hours of chores, keeping Emmy entertained with dreams of balls and magic and secret societies.
Heart in her throat, Emmy turned to face Grace Eloise Montgomery.
“Pardon my intrusion, but I wanted to introduce myself.” Dipping into an elegant curtsy, Grace offered Emmy a brilliant smile.
“I’m Grace Montgomery, niece of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Windsor.”
Emmy opened her mouth. Closed it again.
This was Grace, her Grace, but her features were more elegant, her petite figure softer. She stood with impeccable posture. Her cheekbones, though
still as round and rosy as apples, were high and proud. Never before had they been apart long enough for Emmy to notice the
passage of time in Grace’s face. But Grace had aged, ever so slightly.
“It’s such a treat to have newcomers,” Grace continued, and her voice was the falsetto singsong she’d used with teachers and nuns alike. “Just in time for the season.”
Grace used to consult Emmy before she so much as combed her hair differently, but now she’d adorned her curls with a floral
fascinator Emmy had never seen, soaked herself in a sweet perfume Emmy had never smelled. And the end result was exquisite:
while Emmy had withered away, Grace’s beauty had unfurled like a delicate bloom.
And she was looking at Emmy expectantly. “We were hoping to arrive before the season began.” She hated how her voice trembled,
hated the polite patience of Grace’s smile.
“We?”
“My, um, brother.” Every fact Jack had insisted she memorize vanished as she stared at Grace. Her Grace, but different. Refined. Elegant.
“A brother! Well, if he’s as fair as you, the girls will be beside themselves.”
“We’re with our cousin, too,” Emmy continued, her voice still wavering. “A distant one, but he’s also . . . nice looking.”
“How lucky for us.” Grace uttered the words as if she were the queen of benevolence, gifting Emmy her polite conversation.
“I do hope I’ll be seeing more of you, Miss Fairchild.”
And then she was off, the other girls whispering fiercely as she rejoined them on a settee. Her blonde hair was a darker golden.
She’d grown, too, perhaps an inch. And she looked healthier, somehow. Every subtle change was a razor blade to Emmy’s heart.
Worse, Grace was being kind to her, kinder than anyone else here. And worse still, Emmy’s eyes burned as though someone had
poured acid in them, and her chest felt as if a guard’s heavy boot were pressing against her rib cage, the pain worsening
the longer she stared at Grace.
The body cannot distinguish between physical and emotional hurts.
Far too late, Emmy recognized the burning behind her eyes as tears.
Ducking her head, she wove through the gowns, searching for the blasted exit in this maze of beheaded mannequins.
But she was lost in the sea of luxurious fabrics, unmoored in the memories of a friendship gone wrong.
A terrible longing drowned her, wave after wave.
For what once was. For what might have been.
For what could never, ever be again.
A back door. Shoving her voluptuous skirt through it, Emmy gasped the fresh air. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hunched on the
ground and willed herself not to cry.
She’d gouge out her own eyes before she shed another tear over Grace Montgomery.
Someone sniffled, and Emmy reached for the knife she’d foolishly left at home.
A maid peered around a crate, her splotchy cheeks as crimson as her hair. “I’m sorry to bother you, miss.” She hurried to
her feet, but she, too, was crying.
“No, you stay.” The entire modiste was probably gossiping over Winnie Fairchild’s abrupt exit. No part of Emmy wanted to return,
but the only way out was through the shop.
As Emmy rose to her feet and smoothed her gown, she stole glances at the maid. There was something familiar about her, though
Emmy could not place it.
“If you don’t mind me saying, miss, you may want to wait.” The girl winced. “Your eyes are still red, and it’ll be a lot worse
if they know you’ve been crying.”
“Thank you.” Emmy tried to smile at her, all the while her pride shriveled like a raisin. If this maid knew Winnie Fairchild
had been crying, then soon, all the maids would know.
With her watching, Emmy couldn’t conjure away any evidence of her tears, so she lingered on the patio, trying not to think
about Grace. Not the one standing inside, but her Grace.
It would’ve been easier if she were dead.
The door burst open again, and Emmy jumped to her feet as an elegant woman stepped outside. Wonderful; even more witnesses
to Winnie Fairchild’s demise.
The woman stilled, frowning at the maid. “Is everything all right, Mary?”
“Of course!” The maid—Mary, apparently—squeaked. “I was just . . .”
“She was just helping me get a bit of air,” Emmy supplied.
“Ah.” The lady offered Emmy a smile tinged with sorrow. “Looks like we had the same idea.”
Emmy took in her pallid face, her blotchy cheeks, and her gown of mourning black. She was grieving.
For a few minutes, they remained in uncomfortable silence as Emmy tried to wish away all evidence of her tears. The grieving
woman appeared to be doing the same. When Emmy finally reached for the door, the woman dabbed her eyes and straightened her
back. “Shall we return together?”
It was a small kindness, one Emmy readily accepted. Better not to return alone.
The maid held open the door, offering Emmy a brief smile before she schooled her features.
As they trekked the narrow hall back toward the excited ladies’ voices, the woman considered Emmy. “Forgive me, but I’m terrible
with names these days. Have we met?”
“No, ma’am, I’m Winifred Fairchild.” The lie was growing easier the more she repeated it. “I’m visiting for the summer with
my brother and cousin.”
“Ah, so you’re one of the late additions to the Inaugural Splendor on Saturday.” Genuine pride strengthened her fragile smile. “We host
it every summer—except last, of course. My niece is determined to make this one the grandest yet.”
Emmy nearly tripped over the doorway. The ball. Her . . . niece. “You’re Mrs. Windsor.”
“I am indeed.”
So this was Grace’s aunt, the one who had never visited. Her smile was so kind, it was hard to imagine her shunning a niece
born out of wedlock.
“Where are you staying, dear?” Mrs. Windsor raised her voice over the chatter of the shop. “I’ll have my footman deliver a
proper invitation.”
“Mistfield Manor.” A surprising surge of pride accompanied Emmy’s words. Despite herself, Jack’s dusty mansion was growing
on her.
Mrs. Windsor came to a stop. “What did you say?”
“Mistfield Manor.” Emmy glanced around. The parlor had fallen quiet. “My cousin has been fixing it up. Because of the fire.”
Judging by the rush of whispers, they all knew about the fire.
Mrs. Windsor had turned a ghastly shade of white. “Who is your cousin?”
“Nathaniel Fontaine?”
“You’re a Fontaine?” Mrs. Windsor’s hands flew to her chest as she gaped at Emmy.
Then crumpled to the floor.
Gasps and squeals erupted as Emmy surged forward to catch Grace’s aunt, but Grace beat her to it, swatting Emmy away. Someone
rushed for water, while another woman cried out for a doctor. All the while, Emmy stood there helplessly, trying not to melt
under the unabashed stares aimed her way. “Is she all right?”
“How could she be?” Grace whipped toward Emmy, her sky-blue eyes sharp with accusation. “Your family killed her daughter.”