Chapter Twelve
M adame Haricot broke the silence in the chaise. “I apologize, Monsieur . My daughter and I have brought trouble upon you.”
Jackie nodded her agreement. “You lost your position because of me,” she said.
“I have lost my position because of Riese,” Pol argued. “He is to blame. If he had never set out to force you into his bed, then I would not have had to help, and I would still have a job. But only for a week or so more, remember. I was intending to leave. Madame, your apology is appreciated, but not necessary.”
“Your cousin is a horrid man,” said the comtesse, “and his mother is unpleasant, also. They have not been a good family to you, have they?”
Not in the least. Indeed, Pol firmly believed that he would have been sent to the parish workhouse the day he arrived had he not been delivered to the door by a man his aunt did not wish to annoy. “I was sent to England when my mother died.” His Italian grandparents must have resented being left with the evidence of their daughter’s mistake, and keen to pass him on to his English family.
No need to mention that to the ladies. “My Italian family had an English friend who brought me to England. But before I arrived here, my father’s brother—my uncle—died. His wife was not at all pleased when I arrived at her door. Looking back, I must suppose she was grieving. It must have been a hard time for her.”
For the next few years, the man had visited every few months, often without warning. Had that been why Lady Riese had allowed Pol to stay? Or had it been Grandmother’s intervention? Probably both.
“What did Lord Riese mean about you being viscount instead of him?” Jackie asked. “Finders keepers? It makes no sense.”
Pol had been wondering about that, too. “He had been drinking all night,” he pointed out. That was it. Pol’s parents had not been married, and Oscar’s drunken ramblings wouldn’t change the situation. “I have no idea what he meant.” And that was the truth. Enough about his rather boring and inconsequential life.
“Do you mean to start up again as dressmakers?” he asked. “Perhaps take a shop?”
“We will continue what we have been doing,” Madame Haricot said. “So many modistes long to go to London, to open a shop to serve the wealthy. And yes, there are fortunes to be made. Fitting out the ladies of one household for the Season can justify the expense of a London shop and the seamstresses and other servants to run it well. If the dressmaker’s bill is paid. But one must acquire the notice of the best sort of customer to achieve success, and meanwhile London rents are high, and many others are struggling to be noticed. Even when one reaches the top, a few unpaid bills can spell disaster.”
Pol nodded to show that he was paying attention, and indeed, he was fascinated at the thought she had put into the matter.
“In a village,” she continued, “I—we, I should say, for Jackie is even more skilled than I at creating a ‘look’ that will suit a particular customer—have no rivals. Those who want to dress well, and do not have the time or the skill to make their own garments, must come to me. And it does not hurt that the wives of farmers and merchants pay their bills.”
“In our first few years in Tissingham,” Jackie commented, “we were able to easily meet the rent and put away savings, besides. But then Lady Riese discovered how good Maman was and began commissioning her to sew—first a few dresses and then more and more, until at least half of our time was spent on garments for the Rieses. They pay late and always a few shillings short. And that is after beating Maman down on the price in the first place. With the rent going up and the income coming down, it was time for us to leave.” She shrugged. “We finished all our current commissions, did we not, Maman?”
Madame Haricot giggled like a schoolgirl. “Most of them,” she said, with a look of mischief that made her look as young as her daughter.
“Maman? What have you done?” Jackie asked, frowning.
“We finished and delivered all the garments for which customers would pay,” Madame said. “You know full well, cherie , that we need not expect timely payment for the two gowns Lady Riese ordered. As for Lord Riese’s shirts, he would never have paid for them and does not deserve them, besides! They are in the cart, in a box, all ready to be sold to a man who will pay for our good work. Miss Amanda Riese, she will have her gowns and her redingote. I sent them up to the manor yesterday afternoon, while you were taking the surplus vegetables to the Widow Garrett, Jacqueline. The deposit that Lady Riese paid for the entire order was almost enough to cover the cost of what I have delivered. When I sent the bill from the inn, I wrote on it that I accepted the deposit in settlement of all obligations between us. And Lord Riese can wear his old shirts to London, for all I care.”
*
The cottage was charming. It was one of a row of six that, with other houses and a small cluster of shops around a green, formed a village called Little Tidbury. Pol said it was fifteen-minutes’ walk from the town where the inn was, and where the post boy headed with the chaise as soon as they had descended and retrieved their possessions. The carter waited while Pol used the key he had been given, and Maman and Jackie went inside to inspect their new home.
It was somewhat larger than the one they had left, with two parlors, one of which Maman immediately designated as their workroom, as it had large windows and so plenty of light. Upstairs were three bedrooms, but Pol insisted on taking the little bedchamber downstairs. It was off the kitchen, so probably intended for a cook or maid of all work, but Pol said it would be all he needed, and that he hoped his grandmother would soon be able to occupy the other bedroom upstairs.
Everything was so clean that it sparkled, and even Maman could not find fault, and so they began offloading the cart, with Pol and the carter carrying everything heavy, Jackie managing lighter packages, bags and boxes, and Maman directing where things should go.
Before long, the cart was empty, and Jackie settled the little flock of poultry in the coop in the garden, which also had neat rows of vegetables and two fruit trees, one a plum and the other an apple.
Pol and the carter went to return the cart. He came back in a little gig driven by the innkeeper’s wife, whose husband held the lease on the cottage.
“I hope you will be very happy here,” she told Maman. “I have brought you a game pie, some fresh soup, and a couple of loaves of today’s baking, just to show you we are pleased to have you in our village, for we still count the village as our own, though we live in the town, now.”
Maman was a little taken aback at the hospitable welcome. “Thank you. That is very kind of you.”
After several minutes more conversation, the innkeeper’s wife said, “You are very busy, I know,” and took herself off, but not before inviting Maman to join the Parish Ladies’ Committee for their meeting in two days’ time. “Ten o’clock, at the inn in town. Everyone will be so pleased to meet you. Your daughter can come too, of course.”
“Well!” said Maman, when she was gone. “I wonder what that was about?”
“This place has a very different atmosphere to that of Tissingham,” Pol commented. “People are friendly and welcoming. I think Mrs. Wrexham just wanted to be the first to meet you. And, of course, this was her house. I suppose she wanted to know if nice people would be living here.”
“Her house?” Maman said. “She is a good housekeeper, then.”
It was Maman’s highest praise.
Jackie saw the village for herself the very next day. Maman was arranging the workshop and wanted no assistance and no interruptions, so she ordered Pol and Jackie out of the house, and they walked along a lane to the village green which was surrounded not only by the cottages but by several shops, a small tavern, a smithy, and a church.
There was a grocer’s, a baker’s, and a draper’s, selling fabric by the yard, skeined wool, and sewing notions.
At the baker’s, a man introduced himself. “You must be the people who have rented the innkeeper’s cottage. I am Samuel Brown, curate of St Asaph’s here in Little Tidbury. I live in the house by the church. Welcome to the village.
“We have found it very welcoming so far, sir,” Jackie told him.
“I trust you and your husband will be very happy here,” he said.
“Oh, he is not my husband,” Jackie exclaimed.
The curate was taken aback, and his warm expression chilled as he frowned at Pol. “I am a temporary boarder, sir,” Pol explained. “Madame Haricot, Miss Haricot’s mother, has been good enough to agree to take care of my grandmother while I work. I came ahead to escort the two ladies and to make certain everything was prepared for her and will return to fetch her within the next week.”
The explanation satisfied. “I shall look forward to meeting your mother, Miss Haricot, and your grandmother, Mr. Allegro. The Sunday service is at nine o’clock, but you are most welcome to call at the vicarage at any time.”
“If you are walking our way before Sunday, Mr. Brown, please visit. Maman will be delighted to meet you. She will tell you that we are at sixes and sevens, but I assure you she has the whole cottage the way she likes it. She sent me and Mr. Allegro away so she could organize her workshop without being interrupted.”
The curate picked up the humor in her voice and smiled. “She and my wife will get on famously, I imagine. What sort of work does your mother do in her workshop, Miss Haricot?”
“My mother and I are dressmakers, sir. My mother, in particular, is very skilled, both at designing and cutting, and at the actual sewing.”
“Ah, you shall wish to meet our draper, then. Mrs. Thompson has a fine stock of fabrics, as well as ribbons, laces, and other such things. When you have made your purchase here, come along and I shall introduce you.”
Jackie turned to the task of selecting from the baker’s fine array. Behind her, the curate turned his inquisition on Pol. “What is your work, Mr. Allegro?”
Pol showed no irritation. “I am looking for a position, sir. In my last job, I spent part of my time as a land steward and part as a gentleman’s secretary, so I could do either or both.”
“Both, eh? And what was your reason for leaving this last position, if I might ask?”
“My employer and I disagreed,” Pol explained. He pressed his lips together and then grimaced. “Given he is not here to defend himself, I am uncomfortable with providing details. Suffice it to say, I try to make sure that my actions are both moral and legal, whether on my own account or under instructions from my employer. After several arguments, we came to a parting of the ways. His steward, who was my direct master, has written me a reference, however.”
“Our squire is looking for a secretary. If you wish, I shall give him your name and tell him your circumstances, young man. He will wish to meet you and make his own decision, of course.”
“I would be very grateful,” Pol said, bowing.
The curate could be forgiven for his busybody questions, Jackie decided, if his purpose was to be helpful. Her opinion of him improved still further when he introduced her to the draper with the words, “Mrs. Thompson, meet Miss Haricot. She and her mother have moved into the cottage the innkeeper owns here in the village. They are dressmakers, and I thought immediately of that idea you had to carry some ready-made garments. Now, you ladies talk to one another, and Mr. Allegro and I shall go for a stroll, for I have just seen the squire at the smithy, and I want him to meet Mr. Allegro. Oh, Mrs. Thompson, this is Mr. Allegro. He, and soon his grandmother once he fetches her from her old home, board with the Haricots.”
By the time Jackie left the drapery, she and Mrs. Thompson had agreed that Jackie would come back with her mother and most of the garments Maman had not sent to the Rieses—six white shirts and two fine gowns. Jackie was already planning to make over the other white shirts for Pol. His clothing was downright shabby and did not fit properly. But Jackie and Maman planned to fix that.
“If she likes our work,” Jackie told Pol as they began the walk home, “—and she will, because the shirts and gowns are excellently well made—she wants us to make up some more gowns, partly unfinished so they can be fitted to the buyer. The sort of garment a prosperous farmer’s wife might purchase, and perhaps shirts for the farmer. She is going to sell on commission but not charge us for the fabric until the sale is made, so I think Maman will agree.” She skipped, her satisfaction demanding a physical outlet. The draper was in competition with a larger establishment in Alstonebridge and hoped that Jackie’s and Maman’s skills would give her an edge.
“That’s wonderful,” Pol agreed. “I was somewhat annoyed with Mr. Brown’s inquisitive questions, but he is a treasure.”
“What of you?” Jackie asked. “Will the squire employ you?”
“For a week, on trial. Then he will give me a week to fetch Gran and see her settled. If he is satisfied with my work, I shall start after that.”
It was an excellent start to their stay in this new village.