Chapter 18 - Dahlia
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN- DAHLIA
The following day, William, Abeer, Dahlia, and her lady’s maid, Mara, loaded into the elegant Cavendish carriage early in the morning.
Thus ensconced in comfort, they proceeded to trundle across what felt like the entirety of London.
William was circumspect about where they were heading, no matter how many sly hints or direct questions Dahlia levied at him.
The carriage finally stopped before a large warehouse close enough to the docks that the hint of brine carried on the air. The building possessed stone walls as thick as the length of Dahlia’s arm.
William helped them down, tucking Dahlia’s hand into the crook of his strong elbow as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She stared at the building, trying fervently not to focus on the point of contact between them.
"Long ago," William said, noting her gaze, "this building was used to house gunpowder. The entire building was designed to be dry and inflammable."
He knocked upon the thick wooden door, a series of rhythmic taps that Dahlia couldn't hope to memorize with just one repetition. A hatch in the door was opened, a hawkish gaze met William’s for a moment, then the peephole was slammed shut once more and the door was opened. She turned toward William in question.
"We cannot be too safe," William said, ushering her in. Two men stood just inside the door, each with a rifle slung across their back. As they stood there in the gloom, the men barred the door behind them again.
"You'll see in just a moment why the security is necessary.”
Another door opened before them. As they stepped across the threshold, Dahlia gave a little gasp. The warehouse was ringed with crates stacked to the ceiling. The stone floor was polished with a strictness that even Mrs. McNamara would have approved.
Three immense tables rested in the center of the room, covered in white cloth that had been tacked into place. Bolt upon bolt of shimmering silk lay upon them.
Dahlia couldn’t help her wide-eyed expression. "All the crates contain silk?"
"Along with some other fabrics, yes." William nodded. "Packed in cedar shavings and linen to keep them dry."
Dahlia recalled the unique scent of Madame Aubert's fabric room. It was a mixture of the subtle scent of the silk itself, and something else—another smell she’d never been quite able to place. Now, standing in this warehouse inhaling the scent of cedar shavings, it all became clear.
"You supply Madame Aubert with her silk." Dahlia whirled towards him accusingly.
He nodded.
Dahlia drew closer to the colorful bolts of silk on the white-covered tables, drawn as surely as if she were a honeybee and they were particularly enchanting flowers.
It was like Madame Aubert's showroom, but a thousand times grander in scale. She’d never seen the like of some of these silks before. The beauty surrounding her was enough to make tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
"May I?" She reached toward the nearest bolt, a deep crimson that looked like freshly spilled blood or the center of the deepest red rose.
"Of course.”
William watched her closely as she slid her fingers over the fabric and sighed with pleasure. The color was inappropriate for a young lady, but the Dowager Duchess Reeves entered her mind. What she wouldn't give to design a dress for the lady out of this fabric in particular.
"I've had them pull the best," he said from behind her.
Dahlia gave a little distracted hum, too enamored with the rainbow gradient of color before her to answer properly.
"The seamstresses need better direction.
" He pulled a portfolio from beneath his arm and flipped it open. All of the sketches she’d completed so far were inside.
From his interior jacket pocket, he produced a little stuffed pincushion riddled with straight pins.
"If you could just pin the drawing to the appropriate fabric, that would be best. Silks are at this end, but we have some fine Kashmir wools at the other end.
We also have some excellent muslins from Bengal and Dhaka, as well as brocades from Varanasi. "
Dahlia wandered the tables with wide eyes, then gave a little shake of her head.
She glanced up to find William smiling at her, a warm, encouraging look that sent a trill of awareness down her spine.
She didn’t know what was headier—the wealth of fabric that surrounded her, or William looking at her with such raw affection in his gaze.
As she watched, his smile stretched into something that was more socially appropriate. "It isn't often that I meet someone who loves fabric as much as I do."
"Even Madame Aubert doesn’t have this excellent of a selection."
"She does, actually. But we’ve found that if offered too many choices, most ladies tend to become overwhelmed and not purchase anything at all."
Dahlia's eyes narrowed. This wasn’t a man who spoke as a simple supplier would. This was a man who had a more intimate knowledge of Madame Aubert's business than Dahlia would have guessed. She tucked the suspicion away for further contemplation later.
"But you think that I am capable of handling such a vast array of options?"
He chuckled. "If anyone is, you are. You don't find it difficult to turn down the wrong thing."
Dahlia flushed, thinking about their candid conversation regarding the number of betrothals she'd received.
"Very well.” She held out a hand for the portfolio, still looking at the tables of silk and wool. "The drawings, if you please."
He handed both the folio and the stick pins over.
"If there's something specific you need that's not on the tables, I might be able to get it for you.
In the meantime, I'll be in my office." He pointed at the stairs that led to a windowed room overlooking the entire expanse below. "Send Abeer if you need anything."
Dahlia nodded, distracted by the enjoyable task ahead of her, and set to work.
Every time she pinned a picture to a bolt of fabric, Abeer tugged it free and set it on an empty table at the end of the room.
He sorted them instinctively by sister, and in this way, Dahlia was able to ascertain at a glance the color palette she had chosen for each of the Preston ladies.
Claire’s wardrobe would be done in deeper, darker colors than her sisters. Not only did it favor her coloring, but it also favored her personality. She was the eldest.
In stark contrast, however, Margaret's palette consisted of butter yellow, pinks, and light blues. Her coloring and her personality favored a fresher, younger style that would accentuate her engaging, playful beauty.
Beatrice landed just in the middle—still with pinks and purples and blues, but several shades deeper than Margaret’s dresses.
Lily was a quandary, for although her ball gowns were the finest pastel silks, Dahlia gravitated towards fine worsted wool for her day dresses, riding habits, and walking ensembles.
Nothing too thick, but for some reason, the subtle sheen of the fabric made her think of Lily's fair skin, of the way it glowed in certain light.
Dahlia’s eye kept snagging upon a particularly lovely bolt of silk. It was the deepest eggplant purple. She’d run her fingertips over it at least three times, but every time she came to a new sketch, the purple silk wasn't right for the dress. Still, she lingered over the silk longingly.
It wasn't until she passed it one more time that she realized the reason she gravitated towards it was because it was perfect for her, not any of the Preston ladies. Dahlia gave a small frown, a shake of her head, and resolved not to think of it anymore.
Besides, it was obviously one of the most expensive silks—an Indian silk brocade with a complex pattern with just a hint of gold threading in it.
She could envision the dress now, a wide-necked, off-the-shoulder ball gown with a dramatic train and a tight waist, with a gathered pleat at either side.
It would be perfect for her, but not for any of the Preston ladies.
Dahlia moved on, shuffling through her papers as she returned to the wool table. It took perhaps an hour and a half before she reached her last drawing, a day dress for Margaret that Dahlia had shuffled to the back several times because she hadn’t seen the right fabric for it.
She wrinkled her nose and faced Abeer. "Apologies, but I don't think I have the right selection for this one."
He nodded. "What would you like to see more of?"
"I'm looking for a pink silk, possibly peach."
"Are you finished with the rest?"
"Yes, thank you."
Dahlia shuddered to think of the work that had gone into assembling the tables of selections, only for them to be packed up again. Abeer gestured towards two young men waiting in chairs at the side, and they began to start the laborious process.
"If you'll wait here, miss." He nodded towards a seating area to the side with two comfortable wingbacks and a low table. Dahlia blinked at the tea service, wondering where it had come from. "Help yourself, and I’ll consult with Lord Cavendish."
Dahlia found that she was quite hungry indeed and helped herself to a delicate egg salad sandwich on the tiered server, even as she watched the young men efficiently pack the wealth of fabrics away.
Voices upon the stairs had her glancing up. Lord Cavendish and Abeer headed toward her. Abeer paused to give new direction to the young men, who abandoned their packing in favor of bringing down a crate from the top of a stack.
William smiled at her. "Only the one, is that right?"
She nodded, pouring him a cup of tea.
"It's for Margaret? The dress, I mean."
"Yes. I hope it's not too much trouble." She peered around him to where the porters were prying nails from the top of a crate with crowbar, producing a series of squelching screeches.
"It's easily enough done, especially since it's just the one.”
“You do realize that we’re going to have to go through this task several more times," she said. "This was only the first batch of dresses."
He waved away her concern. "It gives them something to do and it airs out the silk. It's no problem, I assure you."
She stood when a great selection of peach and pink silks was fanned out on one of the covered tables. She abandoned her tea and wiped her hands carefully with a napkin before approaching.
"This one," she said instantly, gesturing towards a lovely peach silk that would complement Margaret's skin tone.
Abeer pinned the remaining sketch to the fabric and tugged it from the others, placing it on the far table. She rejoined William and her cup of tea.
"Even though you entered into this arrangement under duress, I must thank you all the same. A lesser woman would have sketched a hundred plain dresses just to fulfill her requirement."
Dahlia blinked. It had never occurred to her not to do her very best. "Although we began in an unconventional way, I’ve enjoyed this endeavor very much. Your sisters are kind and lovely, and I've enjoyed having the opportunity to sketch immensely.”
“Claire, kind?” He exhaled forcefully.
“We’ve come to an understanding.”
He gave a thoughtful hum, then said, “Still, I realize that for you, today you must have felt much like a child sent into a sweets shop to pick out candy for his brothers and sisters."
Dahlia laughed. "Now that I know this wealth is here, I’ll be a bit more selective with my fabric choices at Madame Aubert's.
There have been several occasions where I wished for a specific shade of wool or silk and was disappointed it didn't seem to exist. You shall never be rid of me now—I’ll be rapping upon that door at all hours of day and night, crowing for silk charmeuse. "
He laughed. "There's no need for such tactics, I assure you. This warehouse is open to you whenever you wish."
“A generous offer indeed.”
"In that same spirit…" He waved over Abeer, who approached with the bolt of purple brocade she’d pored over several times.
Dahlia set her teacup down upon the saucer with a sharp clink. "Oh, I couldn't possibly.”
"You can, and you will. I didn't need Abeer to tell me that you’d admired it.
I saw you from my office lingering in that particular spot several times.
" Abeer set the bolt of fabric on the low table next to her, bowed, and retreated.
"You must take it as a token of my appreciation for what you've done for my sisters. "
"I haven't done much for them," Dahlia protested. "And there's no guarantee that my efforts will assist them in making good matches."
"I want you to have it all the same. Now that I've seen it next to you, it cannot belong to anyone else. Design a dress for yourself. I'll have the seamstresses sew it up and deliver it to you."
She shouldn’t accept it. Such a gift wasn’t proper, if there wasn’t an understanding between them.
That same stupid hope welled within her again—stronger this time.
She’d been beating it steadily back these past couple weeks.
It had been a small enough emotion to tuck away at first—as easy as slipping a closed fan into a pocket.
Lately, however, it was far more cumbersome.
The emotion had grown, right along with her irritation at herself for feeling it.
Dahlia blinked, the small battle warring within her. But as her fingertips grazed the silk, she found she didn't want to fight that hard after all.
"I suppose it's inappropriate to accept such an extravagant gift, but as I’m unabashedly covetous of beautiful dresses, I'll only pretend to demur for a moment before accepting."
He laughed. "Our relationship has never been conventional by society's standards."
"Thank you, William. It's simply stunning."