Chapter 13
Ruby
BEAUFORT’S
James’s surname is emblazoned across the front of the flagship store.
He gets out of the car and strides purposefully toward the entrance while I stop and stare wide-eyed, first at the sign and then at the huge modern building with—as James told me on the drive here—the largest branch of Beaufort’s below, while above that are the offices for the design, sales, and customer services departments and so on, plus, of course, the tailoring workshops.
Huge plate-glass windows span all six floors, behind which stand mannequins dressed in the brand’s famous classic style.
“Coming?” James calls to me from the door.
We spent the rest of the journey chatting. Not much but more than I’d been expecting. I still can’t shake off the feeling that this is all a dream.
I’m in London. With James Beaufort .
I just can’t believe it.
“Ruby!” James says again, glancing ostentatiously at his watch.
That snaps me out of my trance. Hurriedly, I start moving and join him. He holds the door for me, and I step inside hesitantly. Then I look around.
This is way bigger than the branch I went to with my parents that time.
The high ceilings, white walls, and polished hardwood floors give the sales floor an open, inviting air, despite all the furniture being black.
Along the far wall are shelves, from floor to ceiling, holding countless shirts.
Above them is a brass pole, hanging from which, to the left, is a ladder.
As soon as you come through the door, there’s a large round table with a bronze statue of a stag in the center.
Stacked around that are small piles of perfectly folded trousers.
Over the table hangs a chandelier that gives a soft, warm light to the room.
There’s a unique scent in the air—tangy but not overwhelming, a blend of the natural odors of the fabrics and an aroma that must come from an air freshener.
James nudges me gently with his arm. I look up at him, and he nods toward the back of the shop.
I slowly follow him. On our right, there’s another wall of shelves.
Framed in a gap in its center are photos of men in an array of suits, lit from the sides by two brass lamps.
Below that, there’s a dark green satin sofa with tartan cushions, a fur-covered futon, and a glass table, standing on which are crystal glasses and a carafe of water.
All around us, I can see robust tweed, fine silk, the softest leather—Beaufort’s only uses the best fabrics to guarantee their quality. There’s no doubt that I’m in a shop frequented by aristocrats and politicians, and despite myself, I feel a bit out of place.
But that might just be because there seem to be only men around here. Salesmen, men standing on stools in front of huge mirrors toward the back of the shop, and men at their feet taking their measurements, not to mention the man at my side.
Suddenly, one of those men gets up from the floor. He addresses the customer, whose trouser hem he was just adjusting, and then he spots us. At the sight of James, he stiffens. “Mr. Beaufort!” White as chalk, he glances at his watch.
“No worries, Tristan, we’ve got plenty of time,” James replies.
I don’t even recognize his voice now. Grand and authoritative.
I sneak a peek at him and notice his posture.
His hands might be shoved casually into his trouser pockets, but you can see that he’s not just any old person around here.
I ask myself how he does it. He seems to turn anywhere he sets foot into his own private kingdom.
The school, the lacrosse field, this shop.
Does it happen if he goes into a café? Maybe I’ll have to test that out someday.
Tristan waves another tailor over and hands him his measuring tape. The next moment, he hurries over to us and shakes James’s hand. “Apologies for not being here to greet you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Tristan,” James replies. “Can you spare us a few minutes, or are you busy?”
Shocked, the tailor looks up at him. “Of course I have time for you, sir.”
James turns to me. “Ruby, this is Tristan MacIntyre, our head tailor. And Tristan, this is Ruby Bell. She’s in charge of the Maxton Hall events team.”
I raise my eyebrows at James. I’m surprised that he introduced me like that. He could have just said that I’m at school with him. Or added nothing at all beyond my name.
Tristan straightens his jacket, and as his gaze rests on me, he relaxes slightly. A practiced smile crosses his lips. “Mr. Beaufort doesn’t often bring school friends here, so I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bell.”
I smile back and hold out my hand. He takes it but doesn’t shake it as I expected; instead, he turns it and presses a kiss on the back of my hand. Suddenly, I feel like I should curtsy. Fortunately, I stop myself in time and just say: “Pleased to meet you too, Mr. MacIntyre.”
“Please call me Tristan.”
“Only if you call me Ruby.”
His smile broadens, and he turns to James with an expressive look on his face. “We had a few items sent down from the archives. They’re up in the workshops. So, if you’d kindly follow me.”
He turns on his heel and leads us through the shop to a dark wooden door at the back. It opens onto a staircase.
“I hope you’ll like the clothes we picked out,” Tristan says as we go up. “They were designed by your great-great-great-grandfather in person, Mr. Beaufort.”
I glance at James in surprise, but his face doesn’t change as he replies: “I’m sure they’ll be fine for the occasion.”
“Was that the great-great-great-grandfather who founded the company?” I ask curiously.
Tristan nods. “Exactly, he and his wife, in 1857. Did you know that Beaufort’s was originally a fashion house designing for women as well as men? It was only in the early twentieth century that they decided to focus on their core business.”
I had known that, ever since Lin had suggested asking James about the costumes.
I’d pointed out that it wouldn’t be much use because we’d still need a dress for the woman, but she’d explained about the early days of the firm and shown me pictures of the extravagant dresses the brand had sold back then.
“Yes,” I say, belatedly. “But I didn’t know why.”
“We were on shaky ground financially,” James says. “My great-grandfather made a few bad decisions, and we were on the edge of going bust. Specializing was the only way out.”
“From then on, Beaufort’s became the brand it is today,” Tristan explains, as if he’d been there at the time.
“Nobody else makes a suit like we do. We can provide anything your heart desires, from business suits to full evening dress. The quality of the workmanship is vastly superior to anything you can buy off the rack, quite apart from the fact that we personalize every suit with the customer’s initials. Could you demonstrate, Mr. Beaufort?”
I stop and turn to face James, who’s standing a step below me. Now we’re face-to-face. My eyes meet his for a moment too long, and yet again, I can’t read the expression in them. Then I look down to the breast pocket of his dark gray suit, which is embroidered with the initials JMB.
“I’ve been wondering what the ‘M’ stands for since yesterday,” I admit.
I look up again, and suddenly I’m so close to him that I can make out details in his face that I’ve never noticed before.
Such as that his eyelashes are surprisingly dark for his hair color.
And the pale freckles adorning his cheeks.
“Mortimer,” he replies softly.
“Like your dad?”
He nods and looks past me to Tristan. A clear sign that he has no desire to pursue this conversation any further.
As we climb the rest of the stairs, Tristan tells me about the special fabrics the Beaufort’s tailors work with and the vast array of cuff studs they can choose from.
Until now, a suit has just been a…suit to me. I could never really tell one from another, let alone have any idea of how many choices have to be made before one can be finished. Or how many ways of making them there are.
“We measure every single check so as to leave nothing to chance,” Tristan says as we leave the stairwell and step into a brightly lit corridor.
“Attention to detail and the best quality have always been what makes Beaufort’s stand out.
Which is why we even dress the royal family.
” He stops near a photograph on the wall. I come closer, and my mouth drops open.
It’s the Prince of Wales.
“No way,” I breathe.
James says nothing, but Tristan beams proudly. “He is not our only royal client.”
We keep walking down the hallway, which is lined the whole way with pictures of celebs, politicians, and aristocrats—all wearing Beaufort’s suits.
I see Pierce Brosnan, the Beatles, and even the prime minister.
There is also a whole row of men whose faces mean nothing to me but whose very bearing tells me that they’re both powerful and rich.
“Have you met all these people?” I ask James.
He shrugs. “Some of them.”
“That’s so cool,” I murmur, and I’m almost a bit sad as Tristan opens a door at the end of the corridor, finally leading us into the workroom.
I look around curiously. It’s a huge space, almost like a giant warehouse. It’s Saturday, but there must be fifty people at work here, either at tailor’s dummies or tables laden with cloth.
“This way,” says Tristan, leading the way through the room, us in his wake.
“The costumes are over here.” As we pass, people greet James politely but awkwardly.
Glancing back over my shoulder, I see them putting their heads together and whispering.
I wrinkle my brow as I look at James. He’s put on a mask of nonchalant arrogance, the expression I know from school.
I wonder what’s going on in his head right now.
He doesn’t look as though he enjoys the staff here seeming scared of him.