Chapter 6
One week later, I was in for another unpleasant surprise. Mrs. Lewis stood before my counter just as I emerged from my back room, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. The patter of rain sounded from the roof and a chill hung in the air—it would be a dreary day, it seemed.
“There you are, witch girl.” Mrs. Lewis focused a sharp glare on me. “What have you been doing?”
“Sleeping,” I said, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders.
“I was up late working on a client’s dress.
” It was partly a lie. I had spent the better part of the week losing sleep over Crown Prince Bennett’s job offer and barely making any progress with Narcissa’s wedding dress, save for crossing out the wrong skirt length measurement and writing down the correct one in my notebook.
Mrs. Lewis was dressed in a much nicer gown than her usual gray sack. It was a deep blue wool, nowhere near as faded as the rest of her clothing. “I need lanolin soap. Three bars. Get them at that new department store, Blanche de Clare.”
The old crone was in the habit of spewing out her requests in half-sentences, knowing I would obey regardless. She also usually got her soap from the inn across the street, where they would leave out free miniature bars for paying customers, of which she definitely was not.
Why she now insisted on soap from Blanche de Clare baffled me. Could it possibly have something to do with the funds she had discussed with the mysterious man?
“Perhaps a closer shop would suffice?” I said to her, deciding not to remark on her sudden taste for luxury. “It’s pouring.” Raindrops splattered the glass of my shopfront, rivulets streaming down the window frame. I hoped the moisture wouldn’t seep in and destroy my display items.
Mrs. Lewis scowled. “And what about it? I need soap before I take my evening bath. Make haste, or I’ll have to increase your rent. My daughter Prilla will be more than happy to take your place if you cannot pay up.”
I stiffened. “There’ll be plenty of time to get soap tomorrow.”
“I think you forget who’s in charge here.” Mrs. Lewis harrumphed and turned, her elbow knocking into a porcelain vase on my counter. It crashed to the floor, shattering into large pieces, as she made her way to the staircase. She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, and clean that up.”
I glowered at her back as she hobbled into the shadows.
***
“WELCOME TO BLANCHE de Clare, miss,” the shop girl chirped. Her brown hair was smoothed back into a chignon, her olive complexion set off by a seafoam green shirtwaist and a cream skirt that flared out at the hem. Her collar was so bright and starched that it resembled a piece of paper.
That, combined with the dazzling effect of her white smile, was almost too much to bear so early in the morning.
“I’m looking for soap,” I said monotonously, brushing a damp piece of hair from my face. Not even the grandeur of Blanche de Clare could lighten my mood this week after Crown Prince Bennett’s offer. In fact, it made it worse. If I had gotten a spot here, I wouldn’t even be considering the job.
The shop girl nodded. “That would be on the third floor, in the grooming department. Right this way, miss.”
I followed her up the stairs. Seafoam green sconces lined the wall, glowing with an otherworldly luster as we rounded a corner on the third floor.
The grooming department had shelves upon shelves of powders, rouges, and soaps, some wrapped in patterned vellum paper, others in intricately enameled tins.
Ivory combs lined the glass displays. Several shoppers were already within, most of them dames dripping in gold and pearls and plumed ostrich feathers.
“I’ll leave you to it,” the shop girl said before gliding off.
I took my time perusing the merchandise.
The layout of the department was impeccable: tall, long shelves stocked full of products filled the space, allowing customers to browse the wares in semi-privacy.
Just beyond, near the balustrades, was a smattering of round tables where shoppers could take tea or look down at the hustle bustle below.
Mrs. Lewis wanted lanolin soap. Heaven knows her dry skin needed it. I went to the soap shelves near the back, gathering three rose-scented bars neatly wrapped in vellum.
I started for the front counter, ready to ring up my items, until the sudden scuffle of slippers on carpet sounded.
“Quick, look sharp, girls!” someone said.
A shop girl flew past the aisles, her petticoats flaring out behind her. “You’ve got an ink stain on your skirt, Dinah!”
“Heavens, help me rub it out! Does anyone have water?”
“There’s cold tea from this morning,” another girl answered.
Dinah let out a wretched moan.
I rounded the shelf to see a flurry of four girls at the front counter surrounding another—Dinah, I presumed—a freckled blonde with a telltale ink stain beneath the waistband of her smooth cream skirt.
“Can I help?” I asked.
They all turned to me. A flurry of “Oh no, miss!” and “It’s alright, miss!” and “Everything is fine, miss!” came my way.
Dinah was halfway through her protestations when her gaze met mine. I knew what she saw—my golden irises that marked me as a witch. She turned slightly green, but evidently was panicked enough to give me the smallest of nods.
With a flick of my finger, ink separated from the fine wool of her skirt. The dried, dark particles floated in the air for a moment before I directed it at a nearby wastebasket. Relief flooded Dinah’s face—just as someone entered.
It was a man dressed in a crisp teal coat, his waistcoat a soft champagne gold, his cravat the same seafoam as the shop girls’ blouses. And above that, his face...
I didn’t know whether it was the after hum of my magic or the effect of his countenance that was making my blood rush to my head.
“Good morning, Mr. de Clare,” the shop girls chorused. They had somehow arranged themselves in a razor straight line.
“Girls,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice. His ocean blue eyes swept through the neat counter displays and spotless shelves. “Everything is in order this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
I blinked, coming out of my stupor at the sound of his name. Surely this young man was not the owner of this palatial department store. Mr. de Clare was the condescending balding gentleman who had turned me away thrice now.
This Mr. de Clare was certainly not balding. His head of lustrous black waves turned to me.
“Forgive me for the disruption, miss. You were browsing?” he said.
I held up my bars of soap. “Not at all. Just finished.”
“Let me help you with that, miss,” Dinah chirped. She stepped behind the counter, took the bars, and wrapped them into a pretty parcel with seafoam tissue paper tied off with a bit of twine. “That will be two silvers. To whom and where shall I address the bill?”
“Oh...Giselle Phula. But there’s no need for that.” Wealthy folk were in the habit of buying whatever they liked and leaving bills on their tab until the very last minute. I was too poor to be that reckless with my money. I fumbled for the satin pouch at my waist.
“Phula, is it?” the new Mr. de Clare said. I jumped at the sound of my name in his smooth voice. “That’s the name of the royal seamstress last winter.”
The shop girls looked at each other, then at me.
“I-I didn’t think anyone remembered,” I stammered. I pushed two silver coins across the counter, all too aware of his assessing gaze at my periphery.
“It’s a hard name to forget.”
I took the parcel from Dinah, quite at a loss for words.
The new Mr. de Clare walked along the counter and stopped before me. “I hope this establishment is suitable for your needs.”
“Of course it is. It’s gigantic,” I said stupidly.
“Then I wish you frequent it as often as you like.” He pressed the top of one silver coin with his gloved finger and slid it toward me. “At a discount, of course.”
My eyes widened. He certainly had a fair amount of authority. Surely he had to be a relation of Walter de Clare, though I couldn’t find any resemblance to the old man’s jowly face in his handsome features.
“Fifty percent?” I managed.
A smile curved his full lips, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.
“Indeed.” He withdrew something from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to me—a card embossed with a golden seashell and the name Mr. Edmund de Clare in swirling font.
“Just show this upon your purchases. The rest will go to my tab.”
“Thank you, sir,” I breathed.
He inclined his head. “Edmund, if you please. I’m afraid I have other business to attend to. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Giselle.”
Then he was gone.
I felt the lump of my wealth charm tucked into my waistband.
I hadn’t made a new one since last week.
Usually charms like these only worked once.
After one stumbled upon a coin or won a card game, it would become useless.
But it had done so much more. Had I accidentally made a good luck charm after all?
Dinah let go of a violent sigh, the stiffness of her posture melting when Edmund de Clare’s coat tails disappeared behind the doors.
When she met my gaze again, there was curiosity in her eyes instead of panic.
“Thank you for your help. Mr. de Clare is rather strict with how we employees present ourselves.”
“Does Mr. Edmund de Clare stand to inherit this place?” I asked, gesturing at the doors.
“Mr. Edmund? Oh, no. He is Mr. de Clare’s son but—”
“Mr. Walter de Clare’s empire will go to his nephew, Mr. Edmund’s cousin,” another shop girl piped up. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mr. Edmund was born on the wrong side of the blanket, you see.”
I raised my brows. So the beautiful man was the illegitimate son of Walter de Clare.
“Hush! Have you no propriety, Blair?” Dinah said irritably.
I inspected the gold embossing on my new card. “But Mr. Edmund still has influence here?”
“Oh, yes,” Blair said cheerily, unfazed by her coworker’s glower. “Mr. de Clare lets him do occasional odd jobs for the store, like inspections and bookkeeping.”
Dinah shoved a roll of blue tissue paper into Blair’s arms. “Cut these to size,” she said. Blair pouted as she was ushered aside.
Dinah turned back to me. “Say, are you really the royal seamstress?”
I dropped the parcel of soap into my satchel, which promptly swallowed it up, barely leaving a bulge. She gaped at this display of magic.
“Only for a winter,” I said.
“Mr. Edmund must’ve considered you extremely important to give you his personal discount,” Dinah said.
Blair joined Dinah at the counter again, twirling her strawberry blonde braids around her fingers. “Or extremely pretty. He gave them to several ladies this summer, remember? He nearly set his cap at one of them even though by then he was already—”
“Propriety, Blair,” Dinah scolded. She managed a smile in my direction. “Either way, it is an honor.”
I took this in. The rich and powerful would be the rich and powerful, I supposed. It wouldn’t surprise me if Edmund de Clare wooed about every attractive young lady who wandered into his vicinity. The thought lowered him in my esteem, but the lesser part of me reveled in my distinction.
You’ve met the man for about two minutes tops, I reminded myself, but couldn’t quite tamp down my giddiness.
The moment I said goodbye to the shop girls and left the grooming department, I headed straight for the second floor where the fabrics and trims were.
Mr. Edmund’s card was a temptation in my hand.
I bought an entire bolt of white silk satin, flashed the card, and walked out with my arms full before I succumbed to anything else.
Nearly a hundred yards of silk, all for less than one hundred silvers!
Around me, the sheer volume of customers lent a steady hum of murmurs that echoed in the cavernous atrium, most of them noblemen’s daughters and their mamas on the hunt for anything to prepare for the next Season.
The magnificent glittering chandelier above the lobby threw iridescent shards of light on the seafoam green carpet.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to run a business in this crystal palace instead of under Mrs. Lewis’s mildewy roof. More light. More foot traffic. More money to send Christabella.
A tendril of hope bloomed within me. If Mr. Edmund de Clare had any inkling of influence, perhaps he’d lend me his ear and I could get another interview. He did seem more amenable to witches than his father did.
My hope withered when I looked over to the vacant storefront emblazoned with Jeraldine’s Dress Emporium. Two witch dress shops might seem redundant. I had always been a delusional optimist, but lately that part of me had worn thin.
At the end of the day, how much sway did an illegitimate son have over a department store empire that wasn’t his to inherit?