Chapter 19
Nell followed Effie into the gaslit shop in Conduit Street.
The door opened into an elegant showroom furnished with several comfortable chairs, a gleaming trifold mirror, and luxuriant displays of colorful fabrics and trimmings.
A tall counter of polished mahogany stood at the back.
There was a curtained door behind, presumably leading to the workrooms.
Nell’s gaze drifted over the shimmering silks, rich velvets, and exquisitely printed muslins.
She had never been to a dressmaker’s establishment before.
From the earliest age she was able, she’d been making her own clothes.
An easy enough task for one skilled in needlework.
Especially one who wasn’t obliged to design anything more intricate than the plain dresses that made up a schoolmistress’s wardrobe.
“Mr. Malik was recommended to me shortly after Mr. Royce and I married,” Effie said. “His designs are much lauded at the moment. The best one can get outside of Paris. He’s even made dresses for the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.”
Nell lowered her voice. “He must be dreadfully expensive.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself on that account,” Effie said. “Not if Mr. Quincey is paying the bill.”
Nell frowned. She had no intention of taking advantage of Miles’s generosity. The two of them were only just beginning to grow closer. And last night…
Well.
They had kissed, of course. And embraced each other passionately. But it wasn’t that which made the thought of him settle so warmly inside her heart this morning. Her growing feelings couldn’t be reduced to mere physical attraction.
No.
Miles had been kind. Caring. He’d looked after her at her lowest point.
One of her many lowest points these past several days.
And he’d done so with no discernable gain in sight.
He hadn’t used the opportunity to wrest information out of her about the Academy.
He hadn’t even demanded another kiss—or more.
Before leaving the library, he’d summoned the maid to make up a hot brick for Nell’s leg, and then gently, but firmly, commanded that she retire.
Nell hadn’t seen him since. He’d gone to his chamber and she’d gone to hers. By the time she’d come down to breakfast this morning, he’d already left for the paper. And on a Saturday, no less.
“The master always goes in on Saturdays,” Mrs. Bright had explained as she’d poured Nell’s tea.
“Sundays, too, since that business with Viscount Compton. He’s keen to find a story that will restore the Courant’s fortunes.
” The housekeeper had given Nell a sympathetic look.
“I confess, I did hope he’d adjust his habits now he’s a married gentleman, but you know what the paper means to him. ”
More than Nell meant to him, obviously. He’d been wedded to the paper far longer than he’d been wedded to her. And now, she’d gone and complicated things between them even further.
Looking back on it, she supposed she should regret her behavior.
She hadn’t only thrown herself at him. She’d shared something with him that she hadn’t even shared with her Academy sisters.
It had seemed right at the time. Unlike Effie or Gemma or Miss Corvus herself, Miles wasn’t part of the collective effort.
He belonged to Nell alone. Her very own person, to kiss, to confide in.
And Nell had never had anyone of her own before.
She said to Effie, “I do wish the two of you were on better terms.”
“Nonsense,” Effie replied. “We’re in perfect accord. We both want to see you looking your best.”
A young Indian lady in an impeccably tailored wool dress emerged from the curtained back room. She inclined her head to Effie in recognition. “Mrs. Royce. Good afternoon.”
“Mrs. Jones,” Effie said, approaching the counter. “I do hope you can help us. My dear friend, Mrs. Quincey, is urgently in need of several dresses for a shooting party next Saturday. I don’t suppose Mr. Malik can fit her in for a rush order?”
Mrs. Jones swept an assessing gaze over Nell. A smile curled her lips. “He might be persuaded.”
“Excellent,” Effie said. She addressed Nell. “Mr. Malik used to be a tailor. The beauty of his creations is in the cut.” She turned back to Mrs. Jones. “Mrs. Quincey requires no extra adornment, as you see. Only a suitable frame to enhance her already formidable attributes.”
“Just so.” Mrs. Jones gestured to the back room. “If you will allow me to take your measurements, madam?”
Nell walked toward the curtained door. Effie didn’t accompany her. Nell paused. “You’re not coming?”
“You don’t require me for this part,” Effie said. “And we’ve little enough time to spare before you leave for Hertfordshire. I shall take the opportunity to visit the milliner and draper on your behalf, and to pay a visit to a clockmaker’s shop I know of in Oxford Street.”
“A clockmaker?” Nell echoed dubiously.
“I’ve business with his assistant,” Effie explained. “I’ll be back before you’ve finalized your order.”
“But how will I know what’s most suitable?” Nell asked.
“Leave it with Mrs. Jones and Mr. Malik,” Effie said. “They won’t steer you wrong.”
Nell spent the next two hours in her underclothes, standing atop a raised platform in one of the fitting rooms, being measured, marked, and swathed with beautiful fabrics.
Mr. Malik was indeed a visionary. A tall, bronze-skinned gentleman with a studious set to his brow, he took no liberties and engaged in no idle conversation, but somewhere along the way—as he diligently draped and pinned—he conjured an effortless variety of magic.
Nell learned that shades of maize and gold could turn her skin from a flat porcelain to a rich, luminous cream, and that delicate blues and greens could make the gray in her eyes dazzle with the incandescent shine of a moonstone.
Colors mattered, it seemed. So did textures, and strategically placed darts and seams.
By the time Effie returned later that afternoon, Nell had ordered several gowns, two sets of blouses and skirts, and a smart little caraco jacket—all of it billed to her new husband.
“It was always Miss Corvus’s dream to see you outfitted in fashionable style,” Effie remarked as the Royces’ carriage departed Conduit Street.
Nell sat back in her seat across from her friend, her hip aching from spending so much time standing immobile. “Perhaps once,” she acknowledged.
“Pity she won’t see it.” Effie’s eyes took on a pensive expression. “Pity about all of it.”
Nell knew what her friend was referencing. And it wasn’t Nell’s recent expulsion from the Academy. It was about the day Nell had fallen from the roof.
Effie was terrified of heights. After climbing up to the top of the Academy tower as a girl, she’d found herself too frozen with fear to get down. Nell had been obliged to go after her. That Nell had slipped in the process had been entirely an accident.
Which made no difference to Effie’s conscience. She’d always blamed herself for snuffing out Nell’s early potential.
But Nell didn’t blame her. Perhaps she had once, in the direct aftermath, when she’d been laid up, recovering from her injuries, during all those interminable visits from incompetent local doctors.
But that was a long time past, and best forgotten.
She loved Effie too well to dwell on it.
And she understood. She truly understood.
“Never mind that,” Nell said, gently changing the subject. “What did you buy at the milliner’s and draper’s shops?”
“Three fetching little hats, four pairs of gloves, a lace parasol, and various other odds and ends.”
Nell inwardly recoiled at the undoubted expense. “And the clockmaker’s establishment? You never said why you were going there.”
The carriage slowed amid the traffic of the busy street.
It was an overcast day, but still a dry one, and the storekeepers were doing a steady trade.
Gleaming coaches jockeyed for position in the road as well-to-do ladies and gentlemen in fine clothes were assisted in and out of their vehicles by liveried footmen.
“Ah, that,” Effie said. “I ordered a new cane for you.”
“You what?”
“The one you already have is too recognizable. You’ll require another for Hertfordshire. Something plain and unobtrusive.”
Nell’s eyes narrowed. “And useless?”
“Far from it. The clockmaker’s assistant, Miss Peele, is rather talented with mechanized wheels and coils. She’s fitting it up with a spring-loaded blade just as your previous one had. It will still serve if you get into trouble. Which I trust you won’t with Mr. Quincey there to protect you.”
“Is Mr. Royce always there to protect you now you’re married?”
Effie smiled at the mention of her husband. “He tries to be, poor man. But he has his work to attend to. He can’t forever be chasing after me.”
A hollowness formed in Nell’s chest. She’d never had anyone who loved her so particularly.
Who would be willing to chase her to the ends of the earth in order to save her, protect her.
Not a sweetheart. Not a mother. Not even a friend.
When it came to the point, Nell had always been sacrificed.
Lady Belwood had given her up for selfish gain.
Miss Corvus for the greater good. The end result had been the same.
And Nell wondered, is that what she would have done? Had she a daughter, a protégé, someone who relied on her, would she have set them aside? Abandoned them? Or would she have risked everything to assure their safety and happiness?
She gazed out the carriage window at the passing storefronts, a pensive frown notching her brow.
The well-to-do ladies and gentleman with their fine clothes and their fine servants were far removed from the wretchedness that lay in the less fashionable parts of the city.
Looking at them, one could almost believe that the slums of London didn’t exist. That there weren’t people there, even now, subsisting in the worst circumstances, struggling for their very survival.