Chapter Six
I feel like an interloper,” Kate murmured to Mama over her cup of tea as they waited for Lady Crewe to arrive. Her eyes darted about the elegant, high-ceilinged drawing room which she had been far too queasy to take much note of evening last for the scant half-hour she had been within it.
Far from the homey, inviting atmosphere of their own small sitting room, the duke’s drawing room was all gilded opulence, with a pianoforte tucked into one corner, lovely dark blue curtains embroidered with shining gold thread wreathing the windows, plush rugs laid across the parquet floor, and intricately-carved furniture shining with the dedicated polishing it no doubt received from the staff.
“Like royalty might come calling at any moment,” Mama whispered back with a little smile tucked into her cheek.
More than that, Kate thought. Like any sound above a whisper threatened to disturb the finely-wrought majesty of the room. Perhaps even that their very presence disturbed it; as if they themselves were out of place and poorly fitting.
Austerity was steeped into the very walls, stitched with precision into the ornate and ancient tapestries that hung high upon the walls and painted with careful brushstrokes within the landscapes and portraits interspersed throughout.
A sense of gravity lingered here that lent itself to the sensation that the long line of dukes had left indelible marks upon it with each set of hands this house had passed through.
Elliot had descended from those very dukes, but it seemed a difficult thing to reconcile Elliot as she had always known him fitting comfortably here.
She simply could not imagine the Elliot who had run along with her and their ragtag band of village children sitting politely upon a couch with a stylishly-knotted cravat and his coat buttons done up properly, indulging in idle chatter about how fair the weather had been or inquiring after everyone’s health.
He hadn’t—in her experience, at least—the temperament for such civil rituals, was always too ready with a joke or a quip.
From the doorway, Hodges cleared his throat and Kate’s heart knocked into a rapid flutter in her chest. Without the room, she heard the hurried click-click-click of shoes upon the floor, and knew Elliot’s female friend had arrived.
As Kate set down her cup and came awkwardly to her feet, Hodges announced, “Lady Crewe,” and straight upon the heels of the words, a tiny blond woman barreled into the room with all the energy of a hurricane.
“Well! You must be Kate,” she said, with an agitated wave of her hands as she strode straight across the floor.
“No need to stand on ceremony; there simply isn’t time.
On account of my son utterly refusing to nap until I had put him in bed myself, I am unforgivably late to retrieve you.
And, as a consequence, we will be unforgivably late for our appointment with Madame Dubois’, and I promise you, no one wants to be unforgivably late for Madame Dubois, because—”
“It is unforgivable?” Kate suggested, half-jesting.
“Precisely,” Lady Crewe said with complete seriousness as she slid her arm through Kate’s at an angle that had to be at least a little awkward due to the disparity in their respective heights.
“Madame Dubois is not known for her forgiving nature, so we simply must dash. We’ll get acquainted in the carriage.
Is your mother—ah.” Lady Crewe spotted Mama as she whipped about for the door and bobbed a hasty curtsey that threatened to drag Kate down with it.
“My apologies for the rush, Mrs. Littlefield, but it is quite urgent. Have you got everything necessary?”
“Yes; I think so,” Mama said as she touched the rim of her spectacles. “Oh. My reticule—”
“Leave it,” Lady Crewe advised grimly as she marched Kate toward the door and snagged Mama’s arm with her free hand on the way.
“Besides, it is my understanding that Elliot has already instructed Madame Dubois to send the bills round to his man of business.” Somehow, the tiny woman had managed to finesse all three of them through the drawing room door at once; a feat which Kate could hardly believe.
“Which means that you won’t be required to pay a brass farthing for Madame Dubois’ services—and, doubly lucky, means we also stand at least half a prayer of Madame Dubois forgiving the unforgiveable. ”
Kate could only manage a breezy, “Oh?” as they were once more dragged with skillful maneuvering through the front door and onto the street.
“Oh, yes,” Lady Crewe said, all dogged determination as she propelled them toward the carriage outside.
The waiting footman leapt into action to open the door as they approached, and Kate found herself shoved into the carriage with more strength than that with which she would have credited the dainty woman.
Mama followed after at a somewhat less forceful shove, though the expression she wore as she settled into the seat beside Kate could only be described as poleaxed.
Lady Crewe fell into her own seat with a heavy sigh, lifted one hand to bang upon the roof of the carriage, and at once, the vehicle lurched into motion.
Kate’s stomach lurched with it in a desperate heave. “Oh, no,” she mumbled, feeling the color leave her face at an alarming rate.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Lady Crewe said with a grimace as she reached out to touch Kate’s hand in sympathy. “My husband did mention that Elliot said you were not a good traveler. I’m afraid I forgot it entirely. Breathe through your nose; it does help.”
Hesitantly, Kate drew in a swift, sharp breath—but the stink of the city streets and the heavy odor of coal smoke fouled the air. It took a monumental effort not to gag, and Kate said through the grit of her teeth as she swallowed down the sour bile that coated her tongue, “Lady Crewe—”
“Rebecca. Please. Elliot is a dear, dear friend of mine, after all. Why, I feel as if I know you already.”
That drew Kate up short. Her stomach slid once more into its place and, if it did not quite settle there, it quieted its frenzied gurgling for the moment. “You do?”
A light laugh, and Lady Crewe—Rebecca—braced herself with one arm on the wall of the carriage as it veered into a turn, looking for all the world as if such daring maneuvers were commonplace. “Naturally, as you dominate so much of Elliot’s conversation.”
She did? “I had no idea,” Kate said, baffled by the assertion.
“Well, how could you have?” Rebecca said, with a laugh muffled behind her gloved hand. “I expect he does not frequently spend much of his time in the countryside telling you stories of yourself.”
No; of course not. What would be the point of that?
But Kate could not imagine that stories of an unknown woman settled deeply in the countryside, with all the bucolic monotony it entailed, would have been of much interest to this fashionable, sophisticated woman, besides.
Sheepishly, she gave a little shrug of apology.
“I’m sorry, then, to say I know relatively little of—of his friends in London,” she admitted.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, and the corner of her lips hitched up in a smile that could only be called sly. “It is rather unfair of him, is it not? But then, he is always so eager to leave London that it does not particularly surprise me.”
Kate’s stomach tumbled anew as the carriage took a corner with entirely too much vigor for comfort, and her shoulder knocked Mama’s.
“Eager to leave,” she repeated, perplexed, as she tried not to consider the possibility that this carriage ride might well be her last. “Is he, really? I’ve always been under the impression that he has got such a tendency toward mischief that when his missteps catch up with him, he finds it wisest to absent himself for a time.
At least until his most recent offense has been mostly papered over and forgiven. ”
“That is the impression he wishes to give, to my understanding,” Rebecca said airily. “But you know Elliot better than I, I am certain. What do you think?” And then, before Kate could give an answer, “Oh, look! We’ve arrived at last.”
Thank God. The trip had not been a long one, owing perhaps to the coachman’s reckless disregard for the safety of his charges—or anyone who had had the dubious honor of sharing the street with him—but even the few minutes in which they had been ensconced within the carriage had been enough to provoke her stomach into open rebellion.
Or had it been only the odd question proposed by Rebecca? What had she meant, what did Kate think? What was there to think, other than that Elliot was too capricious by half, governed most often by whims and flights of fancy? Why would he wish to give such an impression, were it not the truth?
As she climbed out of the carriage after Rebecca and Mama, the pavement upon which she had landed seemed to buckle and sway beneath her feet, almost as though she had spent the last several hours on the bow of a ship at open sea, rather than only seven or so minutes within the confines of a carriage.
Perhaps all of London moved at this velocity, careening through life every bit as much as the carriage had careened through the streets.
Then again, she thought, as Rebecca clapped her hands together and issued a delighted little screech of effervescent joy, perhaps it was only Rebecca herself who did so.
“Against all odds,” Rebecca said, as she seized their arms once more, dragging them inexorably toward the smartly-appointed shop before them, which displayed in its window a number of beautiful silk gowns draped gracefully upon dressmaker’s forms, “and due only to the diligence of my coachman—”
Diligence? Kate had been half-convinced that the likelihood of arriving at all, much less alive to tell the tale, had been somewhat slim. What sort of diligence was that?
“—We have made it to our appointment on time,” Rebecca concluded. “But only by the skin of our respective noses, so I must beg of you: should Madame Dubois mention anything of it, do strive to appear properly apologetic.”
“Apologetic,” Kate muttered to herself beneath her breath as they approached the shop. “What have I done for which I ought to be apologetic?”
“Oh, I’m certain Madame Dubois will find something,” Rebecca said cheerfully as she paused before the door, setting her shoulders like a soldier preparing to do battle. “She always does.”
“And you patronize this woman willingly?” Mama inquired, aghast.
“But of course. She’s a wonder with silk and satin. Anyone who is anyone has got a gown by her—if they can manage to obtain an appointment. Luckily, for some reason, she likes me. Mostly. When I am on time.”
A strangled little laugh bubbled up in Kate’s throat as Rebecca threw open the door.
It made a queer sort of sense. Despite herself, despite the chaos into which she had been thrust over the whole of their acquaintance—probably only fifteen minutes on the outside—she supposed even she liked Rebecca.
It would have been difficult to find a reason not to; she seemed a sunny, vivacious, and vibrant woman.
Good-natured and friendly and just a bit irreverent.
A stark counterpoint to the woman they encountered immediately within the shop, who turned a narrowed, grey-eyed gaze upon them and looked down the excessive length of her nose as she sniffed, “Lady Crewe. You are late.”
“Am I?” Rebecca inquired, all sweet syrupy innocence, “I do beg your pardon, Madame Dubois. I would have sworn I had arrived exactly on time.”
“On the street, perhaps,” This, with a pinch of lips that seemed to fall into a natural frown in perpetuity. “I have got windows, Lady Crewe, and eyes with which to see through them. I saw the haste with which your driver bowled down the street.”
Mama made a muffled sound beneath her breath that sounded rather like a snicker had stuck in her throat, which she forced back down with an audible swallow the moment Madame Dubois turned that frosty gaze toward her.
She was an imposing woman, with a height that would have dwarfed most men, and yet she cut quite the figure in her perfectly-tailored navy gown.
Madame Dubois had armed herself already with the tools of her trade in advance of their appointment; a measuring tape draped over one shoulder and a pin cushion held in one hand, full of shining silver needles and pins.
A thimble graced the point of one finger the way some ladies might wear a ring, but she looked no less sophisticated for these trappings of commerce she wore—rather, she looked something like a Valkyrie primed for battle.
And a battle she had decided it was going to be, Kate realized, as Madame Dubois’ assessing eyes turned upon her at last. “Plain,” she pronounced so matter-of-factly that Kate found she could not take offense to the deliberately tactless comment.
“But such good bones,” Rebecca hastened to say, with a little gesticulation of her hands that Kate supposed was meant to fan heated tempers before they could flare up. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Another sniff, and Madame Dubois stepped closer, fishing in her pocket to retrieve a quizzing glass, which she held up to her eye as she scanned Kate once again. “Hm,” she said. “Your complexion, your coloring—that is from your father, no?”
“I—I suppose so,” Kate said, feeling uncomfortably like a prize fish held up for examination. It was an effort not to lean away as Madame Dubois leaned closer.
“Well,” Madame Dubois said as she put away her quizzing glass at last. “It is clear that your mother was a great beauty in her day. You haven’t got her coloring—but you have got her bones, and this is good.
This I can work with.” With one bony finger, she pointed to the rear of the shop.
“Both of you,” she said. “Go. Undress there. I must see what I have to work with.”
As the stately woman walked off in all confidence that her demands would be followed to the letter, Rebecca clutched Kate’s arm and released another high-pitched trill of glee. “This is going to be such fun!” she said.
And Kate found that she did not have it in her to pop Rebecca’s bubble of joy.
“Fun,” she echoed, pasting on a smile as Rebecca seized their arms again to drag them toward the rear of the shop as instructed.
If she could not appreciate being poked and prodded by Madame Dubois, whom Kate suspected would have more criticisms than simply plain before their visit was through, then she could at least appreciate Rebecca’s pleasant company.