Chapter 9
Next morning
Madame Chapelle’s, Clements Street
Kitty finished drying the dishes from breakfast, then fetched her basket.
She spread the contents on the large wooden table and sat down, studying the bits and pieces.
What would she create today? She had brought along several swaths of different material for reticules.
Choosing the cinnamon shade, she poked a finger in the pouch of piping and chose two lengths of black, then studied the sequins. Embroidery or gewgaws?
Her mind wandered to her hosts. They were so kind, both insisting she call them by their given name so she would feel more of a friend and guest rather than a runaway.
Over an evening of whist and interesting patter, she learned Genie had inherited her half of the shop from her mother.
The poor woman, unwed and pregnant, had fled to London from a country estate when her father, the estate steward, had cast her out.
Pretending to be the widow of a French count, she had taken the moniker Madame Chapelle, providing a decent living for herself and her growing daughter.
When Mrs. Peckton’s husband died, she had joined her sister and niece, helping with the shop and the rent.
Kitty was in awe of how the women had grown the business on their own.
Genie seemed so happy with her success and upcoming marriage.
Will I ever be as happy? Will I find success and love? At least one of the two? And if she had to choose one, which would it be? Success or love? But she already knew the answer, thinking of her parents. Love would provide her with a better life than success, wouldn’t it?
She could see the top of St. Clement Church from the kitchen window. Soon she was quietly singing the nursery rhyme.
Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's.
You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martin’s.
When will you pay me, say the bells at Old Bailey.
When I grow rich, say the bells at Shoreditch.
When will that be, say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know, say the great bell of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!
Chip chop, chip chop, the last man is dead.
There was a public dispute about the origin of the lyrics.
This smaller church insisted its location, close to the docks where citrus fruit was unloaded, proved it was the church in the rhyme.
But St. Clement Danes Church of Westminster proclaimed it is the St. Clement’s featured in the children’s poem.
“What do we have here?” asked Genie, chuckling when she startled Kitty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The modiste wore an azure muslin with a square neckline and short, puffed sleeves.
Tiny loops of white lace had been added to the collar and cuffs, and small doves were embroidered along the hem.
A gown too lovely for Kitty to ever wear as a day dress.
She suddenly felt like a bumpkin in her serviceable brown wool.
“It’s my fault. My mind was wandering,” Kitty said as she tried to scoop up the scattered tassels, beads, and materials scattered across the table.
“Don’t stop. You’ve piqued my interest.” Miss Chapelle sat across from her, her elbows planted on the surface as she stared at the reticule Kitty was working on. “Is this for you or someone else?”
“I-I… both. I buy scraps from seamstresses, bits and pieces that aren’t enough to use for a project, so they’re cheap.
I know so many women who can’t afford to replace their accessories.
In this way, their old items can look and feel like new.
” She showed Genie a pair of gloves she’d finished for a customer.
“The fingers were in good shape, but the cuff was frayed and dirtied. I cut it off and added a new one in a slightly different color, piping to cover the seam, then embroidered her initials in the same color.”
Genie took the cotton glove and studied it. “Excellent work,” she murmured. “I sell items like this. One-of-a-kind accessories to go with my gowns and pelisses. But it’s so time-consuming. Any experience as a seamstress?”
“I learned from my mother, though I prefer this type of handiwork,” admitted Kitty, her stomach churning with nerves. Was Madame Chapelle considering her as an employee? She might swoon. Deep breath, deep breath.
“I’m looking for an assistant to help with sewing.” Genie tapped her mouth with a forefinger, the gold of her brown eyes bright as she considered. “Are you in need of work?”
Kitty’s first instinct, because of her present “business venture,” was to say no.
But was spitting dried peas at someone’s window the way she wanted to earn a living the rest of her life?
Of course not. It was a way to earn coin to help her father.
This—her eyes scanned the contents of her basket—was what she longed to do.
“Yes, I am,” she said with conviction.
Genie smiled, showing straight white teeth. “I’ll send Aunt Lydia up with something. We’ll start with some hemming and check your stitches. If you are competent with what I need in an assistant, I’ll hire you. Then we’ll discuss the accessories and see what we can work out.”
Kitty blinked as her mouth gaped. She swallowed, ignoring her pounding heart. “That would be fine,” was all she managed to say without her voice sounding shrill.
When Miss Chapelle left, Kitty fell back against the hard wooden chair. An employee of Madame Chapelle’s? She was confident in her sewing skills, even if it wasn’t her passion.
Mama, I wish you were here.
Shortly after, a knock interrupted her thoughts. Why would Mrs. Peckton knock? If her hands were full, nick ninny! Kitty leapt to the door, tossed it open, then gasped.
“Mr. Cooper,” she said in shock.
“Yes, that’s me,” he said, standing on the top step of the front staircase that led directly to the shop.
Her mouth was open again, so she quickly shut it. “I-I thought you were Mrs. Peckton.”
He grinned, and she noted his blond hair was smoothed back, no spikes to be seen. “I am definitely not an elderly widow.”
“Did he say elderly?” demanded the woman in question, coming up behind Mr. Cooper.
“No.” Mr. Cooper’s eyes widened in shock.
“Yes,” Kitty said at the same time. He tossed her a glance of mock outrage when she disagreed with him. Kitty smirked at the blush creeping up his neck. “Oh, my manners.” She stepped aside so he and Mrs. Peckton could enter.
Mr. Cooper hung his hat on a wall hook, then walked into the kitchen as if he was familiar with the apartment. Kitty followed behind the older—but not elderly—woman, carrying a heavy cerulean-blue velvet gown.
“I’ve brought a project for you,” said Mrs. Peckton. “I’ve already torn out the hem and indicated the new length. I have needles and thread, so you won’t need to use your own. I assume you have your own thimble?”
Kitty nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much for this opportunity.”
“Let’s save the gratitude until we see your stitches,” she said, all business. “I thought I’d observe your sewing a bit and peruse your crafts while I”—she gave Mr. Cooper a side-glance—“watch.”
“Chaperone, you mean?” asked Mr. Cooper with a smirk. “Shall I make some tea?”
“You speak with your lady, and I’ll make the tea.”
Kitty’s eyes grew wide at the term “your lady,” and she looked at Mr. Cooper, whose flush had spread to his cheeks.
“I’m not his—”
“I just wanted to check on you, see how you were faring in your new surroundings.”
His smile made the wings flutter in her belly. Perhaps he would visit more while she was here. That would be a bright spot in a cloudy sky. Kitty wanted to know him better.
“Miss Chapelle and Mrs. Peckton have been more than kind.” She picked up the velvet gown and inspected the pulled hem, spreading it out on the table to snip off the frayed edge.
“Thank you again, ma’am,” he said. “Clayton mentioned this solution, but I didn’t want to put anyone out.”
“No thanks needed. You may have found us a new assistant,” said Mrs. Peckton, joining them again at the table while the water heated on the coal stove. “We might owe you a favor.”
“I’d say we’re even if it works out,” agreed Mr. Cooper, his eyes never leaving Kitty as she threaded a needle with dyed thread, then began measuring the hem according to the mark.
As she worked, Kitty told Mrs. Peckton about her hope of making accessories to earn a living. The woman inspected her work and nodded her approval.
“The accessories can be almost as time-consuming as the gowns. Poor Genie can barely keep up with those orders, let alone the accompanying bonnets, reticules, gloves… I really hope you are able to help her.”
Kitty swallowed, pushing back the thrill at the idea of her dream becoming reality. Her eyes strayed to Mr. Cooper, the reason she was here. “I think you are my lucky charm.”
“Me? Lucky?” He chortled, a lopsided grin on his face. “Luck has never been my friend. I’ve been teased about my lack of it since I was a boy. My sister Nora says I was born under a halfpenny planet.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Kitty. “You are a solicitor with an excellent reputation. Your family is well-liked and respected. Of course you are lucky.”
“I have never won a game of chance in my life,” he said emphatically. “No one will take me on as a partner in a card game or even charades. I always lose when betting on a horse—or anything else for that matter.”
“He speaks the truth,” said Mrs. Peckton, an amused smile crinkling the corners of her brown eyes.
“Never?” asked Kitty, unconvinced.
He shook his head. “Marbles? Torture. Always put in impossible situations and lost. My brothers could sneak into the kitchen and steal a last piece of pie or a biscuit, but I was caught every time.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean you are luckless,” argued Kitty, imagining him as an adorable little boy with yellow hair sticking up in a dozen directions. “Your skills are in other areas.”
“If there were three or four of us waiting to cross a street, and a carriage passed by, I would be the only one to get splashed. If I tried to beat the rain, I would be drenched every time.” He waved Mrs. Peckton to stay seated as he walked to the stove and removed the boiling water.
Kitty cut another length of thread and rethreaded her needle.
“It became known in the household that if I was brought along, anything bad would happen to me instead of them. I became a sort of insurance for my siblings.” Mr. Cooper chuckled.
“Harry and Gus would take me to St. James’s Park, and we’d watch the cavalry practice.
Sometimes the men would race each other, and bets were made.
Before placing a bet, my brothers would ask me which horse I chose. They made sure to take any other.”
“So you were a lucky piece, er, person, for them?” Kitty laughed at his story. “You’ve proved my point.”
“Maggie says his luck flies the coop and lands on others,” said Mrs. Peckton.
“And I am the latest happy recipient.” Kitty looked up at Mrs. Peckton, who was studying the stitches she’d made so far. “Smaller?” she asked.
“No, those are perfect. Genie will be pleased.” She walked to a cupboard and took out four teacups, saucers, and spoons, setting them on a tray already laden with a small silver bowl.
A large lump of sugar rested on the counter.
She broke off a half-dozen chunks and placed them in a bowl. “Do you take milk?”
“No, ma’am,” said Kitty, quickly collecting her items from the table and returning them to the basket to make room for the tea tray. She noted Mrs. Peckton already knew how Mr. Cooper drank his since the tray did not have milk.
An hour later, after more tales of woe from the solicitor and two cups of tea, Mrs. Peckton squinted at Kitty’s stitches again.
“Yes, you might be just what we need.” She turned to Mr. Cooper.
“I am going downstairs now. We have a client coming at half past one. I expect to see you close behind me, Benjamin.”
Benjamin. What a wonderful and solid name. Possibly Ben to his family and friends? Kitty laid the gown on the table and stood too. She would follow them to the door and bid Mr. Cooper farewell. There would be no hint of impropriety. She would not chance offending these generous women.
Seeing Kitty stand, Mr. Cooper rose with a martyred sigh. “I suppose I need to return to my office and finish going over some documents. May I stop in again, Miss Felton? To, uh, see how you fare?”
She almost giggled. “It is not my home. You will need to ask Mrs. Peckton or Miss Chapelle.” Oh, but she wanted him to come again.
“Genie and Lydia,” reprimanded the older woman over her shoulder.
“I shall let your father know all is well when he wakes me tomorrow,” he said, turning to face her as Mrs. Peckton made her way down the narrow steps. “Would you like that?”
“I would be ever so grateful.” Kitty locked her gaze with his whiskey-colored eyes, heat rushing to her core. His head lowered just an inch or so, and she thought he would… Don’t be a ninny. Why would he kiss me?
“Would you mind if I asked him permission to court you?” he asked in a husky whisper.
She swallowed, not sure if she’d heard him correctly over her thumping heart. “What?”
“Miss Felton, it would be my honor if I could see more of you. Not as a protector.” His eyes darkened like brandy, roaming her face, landing on her lips.
The heartbeat seemed to vibrate through her body, and she resisted the urge to wipe her palms against her skirt.
She nodded, not able to form any words. When he leaned toward her, her eyes grew wide, then slammed closed.
His mouth covered hers, moving back and forth gently.
A thrumming began in her lower belly. Her knees wobbled.
Her fingers clutched his lapels, fearing she would sink, drowning in the feel of his soft lips against hers.
Kitty wasn’t sure what that new emotion was rushing through her. It was like a sudden summer storm. Unexpected and exciting.
He pulled back, leaving her panting. When she opened her eyes, he wasn’t smiling. He lifted his hand and pushed a lock of her hair from her cheek with his knuckle. It was a simple yet provocative gesture. Oh my. This man would be trouble for her.
Breathtaking, astonishing, irresistible trouble.