Chapter Twenty-Four
Little Compton Street turned out to be on the very route along which Gabriel had taken Phoebe when they’d walked to the St Giles Rookery.
It was not what one could have called salubrious, but at least it wasn’t in the worst area, and had an aura of shabby semi-respectability about it.
However, the landau and matched grays managed to look very out of place amongst the brewers’ drays, carts, and costermongers and their ponies when Lovat drew it up outside number ten, which was a shop.
An annoying thin drizzle had commenced when Gabriel and Phoebe had emerged onto Hill Street, so Atkins had been forced to take an inside seat, opposite them. This had necessitated near silence bar the usual pleasantries on the drive.
As the carriage drew to a halt, Atkins peered out of the window.
Phoebe hadn’t been able to miss the ever-increasing worry on her face, even though Gabriel had directed Lovat to take them via Oxford Street.
Of course, she must have been wondering which park they could possibly be going to as they were heading east, away from the part of London where most of the parks lay.
To do her credit, she had said nothing. Her lips had become tighter, though, and her brows fiercer as they passed right through Soho Square and out onto Greek Street.
She could not have been blind to the deterioration in the quality of the housing.
Now she was looking out at what could only be described as the rundown state of Little Compton Street, and Phoebe was sure she could hear her tutting to herself.
What an infernal nuisance it was to have to take one’s maid everywhere.
If only they could have come on this search in their disguises as the Booth brothers.
Gabriel opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, then turned and held out his hand for Phoebe.
Atkins caught her arm. “I don’t think you should, milady. This doesn’t look like a safe place for a lady to alight from her carriage. Your aunt wouldn’t like you doing so. And you can’t want to buy anything here, surely? Not in a place like this?”
Phoebe tugged her arm free with determination.
“I shall be perfectly all right with Lord Gabriel to look after me. Have no fear. You may remain here in the carriage. You’ll be quite safe as you have Lovat to look after you.
” She smiled in what she imagined to be a confident manner, which was difficult as she was really full of trepidation.
“I repeat, my dear Atkins…Rose. I shall be quite all right.”
And she too stepped down into the street without a second glance for her worried maid.
Number ten was a tall building with sash windows on every floor except the ground floor, which possessed a solid, black painted door and a small shop window.
Within this spotlessly clean glass resided a selection of articles designed to lure the shopper inside: a few rolls of printed calico and linen, a black-trimmed bonnet, some folded cotton stockings, a selection of dull-colored ribbons, and a board with buttons affixed to it.
Above the window, faded letters proclaimed this the establishment of Madame Brunet and, to its left, a narrow alley edged its way between the shop and the next building.
None of this was conducive to a passing shopper such as Phoebe to go in and ask for service.
But then, they were not in an area that catered for those who bought clothes for anything other than everyday workwear.
“Shall we go inside?” Gabriel asked, rather needlessly.
She nodded, breath catching in her throat. “Lead on.”
Behind them, Lovat was busily employed putting the canvas rugs over the horses’ backs and Atkins was peering out of the carriage window as though desperate not to let Phoebe out of her sight.
Gabriel pushed open the door, and they went inside.
The first thing Phoebe noticed about the small shop was the smell. Lavender struggled to overcome the odor of wool, damp linen, and beeswax. Not a bad smell at all, but an unusual one to her nostrils. The dressmaker’s salon she frequented with Aunt Fanny and Mattie did not smell at all like this.
The second thing she noticed was how gloomy the shop was, with only the crowded front window providing light.
There was enough, however, to show her the wooden shelves stacked with bales of sturdy cottons, wools and linen, piles of stockings, aprons, handkerchiefs, and haberdashery, as well as a row of hooks where ready-made shifts and petticoats hung side by side with plain, workmanlike gowns.
Towards the back of the room stood a simple wooden counter in front of which someone had placed two stools, perhaps for customers to sit on while they discussed their requirements.
How civilized. Behind this counter sat a small, bent-backed woman of late middle-age, her gray hair scraped back tightly from a deeply lined face and mostly hidden beneath a plain white cap.
On the end of her long nose she wore wire-rimmed spectacles and in her thin hands she held a half-finished baby’s bonnet.
She stopped, of course, as the little bell on the door jangled behind them, and looked up, clearly surprised to see people as well-dressed as they were in her little shop.
Phoebe stared. Could this rather bent elderly lady really be Gabriel’s mother?
He was doing the same thing and appeared to be rooted to the spot.
Phoebe took the initiative and stepped up to the counter. “Good morning,” she began, not at all sure how to continue, and fixing her attention on the woman’s eyes. Behind her spectacles they were small and dark and hard as pebbles on a riverbank. She had a sharp, calculating look about her.
The woman got to her feet as though she suffered from joint pains and bobbed a respectful curtsy. Narrowing her eyes made them even smaller as she assessed her possible customers. “Milady, milord. Welcome to my humble shop.”
She had a French accent, so she must surely be the Madame Brunet from the shop front. But what she certainly wasn’t was Gabriel’s mother.
As Phoebe’s command of French was only minimal, perhaps addressing this lady in her own tongue, even if it would have been polite, might not be a good idea.
If she was a refugee from the Terror, she’d probably been in London long enough to speak good English.
She certainly sounded as though she did.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said, and glanced over her shoulder at Gabriel who was still standing by the door looking utterly taken aback.
Perhaps he’d been expecting to find his mother inside the shop waiting for him, looking like the image he must surely have inside his head.
Phoebe had certainly been laboring under this assumption.
However, she wasn’t as shocked as he appeared to be.
She gave him a rueful smile and saw his shoulders sag, but whether it was from disappointment or relief she couldn’t be certain.
Still, they were at the right address, and this woman was French, so they must be on his mother’s trail. After all, Mr. Coolidge had told them to come here, so it couldn’t be a wild goose chase.
She looked back at Madame Brunet. She could perhaps gain her confidence by making a purchase…
a substantial purchase. That would surely please her and put her on their side.
She pointed at one of the bales of dark wool, which would be perfect for new gowns for some of her aunt’s servants. “How much for the entire roll?”
Madame Brunet’s eyes flew open in surprise, but she named a price Phoebe could cover with her pin money, and the wool was brought down and wrapped in brown paper with great care and attention.
Phoebe handed over her money and smiled in what she hoped was a friendly fashion. “I must tell my friends to visit your shop for their servants’ clothing.” Another good idea.
Madame Brunet had stopped looking dour and fed up some time ago and now she smiled in delight. “Milady, you are too kind.”
Phoebe beamed at her. “It’s nothing, but you could do something for me in return.”
Madame Brunet nodded, all eagerness now. “Of course, milady. Anything.”
Phoebe took a sideways glance at Gabriel to discover a look of admiration on his face. Good.
She returned her gaze to her new and appreciative friend. “My companion and I are searching for someone.”
Madame Brunet took on the guise of someone who was all ears, leaning forward over the counter in her eagerness to oblige this strange benefactor who had bought so much of her fabric in one go. “Who are you looking for, milady? I will help if I can.”
“I have information from a private inquiry agent that the woman we seek is in your employ,” Gabriel put in, taking a step forward. “She’s a French lady, like yourself, and has eyes of an unusual color.”
Madame Brunet’s small dark eyes sharpened and her thin face broke into a triumphant smile.
“I know this woman of whom you speak. Sidonie Marechal is her name.” Her words fairly tumbled over themselves in her haste to get them out.
“Has she stolen from you? If she has, I shall dismiss her on the spot. I have always said there was something disquieting about her. She is not quite normal, that one.”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, no. As far as I know, she has stolen nothing. I just want to see her. Is she here?”
Madame Brunet’s eyes clouded and she shook her head.
“Alas, she is not. I have no space here for the work that needs to be done. She makes work trousers and gowns and that needs space for the cutting of the fabric. My seamstresses must take their work home with them and work in their own houses. That is what she does except on the day I go to visit the grave of my dear husband. Then Sidonie is here, behind the counter for me.”