Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (21 page)

The shop woman pushed back a wisp of brown hair, nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes, of course. Please, come this way.” She parted the curtain.

“Proceed.” Lady Beatrice nudged me forward, still glaring at the girls.

My hands were ice but my cheeks felt on fire as we followed the shopkeeper.

“How dare she,” Lady Beatrice whispered to Miss Moray. Her hand shook as she clutched my arm. “A mere daughter of a knight, nothing more. Such audacity to approach us! This isn’t the first time that girl has tried to sidle up to the elite. I saw Eramus talking with her once. I now believe she started the conversation. I have it in mind to make certain her entire family pays for the insult.”

“She ought to be ashamed of herself,” Miss Moray agreed. “A jade if I’ve ever seen one.”

Kate’s brow rumpled with displeasure before she stuck her tongue out at her ladyship. It was quick; I doubted anyone but myself saw.

Having been an outcast many times, it warmed my heart toward Kate. I gave her a look of approval and received an abashed grin in response. At least I would have one ally this day.

For the next hour ladies unrolled bolts of material, creating rivers of spilled silks, taffeta, and satins. Miss Moray lingered over the table, fingering each selection. She set aside the most expensive, turning away the rest. Trims such as I’d never imagined were spread in display over every available space—lace beaded with pearls, embroidery more delicate than a child’s fingers seemed capable of sewing. After the majority of the selections had been made, Lady Beatrice argued over the length of time required.

“We are not a slop shop.” The shopkeeper frowned, clearly unmoved by Lady Beatrice’s imperious threats. “It’s not as if I keep bodice shells on hand. My gowns are unlike any others in London. They require extra time for the detail we give them.”

“Do not mistake me. I expect no less than your very best—and I do mean your
very
best.” Lady Beatrice swatted away Miss Moray, who’d brought a sample of Brussels lace for approval. “When my granddaughter comes out, would you prefer her to be wearing a gown from Quill’s or from Smythe and Tippler?”

The woman bit her lip and eyed me standing quietly to the side.

“Lord Pierson will pay double your normal fees, triple if necessary. In addition, he’ll also be happy to pay for all the gowns that are delayed as an apology to your other customers’ inconvenience.”

I eyed Lady Beatrice, understanding for the first time why
she’d gone along with this plan. She hadn’t been in jest when she stated it would cost my father. Beneath my bodice, I felt perspiration rise as I wondered if my father could actually afford this.

The woman wiped her palms on her oversized apron. “There is one client about her size. For thrice my normal fare, I’ll alter three of her dresses immediately, but her replacement gowns shall be very expensive. You’ll wait on all the others.”

“Agreed, with the exception of her coronation gown. I want better than you’ve ever produced, and I expect it finished within a fortnight.”

A glint of excitement filled the shopkeeper’s eye. She made an effort to smother the hope in her voice but failed. “There is one dress worthy. I had fashioned a gown for Her Majesty, but thus far the royal dressmaker refuses to meet my price.”

Lady Beatrice tapped her elongated fingers on the table. “Is it white?”

“Yes, yes, and made of a very rare silk that was gifted to an MP, purchased at a very high price.”

“And for my granddaughter’s train?”

The woman signalled with her finger to follow her. Miss Moray looked up as we left, but chose to stay and sift through more fabrics. In a back area, four girls bent over satin material with a beaded silver passementerie. It shimmered unlike anything I’d ever seen.

“Yes.” A slow smile stretched over Lady Beatrice’s lips. “That one will be fine. We’ll pay double to make certain no one else attempts to buy it. Send the first bill to Lord Pierson today.”

By the time we returned to London House, thick darkness lay between the houses. Our street’s lamplighter walked our lane, spreading pools of saffron light as he touched his pole to each lamp’s wick. The clopping hooves of Lady Beatrice’s horses
accompanied Kate’s and my ascent up the stairs. My legs trembled with each step. Not once had I eaten that day.

With shaking fingers, I searched for the hatpins stuck amongst the damp ribbons and feathers in my bonnet. Blisters had developed on the backs of my feet where my shoes had rubbed them. We’d visited milliners, accessory boutiques, and hidden specialty shops known only to the elite. Everywhere I went, I’d cost my father a treasury.

With a sense of sadness, my thoughts returned to the beggar girl I’d seen at the start of my journey. It was hard to justify how much we’d spent in the name of extravagance when there were so many hungry just outside the doors.

I pressed my hand against my heart as memory of Edward at that awful dinner with Lady Foxmore came to mind. No wonder that when forced to speak, he’d chosen the topic of starving cottagers.

“Who knew there were so many shops in London?” Kate said, her voice sounding as weary as I felt. She sank to a bench. “I didn’t know it would be like that, or I never would have gone.” She leaned forward and surveyed the hall while Miss Moray took my cape. “Where do you suppose everyone is?”

As if to answer her question, the library door swung open and Lord Dalry entered the hall, the pages of a book fluttering in his hand. His piercing gaze assessed me first. Before he stepped toward us, the sound of heavy boots stopped him.

“Where is Lady Beatrice?” My father stormed from a back room. Wisps of smoke escaped his mouth, and the scent of cigar filled the hall. His dusky face mottled redder as he swore and sent a small table sailing to the floor.

I folded my arms and clamped them over my stomach as I took a seat on the bench. I had not the energy to tell him Lady Beatrice had already left.

“She just departed for home, sir,” James offered.

“Sir, I know you’re upset,” Lord Dalry began, “but if I may advise—”

My father ignored him and turned, bellowing, “James, have my horse saddled this instant! I’m going to pay her ladyship a visit she’ll never forget.”

I lifted my head in time to see him yank a riding crop from the umbrella stand, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Sir.” Lord Dalry’s voice sounded a willed calm. “I really think—”

“Isaac, my mind is made up.” My father grabbed his cape from a closet. “And no amount of argument will dissuade me.”

Lord Dalry frowned slightly as my father flung open the door. “James, bring Miss Pierson tea in the library. She looks famished.”

Halfway down the concrete steps, my father spun around. “If she was hungry, then she bleeding well could have returned at five!” A flock of wood pigeons took flight from the front yard, crying out as they departed. Passersby stopped and gaped. My father lowered his voice to a gnarled whisper. “If she wishes to eat, then let her obey my schedule.”

Lord Dalry crossed his arms, facing him. “Sir, you know as well as I do, she’s had no say in her schedule today. Like it or not, I intend on seeing your daughter take tea.”

My father looked at me and opened his mouth as if to question me but then suddenly snapped it shut again. “Fine! I’ll deal with you when I return.” He waved for James to shut the front door.

“Here.” Lord Dalry placed a hand under my elbow, helping me rise. “Never mind your father’s mood. James, please fetch us tea. Kate, I need to speak to Miss Pierson alone.”

Even Kate was too fatigued to protest much. “I’m famished too.”

“Miss Moray, will you oversee her tea?”

Steel-blue eyes bored into Lord Dalry. She neither dipped nor nodded. “As you wish.”

“Come with me.” With a gentle touch, Lord Dalry gathered my arm. “I have news.”

Kate’s eyes drooped as she leaned against Miss Moray and
started up the first flight of steps. Obediently, I stood, too weary to resist even Lord Dalry at that moment.

In the library, however, I paused at the threshold, unable to endure my shoes. I slipped them off and started anew on the hatpins.

“Here.” Lord Dalry’s fingers brushed against mine. The next second I felt the pins slide out of my hair. He came around the front of the settee, holding my bonnet with its pins lying atop it. “Rest. My news will save until you’ve had something to eat.”

I sank into the luxurious chair and nudged my toes into the plush, mossy carpet. Cold seemed to seep from the dark corners of the room. Marble busts stared blankly at me. I shifted my feet and looked down. Had I ever attended a country dance at the Gardners’ or run down a hill in the rain with Elizabeth? I closed my eyes, remembering how Edward and I had walked over sun-washed fields ripe with wild strawberries. Thinking of him brought heartache, which almost felt good. I’d grown adept at steeling my emotions of late, becoming a silent watcher as I was pulled in every direction, little more than a prop in this stage play.

Before long, the faint rattle of china announced tea, and I realized I’d nearly fallen asleep. I opened my eyes to find Lord Dalry sitting across from me, studying me intently. The aroma of roast fowl, baked apples, and fresh bread tantalized. Smirking, James entered the library burdened with a tray, opening and closing the door with his foot. “Pierrick is downstairs ranting as loud as Lord Pierson because I stole tomorrow’s lunch.” James set the tray on an ottoman, the only uncluttered space large enough to hold it. “You should see him. He’s throwing copper pans and everything.”

Like a soldier worn from battle, Lord Dalry placed his forehead against the heels of his hands. “I’ll go smooth it over with him once I finish here. James, I’m supposed to keep a chaperone; will you stand guard outside the door? If anyone comes, step into the room and ‘chaperone’ us.”

James grinned, then obediently slipped outside the door.

Lord Dalry poured tea and stirred sugar and milk into the steaming brew. “Sip this slowly.” When I accepted the cup, he sat back in his chair again, studying me, keeping one leg crossed over his knee.

The flickering light cast shadows over his thoughtful expression. Wax candles added to the ever-moving, ever-changing light that danced along the walls and gilded the volumes burdening every shelf. I sipped my tea, waiting for him to reveal his purpose in remaining with me.

Rubbing his chin, he finally said, “I’m leaving on the morrow for nearly a fortnight, and I need to—”

“Leaving?” My blood ran cold as I sat forward. “You’re not actually going to leave!”

The hope that rose in his eyes told me he drank in my response, taking it as a signal of progress in our relationship.

I turned my teacup in its saucer, frustrated at myself for giving him a reason to continue his relentless attempts at friendship.

“There’s a slight problem with a group of your father’s supporters. It seems that someone brought pamphlets on a hunting trip, and, according to Mr. Forrester, someone has been making arguments in favor of a radical movement and—”

“Forrester?” Was there nothing redemptive about that man?

“Yes, I fear he thinks—”

“Spare me what he thinks.” I placed my tea aside, resisting the urge to dash it against the wall. I rubbed my temples instead. “I know perfectly well what that man thinks.”

There was no reading Lord Dalry’s expression, but his voice lowered. “While I’m sorry Forrester’s opinion of you is skewed, I would rather you ignore him. Regardless of the source, I must go. Our party survives solely on the good graces of the Whigs at this moment. Any weakening might be the collapse of the Conservatives once and for all. Years of your father’s work—our father’s work—could be ruined in a matter of days. It happens constantly in politics.”

I met his eyes, surprised. “That’s right. Your own father died before you came to Maplecroft.”

A curious expression knit Lord Dalry’s brow before his color rose. “Someone told you?”

“Not exactly, but Mrs. Coleman mentioned it.”

Lord Dalry swallowed and glanced at his hands. “May I ask exactly what she said? Would it break a confidence?”

“She said I should be glad my homecoming wasn’t yours . . . and . . .”