Phoenix and Ashes (8 page)

She
leaned over and gave the driver—a very old man indeed—an address
that made him look at her in surprise. But he said nothing, and she took her
place beside her daughters. It was pleasantly warm; unpleasantly enough, they
were all three wearing last year’s spring gowns. This would never do.

To
the surprise of her daughters, the establishment that the taxi left them at was
not
any of the usual fashion houses Alison patronized. She ignored
their surprise, for it was painfully clear to her that the usual establishments
would not do this year. There was probably a good reason why all the houses
that
she
could afford to patronize were using domestically produced
fabrics this spring, and it was a reason she should have anticipated, given the
start of rationing.

She
would have to resort to another ploy—though the rather grubby theater
district was not a place one would normally go to find one’s wardrobe. She
opened a door with the cryptic words
Keplans Haberdashery
painted on
the frosted glass. The girls followed her up a narrow, rather dirty wooden
staircase with no small trepidation; she smiled to herself, knowing what
awaited them at the top.

She
and the girls emerged from this place feeling a glow of triumph. Here, at
least, fashion was not being subjected to patriotism. But then again, the
ladies who frequented this dressmaker absolutely required every aid to
seduction that fine clothing could provide, for most of them had
“arrangements” with the gentlemen of Whitehall, the City, and both
Houses of Parliament—arrangements that did not include wedding rings. As
a consequence, they were unlikely to sacrifice beauty for the appearance of
respectability. Alison knew of this place from her early days as one of the
demimondaine—but of course, unlike the rest of her sisters-in-sin,
she’d had the means at her disposal to ensure she
got
a wedding
ring before too long into her arrangement.

This
particular dressmaker spent half the time creating costumes for the theater,
and half dressing the kept ladies of the town; but because she did the former,
she had a huge storehouse of fabric to pull from. After the third house had
disappointed, Alison had come to the reluctant conclusion that it was possible
the war and the Hun submarine blockade had begun to affect even those with
money to spend on London dressmakers. This dressmaker had only confirmed that,
as she had pulled out roll after roll of silk and muslin with the comment,
“You won’t see
that
, thanks to the Kaiser.” Silks
came from China by way of Paris; muslin from India or the United States. Both
had to come by way of the ocean, and between ships being sunk, and ships being
commandeered to bring over military goods—luxury goods probably still
were
coming, but now their prices had gone beyond the reach of a minor
industrialist’s widow.

Of
course, even in Broom, one didn’t go to a
theatrical costumier
for one’s wardrobe—but Alison had a way around that. When the dresses
arrived in their plain packaging, she would have Ellie cut the labels out of
last year’s gowns and sew them into the unlabeled new ones. Perhaps it
was a bit foolish to do so, but after all, the laundry
was
sent
out—and the laundress would take note if this year’s gowns had no
labels anymore—or worse, had labels from
Keplans Haberdashery
rather than a fashion house that was cited in the London society pages.

Half
of keeping up appearances was in attending to details.

Alison
smiled, as the girls chattered happily on the way back to the Savoy. There was
a slight drawback to patronizing Miss Keplan. They would have to stay in London
for nearly a week to accomplish all the fittings, whereas the establishments
they usually used had mannequins and fitting-dummies made to all three
women’s measure. Still, the results would be worth the extra days. The
girls would look like butterflies among the caterpillars at every garden party
and fête this spring and summer. Men responded to these things. They would
outshine much prettier girls, just because their frocks were prettier. With any
luck, one of them, at least, would catch someone with a title, money, or better
still, both to his name.

Robinson’s
fortune was reasonable, and since by magically enhanced maneuvering, Alison had
secured the monopoly of supplying sacks for sandbags to the army, it was not
likely to run out any time soon—but Alison was weary of being reasonable,
weary of Broom, weary of being the leading light in a claustrophobically tiny
and insignificant social sphere. She had wearied of it very soon after
ascending to the throne of unofficial queen of Broom. She had much larger
ambitions.

Alison
aspired to Longacre Park.

It
was not a new desire. As a scrawny adolescent, hard-eyed with ambition, she had
aspired to the circles of those who fêted royalty. She would gather with
other spectators on the pavement whenever a grand party or ball was being held,
and vow that one day
she
would be among such invitees. When she had
been taken up by an aging courtesan with enough of the gift of Earth Magery to
recognize it in another, she had seen it as a first step to those circles and
deserted her dreary working-class family, even though all such a relic of
Victoria’s time could hope for was the company of prosperous shopkeepers
and minor industrialists.

But
Alison had bided her time, and ensnared the first of the unmarried gentlemen of
moderate means to cross her path, sacrificing wealth temporarily for
respectability. She had slipped up a trifle, allowing him to get her with child
twice—well, he was more virile than she had thought. She had rid herself
of him soon enough, which left her a comfortably off widow, and had laid the
foundations for better conquests by learning the lessons that would fit her for
the circles of the exalted, while at the same time mastering her Magery.
Etiquette, elocution—especially elocution, for Bernard Shaw was right,
the wrong accent guaranteed failure at this game—she had instructors for
everything. A good nanny for the children and the proper boarding schools gave
her the time she needed to attain full command of Earth Magic at the same time.

That
had been at the hands of a
male
Earth Master, of course, and a
suitably old one, who flattered himself that the attentiveness of this attractive
widow was genuine and not inspired by the desire to have all of his secrets.
Strange how male mages never seemed to learn from the lesson of Merlin and
Nimue. A female would not have been so easy to manipulate, nor so hopelessly
naïve. She had learned all he had to teach, and then—well, he got
his reward, and had not survived the experience. He had, however, died with a
look of incredulous pleasure on his face. She had owed him that much. She
wondered what the coroner and undertaker had made of it. And had made of the
fact that he might have been sixty, but when he died, he had looked ninety.

“Mama,
we’re here!” Carolyn called out, shaking her out of her reverie.
She followed the girls out of the taxi, paid and tipped the driver, and entered
the hotel.

No
one took any note of them—well, no one except a couple of young officers
in the lobby who gazed at the girls appreciatively. She repressed a grimace.
Had the family been of note, there would be concierges and porters swarming
about them, eager to know their slightest whim, even with the hotel staff so
seriously depleted by the war—

Well,
if she had anything to say about it, they would be swarmed, one day.

They
entered the elevator, and with a nod and a shilling to the operator, ascended
to their floor.

Which
was not the
best
floor. Respectable, and the denizens of Broom would
have been overwhelmed by the elegance, but it was by no means the best the
Savoy had to offer. And that rankled.

But
she would not show that before the girls. They required ambition, and they had
it, but it must be unclouded by envy. Envy would put disagreeable lines in
their faces. They must be like athletes, or perhaps warriors, with their eyes
and minds firmly fixed on the prize. They must be ruthless, of course, but they
should never waste time on so unprofitable an emotion as envy.

The
girls fluttered into the salon, still chattering about the gowns. They
understood completely that they must not say
where
the gowns were
coming from, of course, but they were bewitched, properly bewitched, by the
pastel silks and delicately printed muslins that had been spread out for their
approval, and the elegant copies of the gowns that the other fashion houses
were showing. As Alison had well remembered, the dressmaker was a very clever
little woman; within days of new gowns being shown for the season,
she
had sketches of every one of them, and was making copies.

And
the gowns that
she
copied were not those of the houses that Alison
could afford to patronize. Oh no. These were the gowns that would make their
appearance on the lawns of stately homes like Longacre Park…

For
the truly, fabulously wealthy, and the extremely well-connected, were no more
affected by the blockade than the theatrical dressmaker was. In the case of the
latter, it was because she had an entire warehouse of fabrics stockpiled, and
besides that, access to dozens, perhaps hundreds of old gowns and costumes that
could be remade. In the case of the former—well, where the
habitués of the Royal Enclosure were concerned, a bolt or two of fabric
could be brought over, somehow…

Well,
perhaps this would be the year. And if the faintly frivolous gowns caused a
stirring of dismay at the Broom cricket games, or the country club tennis
matches, well, perhaps the owners of the gowns could move into territory this
summer where their appearance would harmonize with the surroundings, rather
than stand out from them.

She
shook off her reverie. There was, of course, more to this biannual visit than
just the replenishing of a wardrobe. She had other calls to make while she was
here.

“I’m
going out, girls,” she called out to them. “Have your dinner sent
up. And you are
not
—”

“On
any account to stir from these rooms,” they replied in chorus, and ended
with a giggle.

“Practice
your charms,” she said, with a lifted brow.

“Oh,
Mama—” Lauralee objected. “They’re so much more
difficult here!”

“All
the more important that you learn how to set them here,” she replied
severely. “You have no more magic than the old woman who taught
me—but if I have anything to say about it, you’ll learn how to make
much better use of it than she did.” A thought occurred to her that would
give them malicious amusement, and would set their minds on the proper task.
“Our windows overlook the street. Why don’t you exercise your skills
and your minds by making unsuitable persons conceive of a passion for one
another?”

“Oh,
Mama!” Carolyn exclaimed, delight sparking in her eyes. “May
we?”

“I
would not have told you to do so if I did not mean it,” she replied, with
a little smile of her own. “Make me a thorough report when I
return.”

She
telephoned the Exeter Club as they set themselves and the small bits of
apparatus they would need at the window. There would be no need to find taxis
for this visit. Lord Alderscroft would send a car. This was, after all, the
business of the War Office.

Maya
narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she watched Lord Alderscroft’s visitor.
He had not invited her into his own rooms; instead, they were meeting in the
same Aesthetic public dining room that she had been taken to the first time she
entered the doors of the Exeter Club.

What
she had not known then was that one of the mirrors was one-way, and hid a tiny
spyhole. She didn’t think that anyone had been watching her that time,
but even if they had been, they hadn’t learned anything they
couldn’t have learned by watching her openly.

Alderscroft
wanted her assessment of someone he wanted to keep an eye on Reggie Fenyx. It
was another Earth Master. And already Maya disliked her.

“Really?”
the elegant woman said, her eyes widening slightly. “Young Fenyx is so
badly off as all that?”

No,
Maya did not like Alison Robinson; she did not trust Mrs.Robinson one tiny
little bit. She had no reason for these feelings, other than her instinct,
though, which was not enough to give as a reason to Lord Alderscroft, who
distrusted feminine intuition.

Were
the rumors true that far too many people that Alison Robinson was intended to
keep watch on died instead? And was that enough of a reason for suspicion? Of
course, they had all been spies for the Hun, and there was never any reason to
point to Alison Robinson as the cause of their deaths but—

But—

Maya
toyed with her tea on the other side of the one-way mirror, listened as
Alderscroft assigned Alison Robinson to keep an eye on Reginald Fenyx, and
reflected with some relief that this was a perfectly absurd assignment. After
all, someone like Mrs.Robinson, the widow of a mere small manufacturer, was
not
going to have entrée into—

“But
Lord Alderscroft,” Alison said, smiling, “This is really quite
impossible! I have no entrée into such exalted social circles! Why, I
should not be able to do more than glimpse the young man at a distance! The
closest approach I could manage would be in the autumn, as the hunt goes by, if
he even participates in the hunt at all! You know I have no objection to doing
anything you and the War Office might ask of me, but really, dropping me behind
enemy lines and asking me to pass myself off as a
kleine hausfrau
would be simpler!”

“Ah,
erm—” Alderscroft coughed. “Well, perhaps I
should—”