A Lady of Esteem (3 page)

“We’ve been stashing money away for ten years.” Miss Ryan shrugged. “We aren’t here to see her, anyway.”

“We’re not?” Amelia clapped a hand to her bonnet to keep it from flying off as Miss Ryan pulled her behind the golden silk curtain.

The sun coming through the back windows of the store was considerably brighter than the shadowed front room. Amelia blinked rapidly to adjust her vision.

“Miss Amelia!”

Amelia shook her head to focus on the speaker, a middle-aged woman in a light blue dress with her light brown hair pulled into a low bun. It took a moment for Amelia to recognize the impoverished gentry woman she’d met in the free pews at St. George’s nearly five years prior. “Oh! Good morning, Sally. I haven’t seen you in an age.”

“Not since you helped me get that job in Hampstead Heath. I can’t thank you enough for putting in a good word with the housekeeper there. I was privileged to act as companion to Lady Margaret until she passed on. I’m a lady’s maid, now.” Sally peeked at a folding screen partitioning part of the back room off from the rest of the work area.

Amelia looked at the screen as well. Sally’s mistress must be behind there being fitted for a dress. “Are you not needed back there? I would have thought the lady’s maid would be part of the fittings.”

“I usually wait out here. Sometimes I visit with Celia. Her brother, Finch, is a footman for the family I work for now.”

Miss Ryan turned from the folding screen that she’d been staring at since they passed the curtain. “Celia was very excited to know we were coming today. She said that sometimes she still slips in here at night to work by candlelight so that she can remember how badly she wanted the position.”

A tall, blond young woman bustled out from behind the screen, smoothing her skirt over her hip. “Have those delivered to the house
when they’re finished, Madame Bellieme. I won’t need the second ball gown until next week.”

“Of course, my lady.” The modiste was older than Amelia remembered, although it had been at least three years since she’d seen the woman.

“Sally, let’s be going.”

Amelia couldn’t begin to guess what the elegant lady was thinking as her brilliant green eyes took in Amelia and the two servants, none of whom belonged in the inner sanctum of London’s finest dressmaker—but at least the woman knew why Sally was there.

“Yes.” Sally stepped away from their little gathering with a small wave. A green reticule, likely belonging to Sally’s mistress, dangled from her wrist. “Have a good day, Miss Amelia.”

Amelia nodded, not wanting to say anything to get Sally in trouble. Her mistress kept glancing back and forth between her servant and Amelia.

As the two pushed past the curtain Celia came out from behind the screen. “Miss Amelia!” She bounced across the back room and wrapped Amelia in her skinny arms.

Madame Bellieme gave Amelia a smile and a pat on the shoulder as she made her way back to the front of the store.

Amelia extricated herself from Celia, whose smile remained as strong as the hug.

“I’m happy to see you!” The younger girl reached out to give Amelia one more squeeze.

The enthusiasm inspired Amelia’s own smile. “How have you been, Celia?”

“Better than I ever dreamed. Come, come, I’ve got your dress ready.” Celia pulled her toward the screen, Miss Ryan pushing from the back.

Amelia’s slight weight was no match for the two of them, and she found herself propelled across the floor even as the rest of her froze in shock. They already had a dress made for her? How? When?

“Madame Bellieme’s fingers aren’t working as well as they used to, and she’s made me her secret apprentice. She says my eye for fashion and hand with a needle is almost as good as hers.” Celia bounced in excitement, her dark bun bobbing about atop her head.

She hauled out a dress of beautiful green-sprigged muslin. “And there’s a matching redingote as well. Come, come. Let’s get you fitted.”

The women pulled at Amelia’s dress, eager to get her into the new gown. Amelia began to feel a bit of excitement herself as the soft fabric draped over her body.

Celia had used one of Amelia’s old dresses for size, so it didn’t require much altering to fit her perfectly. A few quick stitches along the seam of the coat and Amelia was ready to go in the most gorgeous afternoon ensemble she’d ever laid eyes on.

After folding Amelia’s old dress into a bandbox, Celia gave her another hug and told Miss Ryan to let her know when they wanted more dresses.

“This one is too beautiful.” Amelia swayed back and forth, enjoying the swish of her new skirt. “I may never find another dress acceptable again.”

They all laughed as they left the partitioned area.

“Oh dear.” Miss Ryan’s voice was stilted, almost toneless.

“Oh my,” Celia added.

Amelia looked around, but didn’t see anything to cause their wooden surprise. “What?”

Celia stooped to scoop up a green reticule from the floor.

“That can’t be good,” Miss Ryan said. “How could Sally have left it behind?”

“Can’t you have it delivered?” Amelia looked around the little group. Why was this causing such concern? The solution was simple. The tall lady couldn’t have been the first to leave her belongings behind.

Celia shook her head. “The footman is out already.”

“I hope Sally doesn’t get fired.” Mrs. Ryan bit her lip.

Why the sudden concern for everyone’s position? First Mrs. Harris feared for Emma, and now Miss Ryan mentioned Sally? Did they think everyone in eminent danger of unemployment?

“Lady Miranda is kind, but as a child she could be very emotional and unpredictable.” Celia looked up at Amelia from the corner of her lashes.

Something strange was afoot, but Amelia couldn’t begin to think what. “Lady Miranda?”

Celia nodded. “Lady Miranda Hawthorne. Sister of the Duke of Riverton.”

Amelia hadn’t realized what a prestigious position Sally had managed to get.

Resigned to another aristocratic encounter, Amelia took the bag. “Hawthorne House isn’t far out of our way.”

It was miles away socially but a mere two streets over physically. Amelia never visited Hawthorne House, despite knowing the butler and a few servants. It was too intimidating.

With the gorgeous green bag clutched in her hand, Amelia led Miss Ryan back out onto Bond Street.

They left the shopping district behind, chatting about the pretty wares in the various windows. Then, without warning, Miss Ryan fell into Amelia, nearly sending her to the pavement.

“Oh! Oh my, Miss Ryan. Are you all right?”

The older woman made her way to the side of the pavement to lean on the building. Her limp was drastic.

Amelia bit her lip. “Should we call a hack?”

Miss Ryan waved toward Grosvenor Square, within sight but in the opposite direction of their home. “I can make it back home. You go ahead without me.”

“You . . . but . . . I can’t go alone!”

“I’m sure Finch or Gibson will see that you get home safely.” Mrs. Ryan squared her shoulders and limped down the side street that would take her toward Mount Street. “Remember Sally is depending on you.”

Amelia looked back and forth from the companion to the distant square. Had Miss Ryan lost her mind? The reticule felt heavy in her hand. She couldn’t take it home with her. It was either continue on to Hawthorne House or return the bag to Bond Street.

Since walking alone down Bond Street was an even worse idea than walking in Grosvenor Square, she continued on.

Hawthorne House loomed as Amelia crossed Grosvenor’s Square. The grand columns were daunting even if one didn’t know who lived there. Few homes in London were larger, but then few men were more powerful than its owner.

Amelia smoothed her skirts. The ensemble was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn or even seen in person, but it felt unequal to the task of socializing with the sister of a duke.

“Lord, be with me,” she whispered before taking a deep breath and climbing the stairs. Her knock was so timid she didn’t think anyone would hear it, but it was immediately followed by the scrape of the latch.

“Miss Amelia?” The butler’s surprise was evident as he opened the door.

Amelia bit her lip. Should she have gone to the servant entrance? “Good day, Gibson. I’m making a delivery.” She extended her arm, the green bag swinging from her fingertips like a clock pendulum, counting down the minutes to her next humiliation.

“Bless you! Come in. My lady discovered the loss of it moments ago.” Gibson ushered her into a beautiful drawing room decorated in white and gold. “Please have a seat.”

“There is no need for that, Gibson. I can leave the bag in the hall.” The pleading edge to her voice made Amelia wince. Cowardly or not, facing and conversing with Lady Miranda seemed like a bad idea. Amelia’s encounters with the marquis had proven how inept she was at interacting with aristocracy.

“She will insist on thanking you in person. Wait here, Miss Amelia, if you please.” Gibson hurried from the room.

Throwing the reticule on a chair and leaving seemed like an inspired idea, but Gibson knew where she lived. The last thing she needed was Lady Miranda on her doorstep.

The blond woman from the modiste entered the drawing room, a warm smile on her face and open curiosity in her eyes. “Gibson tells me that you have my reticule?”

“Er, yes, my lady.” Amelia stabbed her arm forward, the reticule once again dangling before her. Lady Miranda accepted it.

“We found it as we were leaving. Everything is in there. Celia knew it was yours so we didn’t need to open it.”

Small creases formed at the corners of glittering green eyes and the edges of slightly curved lips. Was she amused by Amelia’s assurances? Perhaps she found Amelia’s lack of composure entertaining. Amelia’s fingers began to play with the drawstring of her own reticule.

“Thank you.” The lady set the bag on a nearby table. “I am Lady Miranda Hawthorne.”

“I know. That is, Celia told me who you were.” Amelia clamped her teeth shut. She would not prattle on and reveal her discomfort. She was going to limit herself to three-word sentences. That allowed her to say little more than “Yes, my lady” and “No, my lady.”

Lady Miranda dipped her head and raised her eyebrows.

“Oh!” Amelia cried. “I am Miss Amelia Stalwood.” That was five words, but perhaps her name could really be counted as one. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Five words again. Very well, she would limit herself to five-word sentences so long as they were intelligent five-word sentences.

Lady Miranda smiled as if every visitor lost her wits. Maybe they did. It was a duke’s house, after all. “That is a lovely dress. Were you picking it up?”

Gibson appeared in the doorway before Amelia could answer. “Would you care for tea, my lady?”

“Oh no, Gibson, I don’t—” Amelia froze. That was her voice answering the butler. Heat rushed to her cheeks and her ears. Her nose felt like ice. She cut her eyes to Lady Miranda and found the other woman just as still, with her mouth slightly agape, as if she, too, had been about to answer the butler.

“Miss Stalwood, Amelia Stalwood, was it?” Lady Miranda recovered her composure first. “Do please stay. Gibson, tea would be lovely.”

The butler bowed and spun on his heel to leave room.

Lady Miranda waved an arm in the direction of a white brocade chair. Amelia perched on the edge, ready to flee if the opportunity arose.

Celia’s brother, Finch, strode in with a laden tea service before Lady Miranda could finish adjusting her skirts on the adjacent sofa. Had he been standing in the hall, filled tray in hand, when Gibson came in to inquire if they wanted tea?

Amelia blinked in surprise. Lady Miranda hesitated before indicating Finch should leave the tray on a low table.

“Thank you, Finch.” Amelia closed her eyes. That had been her voice, again, acknowledging someone else’s servant, by name no less. Lady Miranda was sure to boot her out through the kitchens at this familiarity.

Silence filled the room. Not even a clock ticked to fill the quiet. Amelia hadn’t felt this exposed since she was ten years old standing on the viscount’s doorstep with nothing but a trunk, a valise, and a letter from her grandmother claiming the most distant relational ties imaginable.

What was the woman sitting before her looking for? Was she finding it?

Finally, Lady Miranda concluded her inspection. She nodded her head and began fixing tea. “You know my servants?”

“Er, yes, my lady.” Amelia tried to mirror the graceful restraint of the woman across the table.

Lady Miranda paused in silent inquiry after pouring a cup of tea. Her hand hovered over the pitcher of cream.

“Sugar, no milk, please.” A thrill of confidence twirled down Amelia’s spine. That had sounded almost cultured and sophisticated. Granted it was merely a request for tea, but—

“Are you on good terms with many servants?”

They were back to the awkward inquisition.

“I suppose.” This was not going at all the way Amelia had anticipated. She wasn’t ashamed of her acquaintance with lower London, but she never imagined a highborn lady asking her about it.

“I myself have always tried to be on good terms with those I hire, but I have never been able to refer to those in other homes by name.” Lady Miranda held out a cup of tea.

Willing her fingers not to tremble, Amelia accepted the cup. Her definition of “good terms” was likely different than Lady Miranda’s.

“You know my maid as well?” Another cup filled with tea. A splash of milk and the slightest bit of sugar joined it.

Amelia hastily swallowed her sip of tea. “Yes, my lady.”

Lady Miranda added a selection of biscuits to a small plate and offered it to Amelia. “It isn’t everyone who would make an effort to return someone’s belongings.”

“It was no trouble.” What else should she say? Amelia nibbled at a biscuit to buy herself some time.

Another young woman entered the room, her astounding beauty making Amelia blink. Blond curls piled atop her head, with ringlets framing features that would make a porcelain-doll maker swoon. “Gibson mentioned tea.” Her green eyes assessed Amelia. “Good afternoon.”

Lady Miranda fixed another cup of tea. “This is my new friend, Miss Amelia Stalwood. Miss Stalwood, my sister, Lady Georgina.”

Amelia slid her cup onto the table. Was she supposed to rise and curtsy? This was a duke’s sister, after all. There had to be some form of proper address in this situation. In the end she performed an awkward head nod, which drew a smirk from the younger woman.

Amelia directed her eyes back to the floor, wishing she could sink through the floorboards into the servant domain below. She’d be ever so much more comfortable.

The sisters talked and sipped tea, occasionally asking Amelia a question. After the first few times, Amelia stopped stumbling over her responses and managed something resembling a normal conversation.

“You’ve been so gracious, bringing my bag here that I hate to ask you this.” Lady Miranda poured a bit more tea into her cup. “But would you do another favor for me?”

Amelia swallowed. Could she say anything other than yes?

“Would you come to dinner tonight?”

Amelia bobbled her tea cup. Lady Miranda tried to hide a smile with a sip of tea.

When Amelia didn’t answer, Lady Miranda spoke again. “It will be very informal. Family and one or two close friends.”

Amelia felt skewered by Lady Miranda’s green eyes, like one of the animals she had read about scientists studying.

“You would be a great help. Georgina isn’t able to join us tonight, so our numbers will be off if you do not come.”

Lady Georgina shot her sister a scathing glare. “Actually, I—”

Lady Miranda gracefully kicked Lady Georgina in the shin. Amelia’s eyes widened. How long would it take to learn how to do such an uncouth thing with ladylike grace? Who would take the time to develop such a strange talent?

“I understand. I was sixteen once.” Lady Miranda patted her sister’s hand.

“I’m seventeen.”

“Miss Stalwood, please say you will.”

Amelia plucked at her skirts. It was impossible. How could she come?

“I need you.” Lady Miranda clasped her hands in her lap, her eyes filled with pleading.

Amelia heard herself agreeing before she could think it through. Excitement tingled along her fingers, making her bury them in her skirts to hide their shaking. She couldn’t back out now. All she could do was pray she wouldn’t regret it before the night was over.