Реклама
Читать книгу: «Regency Rogues and Rakes», страница 10
“I know these things are always exaggerated,” she said. “But I know as well that there’s truth in the tales. I’ve seen with my own eyes. He’s changed.”
“With respect, your ladyship has not seen the gentleman for three years,” Leonie said. “Men change. They’re the most changeable creatures.”
“He’s moody and bored and remote,” said her ladyship. “No matter where he is, he’s absent. The only time he was present, truly present, was when we came here. I saw.” She waved her glass at Marcelline. “I saw the way he looked at you, Mrs. Noirot. And so what must I think, when I hear about a dark adventuress who got her hooks into the D—into a certain gentleman. Or that he had pursued this exotic at the opera, at Longchamp, at the gaming hells—with half the world as witness—before he so far took leave of his reason as to bring this object of his obsession—”
“This sounds like something I could have written,” Sophy murmured.
“—bring his obsession to the Comtesse de Chirac’s annual ball. And this was not because his grace thought it a great joke to bring her, but because his—his lover—his paramour had threatened to kill herself if he didn’t.”
“Kill herself?” all three sisters echoed. They looked at one another. Their eyebrows went up a barely perceptible degree. This was the only outward sign of their incredulity—this and Leonie’s having to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“Nor was this the first time this woman had made threats,” Lady Clara went on. “I heard of violent scenes all over Paris, culminating in a duel with the Marquis d’Émilien. This shocked even the most jaded of jaded Parisians. Shortly after grievously wounding the marquis in the Bois de Boulogne, the love-maddened gentleman pursued the young woman from Paris in the dead of night. In the course of this pursuit, he threatened the British consul and every other official he encountered. He was so deranged, it appears, that he believed they were deliberately obstructing his departure from France.”
They were all accustomed to playing cards. This was why Sophy and Leonie did not fall down laughing, and why Marcelline, who was growing increasingly exasperated, had no trouble maintaining her politely interested expression. As though she hadn’t enough problems, with Dowdy actively working to destroy her business. Now Marcelline was to be torn to pieces by the scandalmongers, merely because some people had seen what looked like flirtation! It was absurd—but then, the high ranks were not famous for their rationality.
She ought to be amused, but she was alarmed. Rumors alone could destroy her business. Though it wasn’t hard to seem unmoved outwardly, she was having trouble deciding what to say.
Leonie, who didn’t have her problems, had no such difficulty. “Clearly, members of the higher orders cannot count,” she said. “If they would only count the number of days my sister had been in Paris—let alone the date when she first met the gentleman—they’d realize this is utter nonsense. Their first encounter occurred on the fourteenth of this month. I remember the date, because it headed the letter she wrote to us the same night, announcing the fact. That leaves the time from the night of the fourteenth to the early morning of the seventeenth, when my sister left Paris. How, I ask your ladyship, could all these events occur in little more than two full days?”
Leave it to Leonie to reduce emotion to numbers, Marcelline thought. And how little those numbers seemed. A few days. That was all the time Clevedon had needed to damage Marcelline’s brain and jab thorns into her heart and plant dreams in her mind, so that she was uneasy by day and by night.
She gathered her wits. “Meanwhile he’d had so many months to live among the Parisians,” she said. “They’re the ones you ought to blame, if you want scapegoats. You’ve never been to Paris, I believe?”
“Not yet,” said Lady Clara.
“Then you’ve no notion how different it is from London.”
“I know what Paris is like,” said Lady Clara. “Cleve—The gentleman wrote to me faithfully—until, that is, he met you. It’s no good denying it. When I asked him why he hadn’t written—I could see he had not broken his arm—he told me what had happened.”
“And what, precisely, was that?” Marcelline said. “It can’t have been an incriminating tale. Last week you accompanied him here in cheerful spirits. You didn’t look at all as though you wanted to kill him. Or me.”
“He told me he’d met a vastly provoking dressmaker,” Lady Clara said. “But he’s a man, and as articulate as he can be in letters, his vocabulary, in matters of emotion, is less than clear. What he meant—and pray don’t confuse me with an idiot, as you know it perfectly well—what he meant was that Mrs. Noirot was provocative. What he meant was, he was fixed on her.”
As though he did nothing to fix me on him, Marcelline thought. As though he’s a victim of my wiles—or demonic powers, more like it.
“I asked him directly whether he was infatuated,” Lady Clara continued, “and he laughed and said that seemed the likeliest explanation.”
Business, Marcelline reminded herself. This was business. This was the customer she’d wanted. It was trying to lure Lady Clara into her shop that had led Marcelline into so much trouble. And here the lady was. In the shop.
She said, “How could he help it? Only look at me.”
She gestured in the graceful way she so often did, her hand sweeping downward from her neckline.
Lady Clara looked, truly looked, finally, at what Marcelline was wearing.
Pink and green, one of her favorite color combinations, this time in silk batiste, with a deeply plunging pelerine of the same material, over gossamer puffed sleeves and a delicately pleated chemisette.
“My goodness,” said Lady Clara.
Marcelline resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Lady Clara was as oblivious as Clevedon. They noticed nothing about a dress until one forcibly called their attention to it.
“This isn’t half what you would have seen in Paris,” Marcelline said. “There I was obliged to exert myself, because I was competing with the most stylish women in the world, who’ve made a high art of attracting men. That is your ladyship’s true rival: Paris. I’m nothing. If the gentleman is bored and remote, it’s because the women about him at present don’t know how to get his attention.”
She let her gaze slide from the top of Lady Clara’s dull bonnet, over the white crepe dress trimmed in black—mainly ribbon and a little embroidery but not a stitch of lace in sight—and downward, with a small, despairing sigh, to the hem. The style was—well, it hadn’t any style. As to the craftsmanship: In a drunken stupor, the least talented of Marcelline’s six seamstresses could do better than this.
Sophy and Leonie drew nearer to Marcelline, their gazes moving in the same pitying way over the dress.
“The Court has been wearing mourning for the Emperor of Austria, then the Prince of Portugal,” Lady Clara said defensively. “We’ve only recently changed from black.”
“You cannot wear this shade of white,” Marcelline said. “It ruins your complexion.”
“Such a complexion!” Sophy said. “Translucent. Women would weep and gnash their teeth in envy, were you not wearing a white that drains away all the vitality.”
“The black trim can’t be helped,” said Leonie. “But must it be so heavy?”
“It isn’t required to be crepe, certainly,” said Marcel-line. “Where is the rule that says one may not use a thinner ribbon, of satin? And perhaps some knots—so. Or a jet lozenge. And a little silver, perhaps here and here, to brighten it. But above all, never this shade of white!”
“You’re not making the most of your figure,” said Sophy.
“I’m big,” Lady Clara said.
“You’re statuesque,” said Leonie. “What I should give to have your height. What I should give to be able to look a man in the eye.”
“Mainly, I’m looking down at them,” said Lady Clara. “Except for my brothers and Cl—the gentleman.”
“All the better,” said Sophy. “A man ought to look up to a woman, literally or figuratively, because that is the proper mode of worship, and worship is the very least he can do. It doesn’t matter what her height is. You’re the most beautiful young woman in London—”
“That’s doing it too brown,” said Lady Clara. She drank more brandy. “You’re wicked, the three of you.”
She was not wrong.
“Perhaps one might see at the theater a whore who seems prettier,” said Sophy. “But that’s only because she makes the most of herself and of certain cosmetic aids. You, however, have a deep, true English beauty that will only make you handsomer as time passes. It’s disgraceful and ungrateful of you not to make the most of the gifts with which you’ve been blessed.”
“You look big,” said Marcelline, “because the dress is matronly. You look big because it’s carelessly cut and ill sewn. Puckers! My six-year-old daughter can sew better than this. I say nothing of the overall design, which seems to have been adopted from fashions current in Bath among the grandmother set. The analogy is fitting, since so many drink the waters for their health, and this shade of white makes you look bilious. Let me show you the shade of white you ought to wear. Sophy, fetch a hand mirror. Leonie, the soft white organdy.”
“I did not come here to buy a dress,” Lady Clara said.
“You came because you want to bring the gentleman back from wherever it is he’s gone to,” said Marcelline. “We’re going to show you how to do it.”
Chapter Nine
We have seen some robes of white crape prepared for the change of mourning; the corsages drooped, and retained in the centre of the bosom, and at the sides by knots of black satin riband, with a jet lozenge in the centre of each.
La Belle Assemblèe, fashions for the month of April 1835
Warford House Tuesday afternoon
Her ladyship is at home, your grace, but she is engaged,” Timms the butler said.
“Engaged?” Clevedon repeated. “Isn’t this Tuesday?”
The Warfords were not at home to visitors on Tuesdays. That was why he’d called today rather than yesterday or tomorrow. On Tuesday he need not make his way through the scrum of Clara’s beaux, the infatuated puppies who swarmed about her at social events. Whenever he approached, he was disagreeably aware of casting a pall over the activities, whatever they were: fellows composing odes to her eyes and such, he supposed. Squabbling over who had which dance. And competing, no doubt, in point of fashion—which was amusing, since Clara didn’t care about fashion. She could not tell one lapel from another, let alone evaluate the quality of a waistcoat.
Still, he might have mistaken the day. He had drunk more than agreed with him last night, and his head still ached. Perhaps it would be better to come back on the correct day. Maybe the damned sun wouldn’t be shining so brightly then.
After confirming that this was indeed Tuesday, Timms apologetically led Clevedon to the small drawing room to wait while he sent a footman to inform Lady Clara of his grace’s arrival.
Unaccustomed to be made to wait when he called anywhere, least of all at Warford House, Clevedon grew restive.
It was exceedingly odd, Clara being engaged on a Tuesday afternoon. He was sure he’d told her—on Saturday, wasn’t it?—he’d take her for a drive today.
He needed to settle this marriage business today. Already a week had passed since he’d decided to put his life in order and make his formal offer. After that, they’d put all in train for a wedding at the earliest opportunity.
The trip to the dressmaker’s had thrown him off balance. Seeing Noirot again…and the child…
He’d been unable to collect his thoughts, let alone remember what he’d meant to say to Clara. The time hadn’t felt…right. He and Clara needed to get used to each other again, he’d told himself. Hadn’t Longmore said so?
But now it seemed they’d have to get used to each other after they were married. Now a formal—and short—engagement seemed the best way to put an end to speculation and gossip.
He’d heard rumors of a mad tale that had traveled from Paris, and would, he knew, reach Warford House before long. Last week he’d confided in Clara—to a point. He knew she was too sensible a girl to fret over idle gossip. In her letters, hadn’t she ridiculed one after another piece of scandal making the London rounds? Her mother, though, was another matter altogether.
When Lady Warford heard the rumors, she’d throw one of her fits. She’d say nothing to Clevedon directly. Instead, she’d harass her family, carrying on about the shame of Clara’s being ignored in favor of a dressmaker, a milliner, a common shopkeeper! She’d grow more and more hysterical until one of the men took Clevedon to task.
In Paris, only last month, he’d borne one awkward visit from Longmore—instigated, no doubt, by Lady Warford. Clevedon doubted his friend was any more eager than he to repeat the experience.
He had nothing to feel anxious or guilty about, he told himself. He’d done nothing improper since he’d returned to London. Before that didn’t count.
Dreams, however torrid, were nothing to feel in the least uneasy about. Fantasies were nothing more than that. Men had fantasies regarding women, all sorts of women, suitable and unsuitable. They had them all the time, waking and sleeping.
As to the discontent: That would stop after he was married.
But his mind, not shy in the least, shied away from contemplating his wedding night.
Where the devil was the footman? Why hadn’t Timms gone himself? What on earth was Clara about? With whom was she engaged on a Tuesday? Had he not told her he would come? He was sure he had…but his mind strayed from time to time—and how could he recollect now, with this vile headache?
He realized he was pacing. He stopped, and told himself he was out of sorts. This was not a suitable humor for a casual call, let alone a momentous one.
She had something else to do. He must have forgotten to tell her about driving today. Or she’d forgotten.
He’d see her tomorrow night at Almack’s. When he did, he’d make an appointment to speak to her.
No, he ought to speak to her father first. That was the proper way to go about it. He’d return another day, when Lord Warford was at home. On Tuesdays his lordship customarily visited one of his charities.
Clevedon left the drawing room. Having run tame in this house since boyhood, he knew every inch of it. Best to slip out quietly, before he ran into other family members.
He strode to the antechamber nearby, where he knew he’d find his hat, gloves, and walking stick.
He entered, and his heart began to beat very hard.
It happened before he was fully conscious of what had set it going.
A bonnet. An absurd conglomeration of ribbons and flowers and feathers, it sat on the table where the servants customarily put visitors’ hats and such.
He stared at it for a moment, then started for the door. But there was something…in the air.
He paused at the door. Then he turned back and walked to the bonnet. He picked it up, and brought it close to his face. The scent, the familiar, tormenting scent swam about him, as light and as inescapable as a gossamer net: the faint scent of jasmine, mingled with the scent of her hair and her skin.
Noirot.
He set the bonnet down.
He stepped out into the corridor.
A maid passed, carrying a heap of clothing.
He started in the direction she’d come from.
He heard an anguished cry.
Clara.
He ran toward the sound.
He pulled open the door to the music room. Bright sunlight burst upon him, blinding him for a moment and making lightning bolts in his head.
“Clara, are you—”
“Clevedon! What on earth—”
But Clara was gaping at him, astonished, and his gaze shot to the other woman.
Noirot stood, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. She closed it promptly, and her face closed down into her playing-cards look.
“What are you about?” he said. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Look at her,” Clara cried. “That’s my favorite dress—the one I was wearing when Lord Herringstone composed an ode to my eyes.”
Look at her. At Noirot. Look at her.
He looked, his gaze sliding down from the slightly disordered coiffure, loose strands of dark, silken hair clinging to her neck…down over her dark, brilliant eyes…down over her dangerous mouth while he remembered the taste of her, the feel of her mouth against his…down over the firm bosom while he remembered the velvet of her skin under his hand and against his mouth…and down at last to the dress she was holding.
Clara crossed to her and snatched the dress away.
“She says we must give it away,” Lady Clara said. “She objects to everything. Nothing is right—even this, my favorite.”
“The dress is jade green,” Noirot said. “Your eyes are blue and very beautiful, and that’s what prompted Lord Herringstone to compose an ode. Had you been wearing a more suitable color, you would have inspired him to compose an epic. Very few women can wear this color successfully. You may not wear very many shades of green. I should recommend against it—”
“That woman—Lady Renfrew—you made her a beautiful dress, exactly this color.”
“It was not exactly this color,” Noirot said. “It was an entirely different shade of green—and one that would suit you no better. It would seem that your ladyship cannot distinguish hues. Whether it was your governess or your painting master, whoever failed to train your eye ought to be pilloried. You must give me the dress, my lady.”
“Oh, you are horrible, cruel! You’ve taken all my favorite things!”
Noirot pulled the dress away from her and threw it on the floor and kicked it aside.
Clara clapped her hand over her mouth.
Noirot folded her arms.
A dangerous glint came into Clara’s blue eyes.
Noirot regarded her with the same cool lack of expression she would have bestowed on a promising hand of cards.
The fool! She could not treat a marquess’s daughter like a temperamental child, even if she was behaving like one. Noirot would lose any hope of a commission—she’d lose Clara forever—and she’d be lucky if Lady Warford didn’t have her driven from London.
“If I may interpose a—”
“No, Clevedon, you may not,” Clara said. “I told her to come. I made her come. She left me no choice. Nothing she’s proposed bears the smallest resemblance to what I normally wear, and I can’t believe I am such a provincial, so lacking in taste and discernment—but you know I’ve never cared very much, and Mama always advises me. But now I’m told to throw everything out, and what am I to tell Mama? And I am not to have a green dress!”
She stamped her foot. Clara actually stamped her foot.
“It must be blue-green,” Noirot said. She put the tip of her index finger to her chin and regarded Clara with narrowed eyes. “I envision embroidered poult de soie, the corsage decorated with a mantilla of blond lace.” Her finger came away from her chin to lightly glide over her shoulder. As she indicated the fall of the mantilla she imagined, her finger lingered at the place where he’d touched her, on that night when they’d played cards, when he’d helped her with her shawl. He remembered the tiny hitch in her breath and the heated triumph he’d felt, because finally, finally he’d affected her.
“But that is for later,” she went on. “For the present, as your ladyship has reminded me repeatedly, we are wearing white. And as I have reminded your ladyship repeatedly, it must be a soft white. No ivory.” She made a dismissive gesture at a dress draped over a chair. “Too yellow. And not that blinding white.” She indicated another dress, hanging over the back of a small sofa.
“Speaking of blinding,” Clevedon said. “Might we have the curtains drawn? I’ve the devil of a headache—”
“I wonder where you got it,” Clara said. “The same place Longmore gets his, I daresay. Well, you must grin and bear the light. Madame can’t work in the dark.”
“I thought she could do anything,” Clevedon muttered, retreating to the darkest corner of the room. “She told me—more than once—that she’s the greatest modiste in the world.”
“Beyond a doubt she’s the most exacting modiste in the world,” Clara said. “She’s been showing me how colors affect one’s complexion. We came to this room because it has the best light at this time of day.” She paused, frowning. “If you have a headache, why are you here?”
“You were screaming,” he said.
“It’s upsetting when someone takes one’s clothes away,” Clara said. “I find I’m not as philosophically detached as I had supposed. But why are you here, at the house, I mean? You know Papa is never at home on Tuesdays, and you would never come to see Mama, even if she were at home, which she isn’t, else Mrs. Noirot wouldn’t be here. She’s my dark secret, you know.”
“I came to take you for a drive,” Clevedon said. Had she always used to be so talkative?
“But you can see I’m not at liberty. Why did you not tell me you meant to come?”
“I did, on Saturday.”
“You did not. You did not spare me above five minutes on Saturday, and if you uttered ten words to me, that’s all you did. Today, obviously, is inconvenient.”
“We’re nearly done,” Noirot said.
“Hardly,” Clara said. “Now we must decide what to tell Mama.”
Noirot didn’t roll her eyes, which he considered evidence of superhuman self-control. Clara was driving him mad, and he’d only been here for a few minutes. Noirot must be wanting to throttle her.
But her expression only became kindly. “Tell her, my lady, that one can’t expect a fashionable gentleman—who has spent time in Paris—to come up to scratch—”
“Come up to what?” Clevedon said.
“—when one looks like a dowd and a fright and elderly to boot,” Noirot continued past the interruption. “Be sure to hold your head high when you say it, and make it sound like a fact that ought to be obvious to the meanest intelligence. And if there’s a difficulty, throw a tantrum. That’s what high-bred girls generally do.”
“But I never did,” Clara said aghast.
“A moment ago you stamped your foot,” Clevedon said. “You pouted, too.”
“I did not!”
“Your ladyship was too distressed to realize,” Noirot said. “However, you must do it with greater force and with absolute confidence in the rightness of your cause. Still, we must remember that a temper fit is simply a way to obtain the audience’s notice. Once you have her ladyship’s full attention, you will become sweet reason itself, and tell her this anecdote.”
Noirot folded her hands and, while Clevedon and Clara watched, astonished, her eyes filled. The tears hung there, glistening, but did not fall. She said, “Dearest Mama, I know you do not wish for me to be mortified in front of all my acquaintance. And here,” Noirot added in a more normal voice, “be sure to mention somebody your mother loathes. And when her ladyship says this is all nonsense, as she well might, you will tell her about the French gentleman who was mad in love with a married woman—”
“That isn’t the sort of thing for Clara to—”
“Pray let her finish,” Clara said. “You’re the one who brought me to this aggravating person, and I’ve steeled myself to suffer with her in order to be beautiful.”
“Your ladyship is already beautiful,” Noirot said. “How many times must I repeat it? That’s what’s so infuriating. A perfect diamond must have the perfect setting. A masterpiece must have the perfect frame. A—”
“Yes, yes, but we know that argument won’t work with Mama. What about the gentleman and the married woman?”
“His friends reasoned with him, pleaded with him— all in vain,” Noirot said. “Then, one night, at an entertainment, the lady asked him to fetch her shawl. He hastened to serve her, imagining the silken softness of a cashmere shawl, the scent of the woman he loved enhancing its perfection…”
Clevedon remembered Noirot’s scent, the memory reawakened only minutes ago: the scent her bonnet held. He remembered inhaling her, his face in her neck.
“…a cashmere shawl that would put all the other ladies’ cashmeres to shame. He found the garment but—quelle horreur!—not cashmere at all. Rabbit hair! Sick with disgust, he fell instantly and permanently out of love, and abandoned her.”
Clara stared at her. “You’re roasting me,” she said.
Clevedon collected himself and said, “You’ll find the anecdote in Lady Morgan’s book about France. It was published some years ago, but the principle remains. I wish you’d seen my friend Aronduille’s face when I asked him whether it mattered what a woman wore. I wish you could have heard him and his friends talking about it, quoting philosophers, arguing about Ingres and Balzac and Stendhal and David, art and fashion, the meaning of beauty, and so on.”
Clara glanced at him, then returned to Noirot. “Well, then, I shall try it, and I shall say it is all because Clevedon is so infernally discriminating, worse even than Longmore—”
“Clara would it not be better if you—”
“But what am I to wear to Almack’s tomorrow night?” Clara said. “You’ve rejected everything.”
Almack’s, he thought. Another dreary evening among the same people. He would have to pluck Clara from her hordes of admirers and dance with her. Whatever she wore, he would know Noirot had touched it.
He said, “Since no one was being murdered, and I seem to be de trop—”
“Not at all, your grace,” Noirot said. “You’ve arrived in the nick of time. Her ladyship has been remarkably patient and open-minded, considering that I’ve upset her universe.”
“You have, rather,” Clara said.
“But here is his grace, come to take you for a drive. Fresh air, the very thing you need after this trying morning and afternoon.”
“But Almack’s—”
“I shall send you a dress tomorrow,” Noirot said. “I or one of my sisters will personally deliver it to you, at not later than seven o’clock, at which time we shall make any final adjustments you require. The dress will be perfect.”
“But my mother—”
“You will have already dealt with her, as I suggested,” Noirot said.
Clara looked at Clevedon. “She is the most dictatorial creature,” she said.
“His grace has been so kind as to mention this character flaw before,” Noirot said with nary a glance at Clevedon. “I serve women of fashion all day long, six days a week. One must either dominate or be dominated.”
Ah, there it was: the disarming frankness, leavened with a touch of humor.
Gad, she was beyond anything!
“I have had enough of being dominated for the present,” Clara said. “Clevedon, pray be patient another few minutes, and I shall be glad to take the air with you. I promise to be back in a trice. Mrs. Noirot has left me a few paltry items she finds not completely abhorrent. My maid shall not have any momentous decisions to make regarding bonnets or anything else.”
She started toward the door, and hesitated. Then, with the look of one who’d made up her mind, she went out.
She had exactly what she wanted, Marcelline told herself. More than she’d hoped for. She hadn’t even had to wait for the betrothal. She had Lady Clara already, and a large order. Tomorrow night, the crème de la crème of Society would see Lady Clara Fairfax wearing a Noirot creation.
Maison Noirot would soon be the foremost dressmaking establishment in London.
Marcelline had accomplished everything—and more—than she’d planned when she set out for Paris, mere weeks ago.
She could not be happier.
She told herself this while she set about sorting the various rejected items of Lady Clara’s wardrobe.
“Are you going to burn them?” came Clevedon’s voice from the corner to which he’d withdrawn.
“Certainly not,” she said.
“But they have no redeeming qualities,” he said. “I should never have noticed the poor choices in color before you poisoned my mind, but even I can discern inferior cut and stitchery.”
“They can be taken apart and remade,” Marcelline said. “I am a patroness of a charitable establishment for women. Her ladyship was so generous as to allow me to take half the discards for my girls.”
“Your girls,” he said. “You—you’re a philanthropist?” He laughed.
She longed to throw something at him.
A chair. Herself.
But that was her shallow Noirot heart speaking. He was beautiful. Watching him move made her mouth go dry. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t have him without complications. In bed—or on a carriage seat or against a wall—it wouldn’t matter that he was idle and arrogant and oblivious. If only she could simply use him and discard him, the way men used and discarded women.
But she couldn’t. And she’d used him already, though not in that way. She’d used him in a more important way. She’d got what she’d wanted.
A maid entered, and Marcelline spent a moment directing her. When she went out again with a heap of clothing, Marcelline did not take up the conversation where it had stopped. She did not take up the conversation at all.
She wouldn’t let him disturb her in any way. She was very, very happy. She’d achieved her goals.
“Which set of unfortunate women is it?” he said. “I’ll tell my secretary to make a donation. If they can make anything of those dresses, they’ll have earned it.”
“The Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Females.” She could have added that she and her sisters had founded it last year. They’d learned at an early age more than they wanted to know about indigence and the difficulties of earning a living.
But her past was a secret under lock and key. “Some of our girls have gone on to become ladies’ maids,” she said. “The majority find places as seamstresses, for which there’s always need, particularly during mourning periods.” Luckily for them, the court was frequently in mourning, thanks to the British royal family’s penchant for marrying their Continental cousins.
