Page 21 of The Lady’s Deception

Yesterday’s rain had given way to a remarkably fine morning, though the chill in the air still spoke of March. Charles was nowhere in sight. The quiet was disturbed only by birdsong coming from the green and the clip-clop-rattle of a passing gig.

“Which shop?” Daphne asked as they descended to the street.

“You must choose,” Rosamund replied. “Wherever you think you will get the most for your—er, my money.”

“This way to Grafton Street,” said Bell and tugged her by the hand, leading her along the same streets she recalled following with her brother, although this time, they traveled only a fraction of the distance.

Daphne pointed out various landmarks as they passed, Leinster House and St. Ann’s to their left, and for almost the entirety of their short journey, the greens and gardens of Trinity College to their right. “Galen was meant to be a student there,” she explained, “as Paris was. But he chose Oxford instead, where Papa went.”

Bell whispered confidentially, “When Galen told the family his decision, it made Paris say naughty words.”

“Nothing can make you say naughty words,” Daphne opined. “Except maybe stubbing your toe in the dark.”

“Or perhaps an unexpected hit during a game of cricket?” Rosamund suggested, arching one brow, then wincing at the movement. Daphne tucked in her chin and said nothing more.

Soon Grafton Street was spread before them in all its mercantile glory. Rosamund’s eyes darted from tea shop to tobacconist to toymaker. Men, women, and children of all classes and sorts strolled or bustled to their destinations. Automatically, she clasped one hand to her side. Beneath her bodice, she had pinned Paris’s handkerchief, and in it were wrapped half the coins he’d given her. The rest she’d secreted in her room in case of an emergency. Bell took her other hand in hers as her sister urged, “Come on.”

After a quick survey of the goods in one dressmaker’s shop, they abandoned it for a second, where the proprietress, Mrs. Teague, quickly got into the spirit of the game. “It’s to be a bargain hunt, is it? Well, let us see…” Bolts of fabric appeared, and pattern books; the girls carefully tallied every ell and counted every shilling.

Eventually, Rosamund was presented with their choice, a simple style, though with the newly-fashionable high waist. Bell clutched an armful of smoke blue woolen, far coarser fabric than that of any of the gowns Rosamund had left behind, but well-suited to both her new station and her budget.

Once more, she fingered the pouch of coins at her waist. Together with petticoats and stays, the purchase would seriously deplete her little stash of wealth, which might be needed for another hasty escape. But in that moment, the gleam of satisfaction in the girls’ eyes was wealth enough. “It’s perfect.”

With brisk efficiency, Mrs. Teague produced a tape and began to measure Rosamund. Bell came to stand nearby. “Daphne said a governess should wear gray or brown.” Rosamund had never heard the girl’s voice so quiet, though a small smile curved her lips. “But the blue goes with your eyes.”

“Blue is my favorite color,” Rosamund reassured her.

Bell’s smile widened. “Paris’s too.”

His predilections in such matters were of course none of Rosamund’s concern. Besides, the style the girls had chosen was perfectly governess-like. Almost severe. Nothing to attract a gentleman’s notice.

Not even if she wanted it.

“Tut-tut,” Mrs. Teague admonished Rosamund. “Hold still now, dear. We’re almost finished.”

Afterward, as Rosamund paid for her purchases, the proprietress assured her that the dress would be promptly done. “And no charge for delivery,” she added as Daphne wrote out the direction in her neatest hand.

Back in the midday sunshine, Rosamund found herself reluctant to return to Merrion Square, although the lesson, such as it was, had been completed.

“Anything else, Miss Gorse?” Daphne asked, purposefully staring at Rosamund’s head.

Thinking of her dwindling coins, Rosamund at first hesitated. But she could hardly deny her need for a new bonnet, and new shoes too. “The milliner’s, I think. But first, let me stop in here,” she said as they passed an apothecary’s shop.

Quickly she bought two sticks of barley sugar to treat the girls, who stood waiting outside. Having never been allowed so much as pin money by her brother, she felt a tingle of trepidation pass through her fingers, for all that she passed the clerk nothing more substantial than a farthing.

But perhaps that strange, electric sensation wasn’t trepidation. Perhaps it was power. Was this what the heroines in books meant when they spoke of liking their independence?

As she turned to leave, another customer entered, a sensibly-dressed woman of middle age. At the same time, Daphne called for Rosamund, a note of urgency in her voice. The stranger stopped in the doorway, glanced back at the girls with something like recognition in her eyes, and then gave Rosamund an assessing look that quickly settled into disapproval. Lifting her chin a notch higher, the better to look along her nose, the woman strode sharply past without speaking. Though Rosamund had never set foot in a London ballroom, she suspected she had just experienced the dreaded cut.

But why? “Do you know that lady?” she asked Daphne as the girl scurried to her side.

Distracted, Daphne did not even glance over Rosamund’s shoulder. “I don’t know, Miss. Oh, do come.”

Across the way, a group of rowdy boys scuffled and snickered over something, and to her horror, Rosamund saw that Bell had inserted herself into the fray and was standing, arms folded over her chest, facing the leader with a furious scowl on her face.

Rosamund thrust the paper packet of sweets into Daphne’s hands and rushed across the street. “What’s all this?”

At first, the boys paid little heed. All but one of them were taller than she, although they looked to be only a few years older than Daphne. Well-dressed enough that she took them for schoolboys, not urchins.