Page 28 of The Duke Undone

Chapter Five

Saturday dawned wet and gray. Lucy spent the first part of the morning bustling through the shop, layering high-quality silks and muslins around rolls of cheaper fabrics to create a sumptuous display. She draped the front racks with pretty chintzes and opened drawers so shining ribbons and colorful laces peeked out. The drawers looked bountiful, packed with trimmings. No customer would guess that there was nothing behind those few visible bits of ornament.

The drawers were all but empty.

Every now and then Aunt Marian looked up from her sewing machine to smile at Lucy’s progress. She was in the far back of the shop, letting out seams in one of Mrs. Fairfax’s unutterably ugly day dresses. Back when she was Miss Clara Oakes, Mrs. Fairfax, a soprano who sang opera at the Lyceum Theatre and was feted by the press for her daring fashion, had been—for a season at least—as famous as the queen. Now she was stout, widowed, and somber-minded, with tastes that ran to prudish severity.

Seeing her aunt drowning in all that black and gray fabric caused Lucy physical pain. What a waste of her talent! Aunt Marian was a genius. Theater managers used to send her their more glamorous singers and dancers. No comic opera, no romance, no gothic or nautical drama, was complete without Aunt Marian’s elaborate gowns, each with its signature flourish. At the peak of her success, she’d employed five seamstresses. She’d partnered with Dodie Thistleship, costume designer for the leading Shakespearean actresses of the day. That had been the beginning of the end. Dodie Thistleship took credit for Aunt Marian’s patterns, patterns that set society trends. Slowly, Aunt Marian was edged out and forgotten.

She was lucky that any star continued to patronize her, even an aged star determined to sport the silhouette of an eighteenth-century dowager. The beau monde took no more notice of Miss Stirling, Dressmaker. The shop couldn’t stay afloat on rare special orders. They eked by on rack sales and girls from the penny gaffes who wanted a bit of lace edging.

Still, the shop remained her aunt’s pride and joy. Lucy wouldn’t let it look like a ragpicker’s cart, however depleted the stock, however meager the prospect for new sales.

She finished arranging trimmed bonnets in the counter display, then surveyed the corner of the shop where clients were once measured and fitted by the dozen behind a green velvet curtain. Now that corner was occupied by a woeful little table piled with Mrs. Fairfax’s petticoats. Sighing, she pushed through a rickety door and went past the little kitchen, down the narrow hall to the back court to retrieve her latest creation. She burst into the shop carrying a bottle filled with fern fronds and moss and set it in the center of the little table.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. She’d gotten the idea after a visit to Kate’s house. The Holroyds had two large glazed cases on ornate tables in their drawing room containing dozens of fern species from around the world. With what glass Lucy had to hand, and one fern she’d bought from a Drury Lane root seller, she’d made a miniature version. It was simple, true, but absolutely cunning. If she did say so herself.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Never mind! Don’t look until I’m done.”

She walked backward to the front door and cast an eye over the shop. Gorgeous, even with the light coming feebly through the small, wavy panes. The Argand lamps gave the room a warm glow, and even her aunt, thin and drawn at her sewing machine, looked picturesque in the background.

At the sound of a knock, Lucy turned, smoothing her skirt, but it was only the wind, rattling the door against the frame. A dummy dressed in black broadcloth caught her eye. She grimaced, dragging the dummy away from the window. Aunt Marian could do better than advertising family mourning! She stripped the dummy and began to lace a gown of cheerful yellow silk around its wasp waist. It was Aunt Marian’s style, but it was her own handiwork, bountifully embroidered with daisies.

“This is all very nice,” said Aunt Marian. Her new sewing machine was purring along as she pumped the treadle. “But, Lucy . . .” She paused, a twinkle in her eye. “Are you expecting the queen?”

Lucy made a face and gave the gown a few final tugs.

“The queen would look well enough in one of your dresses,” she said. “You’ve outfitted plenty of queens.”

“Guinevere, Cleopatra, Cymbeline, Gertrude . . .” Aunt Marian laughed, ticking off the characters she’d costumed.

Lucy laughed too and dragged the dummy back to the front of the shop.

Perfection achieved, she could settle in for a few hours of needlework. Maybe it was foolish to keep the shop looking elegant, with the semblance, at least, of luxury. The women who came in off the street were by and large seeking out ready-made print frocks, something prettier than they’d find in a market stall, for a holiday or for church. They didn’t have much to spend, and they paced the floor warily, on guard against their own desires.

She sank into a chair and reached into the open basket on the floor for her needle and thread.

“Go on.” Her aunt made shooing noises, her hands too busy at the sewing machine for the accompanying motions. “Aren’t you working on a picture of Flossie Dowling’s boys?”

“It came out wrong.” Lucy threaded her needle swiftly. “I whited it out. I have to start over again. So, you see, I’m not working on anything.”

She shrugged as though the subject was of no import whatsoever, gathering undersleeves onto her lap that Mrs. Fairfax had allowed might do with a bit of decoration.

“The light’s bad for painting anyway,” she muttered, plucking one of Mr. Malkin’s hairs from a cuff.

Now that Aunt Marian couldn’t manage the precipitous stairs, Lucy slept alone in the garret, which she also used as her studio. Saturdays and Sundays she tried to paint for an hour or two when the sun was out and sew later into the night, to save on oil. But it scarcely mattered on such a gray morning.

“Whited it out!” The shop fell silent as the belts and wheels of the sewing machine stopped turning. “Without showing it to me?” Aunt Marian shook her head. The sewing machine began to hum again and she bent low over the table.

Aunt Marian was also frizz-haired, although hers was now iron gray. Lucy spoke haltingly to her mass of curls and hairpins.

“The portrait was ludicrous,” she said. “The faces had the texture of overripe cheese.”

Aunt Marian raised her head.

“I don’t care if you doubled the size of Tom Dowling’s head and painted on an extra eye. I’d have liked to see it.”

Lucy forced herself to meet her aunt’s gaze.