CHAPTER
Eleven
“You will not believe what I overheard just now—Miss Celeste Wilkins has been sent to a sanatorium in England.”
Gabriella looked up from the gown she was hemming, finding Monsieur Villard, her employer, standing on the other side of her worktable. His brown hair was decidedly mussed, which suggested he’d been so caught up in eavesdropping that he’d succumbed to his habit of raking his hand through his hair. Normally, he took great pains to avoid that habit because he believed his appearance needed to be perfect during business hours.
“A sanatorium?” she repeated, laying aside her needle and thread.
“Indeed.” Monsieur Villard leaned over the table. “According to Mrs. Lyons, who heard it from none other than Mr. Ward McAllister, it appears that because Miss Celeste Wilkins made a full confession after being caught red-handed five days ago, the authorities decided that something had to be done. A lady can’t very well be allowed to go on her merry way after framing a fellow lady for theft, no matter that her family is part of the New York Four Hundred. Apparently, the decision was made to send Celeste out of the country, where she’s going to enjoy a lovely stay at a sanatorium, hopefully dwelling on her past misdeeds.”
“How long will she have to stay there?”
“No idea. But because she was caught, the lovely Miss Jennette Moore has now been set free, which has resulted in a great deal of business being sent our way.” Monsieur Villard rubbed his hands together. “With Mr. Duncan Linwood insisting they get married by the end of the month, society ladies are in a dither, scrambling to order the perfect gowns for what will certainly be one of the most talked-about weddings and balls of the Season. Fortunately for us, with the limited time available to get those gowns made, we’ve turned into the dress shop of choice.”
“And that is why I need to get back to work and you need to go flatter all those society customers waiting for you on the main floor.”
Monsieur Villard sent her a wink. “Too right you are.”
“Of course I am, but before you go, you might want to fix your hair. It’s mussed.”
“Surely not?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That will never do,” Monsieur Villard said, striding toward his office.
Smiling, Gabriella returned to the gown she was hemming, but the longer she hemmed, the harder she found it to concentrate on the job at hand.
It wasn’t that hemming took a great deal of concentration, but anytime her thoughts got to wandering of late, they seemed to wander directly into Nicholas territory, which was not where she wanted her thoughts to go.
Telling him she didn’t want to see him again had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but it couldn’t have been helped. He was not the Nicholas she’d known and loved. That Nicholas would have acquired the Henry Raeburn paintings not because he wanted to hang them on his wall, but because he would have wanted to return them to their rightful owner. Her Nicholas would’ve also been completely content with his brownstone in Washington Square Park, not caring a whit that another part of the city had turned more fashionable. Most importantly, he would have never, ever tried to manage her with his many opinions, even if that was something many society ladies apparently enjoyed.
To her annoyance, though, even with the many faults he’d clearly acquired over the years, she couldn’t help but enjoy being in his company. She relished the banter they exchanged and appreciated the easiness that occasionally settled between them, an easiness that had once seemed as natural as breathing.
“Monsieur Villard asked me to come fetch you, Gabriella. You’re needed on the floor.”
Gabriella looked up to find Nan, one of the other seamstresses, standing directly beside her. “The floor must be incredibly busy if he actually wants me out there.”
Nan grinned. “There are currently so many ladies packed into the main room that you can’t turn around without running into someone. Monsieur Villard wants you to mark some hems, hoping that adding you to the mix will help clear out the shop before closing time.” Nan leaned closer. “You know how Monsieur Villard enjoys closing the shop on time, but he also doesn’t want to miss a sale, which is evidently why he’s willing to risk sending you out there.”
“I’m not a risk. I do know how to comport myself when interacting with customers, if I make a concerted effort.”
“You never flatter them.”
“Flattery’s not in my nature.”
“Hence the reason Monsieur Villard prefers keeping you out of sight.” Nan caught Gabriella’s eye. “He does seem slightly frazzled, so . . .”
“I’ll be on my best behavior and might even attempt a small bit of flattery, but no promises.”
Laying aside the gown she was working on, Gabriella gathered a measuring tape and a container of pins. She edged around the other worktables and made her way to the main room, pausing in the doorway as her gaze traveled over the swarm of ladies milling about.
That the room was packed was not in question, and that so many ladies in need of hemming had to resort to having that work done in the main room, instead of the dressing rooms where alterations were normally performed, suggested that Monsieur Villard was right in that his dress shop had become the shop of choice in the city.
Squaring her shoulders, she strode forward, heading for a raised dais where a young lady was standing, clearly waiting for her hem to be marked.
“What a lovely gown,” Gabriella said, walking around the young lady and then resisting a groan when she discovered it was none other than Miss Maryanne Allen, a lady who’d all but chatted her ear off when Gabriella had been masquerading as Mrs. Kaffenburgh.
Maryanne frowned. “Do you believe it’s merely lovely? I was hoping for spectacular.”
“I imagine spectacular is a fitting description as well.”
“You’re not sure it’s spectacular?”
Reminding herself that Monsieur Villard was frazzled and would hardly appreciate it if he were forced to intervene because she’d annoyed a customer, Gabriella summoned up a smile. “Forgive me but of course it’s spectacular. I’m certain you’ll be one of the most fashionably dressed ladies at . . . should I assume this is for the Moore-Linwood wedding?”
“Is there any other event worth talking about?”
It took a great deal of effort to keep her smile in place. “Shall I get down to marking your hem?”
“Unless you want to keep me standing on this dais longer than I’m comfortable, yes.”
Gabriella knelt on the floor, still smiling, even though she was relatively certain her jaw had taken to clenching. Scooting along, she slipped pins into the delicate silk and made her way around the skirt, stopping when she reached the middle of the back. She rose to her feet and began giving the hem a close look, making certain it was even, her perusal interrupted when a customer stumbled into her, causing Gabriella to stumble into Nan, who was marking a hem right beside her. After she regained her balance and helped Nan up from the floor, she drew in a deep breath, trying to keep her irritation in check over the notion that the lady who’d stumbled into her hadn’t bothered to apologize. When she glanced around the room, the breath she’d just taken got stuck in her chest when her gaze suddenly locked with the last person she’d been expecting to see in the shop.
Nicholas.
Her irritation disappeared in a flash, replaced with a touch of anticipation because . . . even though she’d told him in the firmest manner possible that she didn’t want to see him again, he’d somehow discovered where she worked and had tracked her down to, perhaps, make amends.
Her lips curved into a genuine smile, that smile fading a mere second later when she realized that, while Nicholas was certainly giving her his undivided attention, he wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked quite as if he’d seen a ghost.
Understanding was swift, as was temper.
He’d not come to the shop to seek her out. He was here with one of his many lady friends, and he was watching her so closely because . . . he didn’t know how to go about greeting her without everyone questioning how he was acquainted with a seamstress.
Narrowing her eyes, while calling herself the biggest ninny for thinking there was still a part of the old Nicholas residing in the consummate gentleman wearing a perfectly fitted suit that had clearly been tailor-made, she spun on her heel, knelt on the ground, and continued marking the hem.
Finishing in record time, she refused to allow herself another glimpse of Nicholas as she rose to her feet and nodded to Maryanne. “That should do it.”
Maryanne twisted from side to side, staring at her reflection in a three-way mirror. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“As I said before, you’ll be one of the most fashionably dressed guests at the wedding.”
Maryanne immediately began looking rather sulky. “I need to be the most fashionably dressed.” She frowned at her reflection. “Perhaps you should add more beads to really make it sparkle.”
“If we add more beads, you’ll have difficulty walking, let alone dancing. But is there a reason why you’re determined to be the most fashionably dressed?”
Maryanne shrugged. “There’s a title to be won, and I want to be at the top of Mrs. Kaffenburgh’s list. I won’t achieve that goal if I don’t stand out over the other young ladies in attendance at the Moore-Linwood event.”
Of anything Gabriella had been expecting Maryanne to admit, that had not crossed her mind. She’d also neglected to realize what the consequences could be from creating Mrs. Kaffenburgh in the first place, or for forgetting to let society know Mrs. Kaffenburgh was no longer available. Concerningly enough, young ladies were apparently still striving to win Mrs. Kaffenburgh’s favor.
She cleared her throat, knowing she had no choice but to deal with the unfortunate Mrs. Kaffenburgh situation once and for all, before she was responsible for young ladies throwing away their chances of a successful Season in the hopes of procuring a nonexistent title. “Forgive me for being forward, but working in a dress shop affords me the unusual opportunity of being privy to matters that aren’t often publicly bandied about.” She leaned closer to Maryanne. “I overheard someone speaking about a Mrs. Kaffenburgh, and from what was said, I got the distinct impression that lady has left the city to travel to Boston.”
Maryanne’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Kaffenburgh is no longer in the city?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“When is she expected to return?”
“I didn’t hear anything about her returning.”
“Good heavens, Maryanne,” Mrs. Allen, Maryanne’s mother, said, bustling up to join them. “Have a care with your conversation. You’ve only just gotten back in Mr. Quinn’s good graces, but I doubt that state will last long if he overhears you talking about Mrs. Kaffenburgh again.”
“I doubt he heard me, Mother.” Maryanne turned on the dais and sent a waggle of fingers in the direction Gabriella had last seen Nicholas standing, only to turn around again a second later with her lips pursed. “Or perhaps I’m mistaken and he did hear me because he just ignored my wave.”
“I heard you mention Mrs. Kaffenburgh from halfway across the room,” her mother snapped. “Mr. Quinn obviously heard you as well and is, as I warned you, less than pleased with you yet again. If you’ve forgotten, he’s been spending his time this week at his many gentleman clubs, avoiding other society events like the plague. I was certain you’d ruined your chances with him for good but was ever so pleased when he accepted my invitation to join us at a matinee earlier, followed by a wonderful luncheon. He then agreed to accompany us to this shop, which is quite the chore for a gentleman, since they prefer to spend their time in less-feminine surroundings. You need to keep his chivalrous behavior in mind and act accordingly. I do not want my efforts to restore him to a good humor to be in vain, so enough with the talk of Mrs. Kaffenburgh.”
Maryanne’s lips thinned. “Mrs. Kaffenburgh’s nephew could allow our family to obtain a title.”
“True, but the competition for that title will be fierce. You’ve already drawn the specific notice of Mr. Quinn, and he, my dear, is considered the most eligible bachelor in the city. You’d be wise to remember that as well and not put all your eggs in one aristocratic basket.”
Maryanne lifted her chin. “Mrs. Kaffenburgh was suitably impressed with me the night of the Lanham ball and is surely going to speak highly of me to her nephew.”
“But we have no idea when she’ll be seeing her nephew again, nor do we know when that nephew may be coming to the city to meet potential countesses.” Mrs. Allen took hold of her daughter’s hand. “You’re almost twenty, Maryanne, and at such an advanced age, you need to marry this Season. Society will begin to whisper about you if you don’t, and their whispers will not be kind. It could very well harm your chances of landing a well-connected, wealthy, and sought-after gentleman.”
Gabriella frowned. “Shouldn’t she be concerned with landing a gentleman who holds her in great affection?”
The look Mrs. Allen shot Gabriella was filled with incredulousness, although whether that was from the question itself or because Gabriella, a seamstress, had voiced it, was anyone’s guess.
“Affection is not required for members of the New York Four Hundred,” Mrs. Allen said coolly. “We form alliances based on position and wealth, unlike the commoners, who evidently have their lives ruled by their hearts instead of their heads.”
Even with her being more furious with Nicholas than she thought possible, Gabriella couldn’t help but feel rather sorry for him.
The world he now embraced was not one she’d ever care to live in—even if his world came with no financial hardships and a lovely brownstone. Frankly, his world seemed cold and uninviting, calculated and almost cruel, and she could only hope that someday, before he lost the opportunity to escape, he’d realize that.
“If you’ll excuse me, Maryanne,” Mrs. Allen said, drawing Gabriella from her thoughts, “I’m going to join Mr. Quinn because he seems . . . out of sorts.” She narrowed her eyes at Gabriella and considered her in a most disconcerting fashion. “Maryanne needs to get out of that gown with all due haste. We’re attending the opera later, and if Mr. Quinn agrees to accompany us tonight, she’ll need extra time to get ready.” With that, Mrs. Allen walked away.
Knowing full well she was the reason Nicholas was out of sorts, she chanced a glance his way and found him walking out of the shop, holding Mrs. Allen’s arm.
Returning her attention to Maryanne, Gabriella summoned up yet another smile. “Shall I help you get out of your gown now?”
“Unless you want to experience my mother’s displeasure, you should.”
Ten minutes later, with Maryanne on her way and Nicholas and Mrs. Allen, thankfully, waiting for Maryanne outside the shop, Gabriella headed back to the workroom to fetch additional pins to hem another lady’s gown, her emotions swinging from one extreme to the other.
Hurt warred with temper—temper winning out in the end—which left her scowling, something she didn’t realize she was doing until Nan took one look at her after asking to borrow a pair of shears and made a beeline back to the showroom floor.
Forcing a smile that took more effort than it should have, Gabriella fetched more pins and headed for the door, only to be intercepted by Monsieur Villard, who stood in her way even as he took hold of her arm.
“I believe your services on the floor are no longer needed, mon cherie.”
“You’re overflowing with customers, so I need to be out there,” Gabriella argued. “And I know I’ve mentioned more than once that I don’t like when you call me mon cherie.”
“It’s French. Everyone likes endearments in that language.”
“No, they don’t, and besides, you’re not even French.”
Disbelief settled in Monsieur Villard’s eyes. “How do you know I’m not French?”
Gabriella rubbed the back of her neck as tension, mixed with a great deal of regret, swept through her. “Forgive me, Monsieur Villard. I’m currently in a dreadful temper, but that’s no excuse for being so undeniably rude to you. Feel free to address me as mon cherie whenever you please.”
She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “As for the French business, I knew within a minute of meeting you years ago that you weren’t French, but I really must beg your pardon for blurting out your secret like that. It was not well done of me.”
Instead of responding to that, Monsieur Villard took hold of her arm and hustled her over to her worktable. He waited until she sat down on a stool before he smiled and shook his head. “I accept your apology and should have known better than to press you because you were clearly in a temper. I must admit I’m curious about the temper, though. I realize our customers can be trying at times, but I saw you assisting Miss Maryanne Allen. She’s not usually overly demanding, nor does she seem to be a bad sort.”
“Unless you consider that she’s perfectly willing to cozy up to a particular gentleman even though she’s got her sights on someone a little higher in the instep.”
“I might need more of an explanation than that.”
“You have a shop filled with customers. Explanations of any kind will need to wait.”
Monsieur Villard inclined his head. “I suppose they must, but do not even consider trying to slip away until we discuss this matter in-depth after the shop closes for the day.”
Gabriella frowned. “We’ve never actually had in-depth discussions about anything before. Light-hearted banter is what you and I enjoy.”
“I believe it’s past time we change that” was all Monsieur Villard said before he sailed out the door again, leaving Gabriella with only her thoughts for company—ones that didn’t do anything to quell the temper and hurt that continued to swirl through her.