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December 1818
Jacinda could’ve done with a glass of ratafia and a snooze, but the Contrary Gods themed masquerade ball at the Soho Club had her and her team of seamstresses working their fingers to the bone making enough costumes. The ball was tonight and there were still three costumes to be finished and delivered in the next four hours. She threaded another needle and reminded herself that she was living her dream. A modiste in London—Madame Fabriquer—designing clothes for a client list filled with the nouveau riche. All she needed now was to break into the haut ton, and design for duchesses and royalty, because then her designs would be seen in all the newssheets and she would’ve truly made it.
“Miss Dexington, there’s a servant at the door with a message for you.” One of the youngest seamstresses, Jane, poked her head into the sewing room.
“If that’s Lady Shropshirebury, tell her we will deliver her outfit in an hour as agreed.”
“You have to come.”
Jacinda placed her work carefully on the table and stood up. She stretched out her fingers as she walked towards the back door and took the written message from the servant.
My apologies. Lord S. has returned from the continent. Please find enclosed my ticket as compensation. Yours.
Well, that didn’t explain much. “Thank you.” She handed the servant a coin and closed the door, before leaning back against the wall. Three weeks of work on Lady Shropshirebury’s costume was completely wasted; not to mention the cost of the fabrics. The incredibly delicate muslin they’d used didn’t come cheap, nor did all the embroidery work they’d done on the bodice.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve eaten a rotten fish.” Margs poked her head into the hallway leading out to the back door. Jacinda handed Margs—her business partner—the note and the ticket. Margs did all the practical parts of their business, leaving Jacinda free to talk to customers and create wonderful designs for them.
“Lady S better bloody pay her bill. I’ll write her an invoice that doesn’t mention the ball, since her husband obviously can’t know she intended to attend.” Margs scoffed. “You should go. You’d look mighty pretty as the Fates.”
“No. I couldn’t.” Jacinda was too tired to attend a party known for lewdness and profanity. As much as she loved people, a party like that would take a lot of energy and she was trying to run a business. Her focus had to be on that, not the frivolous parties of her clients. She’d spent four years building up Madame Fabriquer into a personality; the absolute must-have modiste for the wealthy elite. She couldn’t risk her reputation at one of their own parties. Could she?
“It’d be good for business.”
“How so?”
“Research. You’d get to see what they actually do at these fancy parties.” Margs had that calculating look on her face, her dark brown eyes narrowed. “You are young and pretty. Go and enjoy yourself for a change.”
Jacinda stretched out her hands. “You are young and pretty too.”
“Neither of us are that young.” They were both seven and twenty. “Go.”
“But...”
“No. This is an opportunity.” Margs used her fierce voice and Jacinda nodded. If anyone knew an opportunity and how to exploit it, it was Margs. Not because she was ruthless—although that was part of it—but because she understood that life didn’t give you anything and you had to fight for it. If Margs said this was an opportunity, Jacinda wasn’t going to argue with her. Margs’ mother was a servant for a Duke, and Margs had learned to read and write while cleaning up after the Duke’s legitimate children. She knew how to exploit opportunities and she knew that life didn’t gift you anything, especially not if your mother was African, or if you were poor. Jacinda had a much more privileged upbringing, by comparison, being from a manufacturing family who’d been in Manchester since the beginning of time. She’d brought her passion for dressmaking to London and employed Margs to do the accounts. It had been quickly apparent that Margs understood how to engage the right type of customers, and Jacinda had promoted her and given her half the business as collateral to make sure no other business poached her. Margs had taken Jacinda’s vision and created a profitable business far beyond Jacinda’s dreams.
In short, Jacinda trusted Margs’ opinion. “Then we’d better make the adjustments so the costume fits me.” It was time to make the most of Lady S’s inability to attend the Soho Club ball.
Margs nodded. “Luckily the design will work for most shapes.”
“The current fashion for high waists is flattering to most women.” Jacinda loved how the current gowns put the focus on the fabric, rather than the physical shape of the woman wearing the dress. The bodice would pose a problem, with Jacinda being much less endowed than Lady S.
“Come on. Let’s get you dolled up for a party. It’s time to get more customers for Madame Fabriquer.”
“Fine.”
“Hey, none of that. Put on your best smile for all those customers we are going to get. It’s time to expand the business, meet new people...”
“Have a growth mindset?” Jacinda teased. Margs liked to come up with her own phrases for expanding their business, and that one was one of Jacinda’s favourites.
“Yes. I’ve seen how much money these Dukes and their like have. I want some of it for me.”
Jacinda pulled Margs into a quick hug. “Like you’ve often said, the best revenge is to thrive.”
“Bloody yes.” Margs took Jacinda’s hands and stepped out of the hug. “Now, let’s make you into the Fates. You can carry the threads of all these men’s lives and their fortunes."
"Time to transfer their fortune from them to us?" Jacinda grinned at her business partner and friend.
“Definitely.”
“Let’s get the other costumes completed and delivered, then we’ll focus on me. If I’m late, I can make a grander entrance.” Jacinda could do this. She could draw all the attention to her and her costume. She’d make sure everyone knew who made it; she wanted everyone whispering—shouting—about Madam Fabriquer and how creatively brilliant she was. She wanted everyone in the ton wearing her designs, and if they weren’t, she wanted them to be talking about how much they wished they could afford her work. With their success, Margs could purchase her own security—and that of her mother—without the need for a husband, and Jacinda’s satisfaction in seeing her clever friend thrive would be complete.
Five hours later, Jacinda stepped out of the hackney with Jane carrying part of her costume to keep it out of the muck of the street. Her face was mostly covered by a mask; an ostentatious creation made of Papier Mache, painted navy blue with gold leaf brushed on to emphasis her eyes. Well, Lady S’ eyes. The mask didn’t quite fit her own face properly; she was taller and narrower than Lady S, even in the face, but they’d tied it on tight, so it shouldn’t slip. The design of her dress was fortunate in that it could be easily altered for her size. The bodice gaped on her; she’d contemplated stuffing her bosom with fabric to fill it out, but in the end had merely found a better solution. The original bodice was low cut, designed to display Lady S’ spectacular bosom with paste jewels sewn into the edging to catch the light. It tucked tight under her bosom, as was the current fashion, and fell to the floor in a way that reminded Jacinda of a chemise rather than the outer garment of a dress. Because The Fates in Greek mythology represented human destiny through the threads of life, the entire dress was covered in a network of thick cords, a finer version of nautical ropes. Jacinda had needed to be, quite literally, tied into the costume by Margs, with rope threaded in a cross-hatch pattern over her decolletage and bosom. From under the bosom, several ropes hung loose forming almost a gown of its own, or rather the representation of a gown. It reminded Jacinda of a spider web, in that the ropes looked like they might catch an unwilling—or willing—participant. A thinner rope had been used along her arms, woven around her biceps, all the way down past her elbows, finishing just before her gloves.
She handed her ticket to the man standing outside the Soho Club. If it wasn’t for the long line up of carriages and hackneys, and the man reading tickets, she wouldn’t have known this building housed anything but a residential home. There was no sign, nothing gave away that this was one of the clubs whispered about by her clients. She fully expected debauchery on entering the place, and she wasn’t quite sure how she might manage to avoid getting entangled. Ha, she was literally wearing a rope dress with an almost translucent muslin underneath as the only protection from the world. In certain lights, she knew people would be able to see all the way through the fine muslin of the costume. She’d worn cotton drawers as a nod to privacy, for all the good that might do.
“Thank you, Jane. Be sure to get home carefully tonight.”
“I can stay if you need, Madam.”
“No. Half of the people in attendance are clients at Madam Fabriquer.” Jacinda hoped that wasn’t quite true because she needed to woo the haut ton, not her current clients. She didn’t need to tell Jane that she’d be safe at the party. It wasn’t exactly true. She had no clue as to her safety at this type of event, as she’d never attended anything quite like this. But she reassured Jane, not wanting to lie—at least not outright—to one of her seamstresses. She ignored her racing pulse and the clamminess on her palms. It was time to do business.