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December came to an end, but the twelfth night festivities continued in society. Snow blanked the city reducing the usual miasma. All the shops in London displayed their wares so people could get ready for the Twelfth Night celebration. Phoebe was planning to head back to the country for a large gathering at the family property, hosted by her son and the current Viscountess, but it didn’t excite her as much as previously. She used to love the Christmas period, with parties and celebrations, and gift giving. Finding that special gift for each person that would make them smile was one of her very favourite parts of the season. She walked along Cavendish Square, stopping occasionally to look in the windows of various haberdashery shops filled with her peers busily buying ribbons and trims for their modistes to use. It was all so boring; the same goods, the same people stroking ribbons, and the same air of discontent.
The door to a bakery opened, and the scents of baked goods and spun sugar temporarily filled the air. Her own breath hovered in the cold air and she tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. A huge sugar-coated Twelfth Cake dominated the window display and Phoebe couldn’t help but think of the obscene sugar industry that allowed such creations to be made. The movement to end slavery was gaining traction and it was one she pushed her son to use his position in Lords to get involved with. The estate had no such investments—thankfully—although this was not a deliberate choice. It had more to do with her husband’s belief that the aristocracy should only concern itself with their own estates. To her shame, he’d had no interest in the welfare of the country, nor had he wanted to invest in risky off-shore ventures where he might need to trust in advisors and that second fact was the only reason the estate had never contributed to the ugly mess that was slavery. A lucky, rather than planned, outcome. She breathed in the perfume of freshly baked breads, yeasty and accidentally satisfying, before continuing her aimless walk.
“Lady Phoebe. How lovely to see you?” Lady Shropshirebury stepped out of the jewellers shop beside the bakery.
“It’s been an age. We missed you at the Contrary Gods ball.”
Lady S glanced around. “A terrible shame. I was so looking forward to that. Lord S returned from business on the continent early.”
“I see. I assume you’ve heard the latest about it?”
“No. Shall we walk together?” Lady S hooked her arm through Phoebe’s elbow and started to walk. A couple of servants scrambled to follow her. “Was it everything one might expect from such a party? Tell me all the interesting things.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the sensation.”
“No. I’ve been at home with Lord S for the past week.”
Phoebe leaned closer and whispered. “A woman, a stranger to everyone, arrived in the most outrageous costume, and she told me later that it had been designed for you?”
“Excellent. I’m so glad that my ticket was used. Yes, to answer your question, I had Madame Fabriquer design me a costume based on The Fates and when I couldn’t attend the ball, I gifted the ticket to her. Did she attend?”
Phoebe paused. “Someone attended in your costume and told anyone who would listen that Madame Fabriquer created the outfit.”
“Fascinating. Well, if you want to meet her, her shop is near Cheapside.”
“Oh, how on earth did you end up using a modiste from there?” Cheapside was mostly filled with lower income trade shops suitable for people of more humble origins than Lady S.
“The Duchess of Henley, who I went to finishing school with, has a sister who keeps her finger on the pulse with regards to all the up-and-coming designers. She prides herself on knowing who is who, and she mentioned that Madame Fabriquer had a style that might suit the sketches I’d been making with regards to the Contrary Gods ball.”
Phoebe nodded. “So you took your sketches to this young modiste and she created the gown. That’s not quite the story that was told at the ball.”
Lady S laughed. “To be clear, I would never claim that she stole my design. My sketches were very ordinary. I’m hardly much of an artist, much to the despair of several governesses. If Madame Fabriquer could make something useful from my little drawings, then I’m impressed. How was the end result?”
“The gown was a sensation. It drew the entire room towards the woman wearing it, and she endured hours of propositions.”
Lady S placed her free hand over her mouth. “Oh goodness. I am upset to have missed that. It is going to be several months until Lord S travels again and I can indulge myself in such larks. I suppose that will give Madame Fabriquer time to make another costume for me.”
“You wouldn’t wear this one.”
Lady S gasped and tapped her gloved hand lightly on Phoebe’s arm. “What are you saying, Lady Phoebe? I would not be seen dead in a gown previously worn by someone else. Golly.”
“Of course. My apologies.”
“Duly accepted.” Lady S sighed, rather dramatically. “I do confess that I would like to visit Madame Fabriquer and gaze upon this outfit that caused such a sensation. Do you think I will regret doing that?”
“Only you can answer that.” Phoebe wouldn’t mind a reason to visit this mysterious Madame Fabriquer. Maybe she would know how to find the woman from the ball who’d worn the outfit.
“Shall we? The two of us travelling to Cheapside together will be much more palatable to Lord S, than me going alone.”
“Take your servants.”
“I’d still be alone. Let’s get a hackney and go now.” Lady S’ spontaneity appealed, and naturally Phoebe was going to leap at any chance to find out who she’d had the pleasure of spending a night with. Not a whole night, and certainly not long enough, which was why she waved at a passing hackney cab without the dignity one might imagine belonged to a Viscountess. When the hackney pulled up, one of Lady S’ servants whispered something to her, and Lady S waved her hand.
“You first.”
Phoebe climbed in and to her surprise, Lady S closed the door, gave a little wave with her fingertips, and spoke to the driver. The cab pulled away and Phoebe realised she’d been played. Rather nicely. She chuckled very quietly under her breath; if she wasn’t looking forward to finding Jacinda so much, she might plot a neat retort.
The journey was just long enough for Phoebe to realise that Lady S’ servant must have said something, perhaps a rumour from the Soho Club ball, otherwise why bundle her into the hackney and push her towards Madame Fabriquer? She didn’t want to spend too much time in contemplation over that otherwise her already quickening pulse might gallop. The cab arrived on the unassuming street in Cheapside and Phoebe gave the hackney driver a handful of coins. They had stopped outside a plain door in a brick wall with the cleanly painted signed above it.
Madame Fabriquer.
A little sign hung in the window. Open. She pushed the door and stepped inside. A flutter in her chest grew as she walked through the door. She blinked.
“Oh goodness.” The room was filled with the most fantastic fabrics; silks from China, soft linens in different colours, woollen tartans from Scotland, and the most incredible painted muslins from India. She barely knew where to look first. Her fingers twitched. She needed to touch all of these, if only to make sure they were real.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” A young girl appeared from behind some of the racks of fabric.
“No, thank you. I am just browsing.” Phoebe wandered through the different fabrics on display and she couldn’t resist running her gloved hands across a few of them. Imagine this silk against her skin, or this soft cotton, or this one, or that one... The colours in the muslin were beautiful, like a watercolour painting. She lost herself in the rich displays of fabrics, wandering between the shelves as though lost in a most beautiful forest.
“How can I help you today?” It was the woman from the ball. Jacinda. Phoebe would recognise that voice anywhere, the soft alto and the way she’d moaned in pleasure.
“Who better to promote one’s own design than oneself?” Phoebe hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but it was obvious from this woman’s demeanour that she owned this shop. She moved through the racks of fabric with ease and had a certain manner in the way she held herself.
Jacinda’s eyes widened. “As you say.” Jacinda—Madame Fabriquer—recovered faster than Phoebe, who couldn’t quite believe that she hadn’t figured this out during the ball. Of course, she would present her own work to a ready-made audience of potential clientele when given the opportunity to do so. Phoebe’s admiration grew. They stared at each other for a long time, unspeaking.
“Was there something you required?”
“I do find myself in need of a new dress. Perhaps in the Chinese silk I saw in the window?”
“Shall we take a look at the fabric and discuss your needs?” Jacinda walked through the shop towards the display of Chinese silks. “My brother-in-law, Mr Chan, imports these direct from Beijing. They are the very best in quality and expensive.”
“Money isn’t a concern.”
“How nice for you.” Jacinda’s sarcastic tone hit Phoebe in the stomach.
“Do you speak to all potential clients like this, or merely ones you’ve—”
“Been intimate with?”
“Yes.” Phoebe wanted to know how many others there had been, and a little burning lump sat at back of her throat. Thinking like that was a pathway to frustration, especially since Phoebe had hardly been celibate since Lord Merryam’s death. She could hardly judge anyone else for the same.
“Are you a potential client? Or do you have another motive in visiting my place of business?”
“Can I not be both?”
“Yes.” Jacinda paused for a short breath. “Which of the silks do you prefer? The light blue will go nicely with your colouring.”
“I was thinking something more vibrant. A statement piece.”
“You don’t have the colouring to pull off the red. It’ll make you look washed out. I would recommend the light blue, or perhaps the green.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Phoebe couldn’t understand the animosity.
Jacinda held her gaze steadily, although her nostrils flared very slightly. “No. I would prefer not to have my person connected to Lady S’ dress, however.”
“You don’t trust me not to tell everyone that it was you in that dress at the Soho Club?”
Jacinda pursed her mouth a little but didn’t respond.
“Members of the Soho Club are very discreet. The management insist on it.”
“I see.” Jacinda pulled the light blue silk from the rack it was on and held a section up against Phoebe’s face. Having Jacinda’s hand so close to her mouth was a temptation. Oh dear, she was quickly becoming infatuated with the young dress maker. If she just leaned a little more...