XI

My Dearest,

I know we said it would be best to have no contact, but I could not resist this chance to write. Know that I am well and hard at work on my reformation. In fact, my removal into the halls of daylight and respectability is being noted. I every day meet old acquaintances from the gaming rooms who wonder aloud where I have been and remark on what my absence may mean.

You may be sure that those feelings we spoke of during our brief, bright moment together remain true and strong.

Please write, if it is safe. If not, any word spoken to your seamstress will reach me. She is my sister, and you may trust her absolutely.

I am yours,

J.

***

“His sister!” Adele stared at the young woman in the plain black dress who sat across the paper-covered tea table from her. They sat together with their mass of sketches and notes in the cozy front parlor of Deborah Sewell’s house at No. 48 Wimpole Street.

“C’est vrai,” said Mademoiselle Marie, with a very Gallic shrug. “You will find, however, I am by far the more sensible of the two.”

His sister. Adele struggled to keep from repeating the words aloud. Of course she’d known Mademoiselle Marie’s surname was Beauclaire. It was a common enough name among the French émigrés of London, as was the combination of black hair and blue eyes. When Miss Sewell recommended the modiste’s assistant as their seamstress, Adele did admittedly hope the woman might have some connection with James. Perhaps she was a cousin. But sister? That much Adele had never suspected. James had not mentioned a sister, and neither had Miss Sewell, who, as a friend of James’s, must surely have known. And if Miss Sewell had known, she would have said something, wouldn’t she?

Mademoiselle Marie coughed. “I am charged to bring him a reply, if there is one.”

“I . . . Oh yes, I think there may be.” Adele made herself fold the letter and set it aside. “How . . . how is your brother? I have not seen him since our house party.”

“He is in excellent spirits and health,” Marie told her casually. “I attribute it to the new hours he keeps.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He has turned from the gaming tables, you know, and become an investor in your great English stock market.”

“Really? How interesting.” Adele fought to keep her remarks conversational and was painfully aware that she failed. “And it agrees with him?”

“Something most certainly does.” This remark was as offhand as all the others. Marie picked up one of the sketches from the pile on Miss Sewell’s tea table. “Now, milady, if I may turn your attention back to this walking costume? It will do fairly well as it is, but if we gather the waist a little more . . . so . . .”

Adele tried to concentrate on the dresses, but failed so miserably that Marie declared she would have to return the next day, as “milady” plainly had other things on her mind.

Adele excused herself to the writing desk in the corner to pen her reply to James while Mademoiselle Marie began clearing up the mass of fabric samples, sketches, and pattern cards that had been scattered across the tables, and the chairs, and the sofa of the green sitting room. No. 48 was a much smaller house than Adele was used to, but very snug and by far the most casually conducted home she’d ever been in. Miss Sewell had granted Adele, Helene, and Madelene permission to use the residence as freely as they would their own homes. She had even presented them each with keys. Adele spent a few hours here almost every day, usually giving Aunt Kearsely to understand she’d been invited to call. Adele had been worried about what Aunt Kearsely would say regarding her spending so much time calling on the lady novelist. As matters transpired, however, Aunt Kearsely was delighted that Miss Sewell had “taken an interest” in her niece.

“Of course Adele has always had such an excellent personality and delightful conversation, she would be a fine addition to any literary salon,” Mrs. Kearsely told her friends. This favorable opinion was bolstered by the fact that with Adele calling so frequently on Miss Sewell, Miss Sewell was obliged to return the favor and come to supper at Windford House, which was a fine feather for Aunt Kearsely’s social cap.

Adele opened up the portable writing desk on the table in the corner to pull out paper and pen. But as she faced the blank page, hesitation arose.

Behind her, Mademoiselle Marie coughed again. Adele winced and began to write.

My dearest . . .

No name, in case someone sees this . . .

I am well, and I think of you often . . . Every second of every day. I wonder what you’re saying, what you’re doing, who you’re with, and is she pretty? Have you begun to regret what you pledged at New Year’s? Or choosing me instead of Patience?

No. That at least she could be fairly sure about. The little season was a time of subdued entertainments, quiet suppers, and card parties for only ten or eleven guests, growing gradually larger as more people returned to town. However, each time Patience had confidently expected James to be present at such a gathering, she’d been disappointed. If James meant to change his mind, he would not be keeping so far away from Patience. Would he?

My own transformation is meeting with some success.

It was so exciting, to watch her daydreams made real in silk and muslin, fine woolens and beading. The time was flying by. At least, the days were. The nights—when she had time to lie awake and think of nothing but James—those were endless.

Your sister is wonderfully skilled . . .

Sister? Truly? Why hadn’t Miss Sewell told her? She knew Adele was, well . . . connected to James.

I have so much to say, and yet I cannot think of any of it now with the pen in my hand . . .

That, of course, was not true. She could think of far too much to say, and do. Oh, most especially do. Every time Adele closed her eyes, she felt James beside her. It was as if they were still in the curtained alcove together. She could imagine him all too clearly as she lay in her bed at home. She felt his hands stroking her skin. His mouth feathering kisses along her throat, down to her breasts, her belly, and lower, to her private parts.

She’d had no idea that people did such things—at least, not good English people. Helene, however, had produced several utterly shocking and clearly illustrated books to show Adele and Madelene. She’d thought Madelene was going to faint as she turned the pages. Helene’s reasoning was that if they were going to go among society as desirable objects, they were sure to encounter their share of aristocratic rogues and rakes. It would be beneficial, Helene opined, to have some understanding of what those rogues and rakes were after, besides their money, of course.

“Innocence is only ignorance in polite company,” Helene declared. “You can’t defend yourself without proper understanding.”

What was even more shocking was that when Miss Sewell caught them poring over the volumes, she didn’t confiscate them. In fact, she loaned them an additional book from her personal library. Hers was a medical text about the physical process of conception, with notes on preventative techniques. With more illustrations.

Aunt Kearsely would have died of apoplexy on the spot.

All those illustrations, that lyrical poetry and plain, dry language, combined with the memory of James’s touch and the wish to feel the delight of his body pressed against hers. Adele tossed and turned, searching for sleep. She rubbed herself all over, trying to imagine it was James who touched her, this way, and this, and this. The results . . . well, the results were surprising, but they did nothing to lessen her desires.

Adele shook herself and continued writing.

You must believe I am yours,

A.

Her cheeks burned as she quickly sanded and sealed the letter and handed it to Marie. The note was inadequate to the point of ridiculous, but it was all she had. It did not come anywhere close to expressing what she wanted. She wanted James. She wanted to walk with him and laugh with him and dance with him. She wanted him to see the dresses she was working on. She wanted him in her bed, not her imagination, so they could do all the things she’d seen in Helene’s shocking books.

***

Adele showed Mademoiselle Marie to the door herself. Miss Sewell kept very few servants. Then, she walked along the narrow corridor to the back parlor, which had been converted to a book room. Miss Sewell herself sat beside the fire with Madelene and Helene, with Helene’s fat, detailed visiting book spread open on the table between them, along with several stacks of notes and a few visiting cards.

“Is Mademoiselle Marie gone?” asked Miss Sewell. “She must be almost ready to begin your fittings.”

“Yes,” said Adele. “Her progress is really remarkable.” She paused and looked directly at Miss Sewell. “I did not know she was James Beauclaire’s sister.”

“Well, think of that!” cried Madelene.

“Yes, think of that,” repeated Helene, only much less happily. “She is capable of doing what we need, isn’t she, Adele?”

Miss Sewell didn’t say one word. She didn’t even blink under Adele’s steady regard.

The truth was, Adele didn’t entirely know what to think of the woman who had agreed to be their chaperone. She had never met anyone like Miss Sewell. There were times when she called to find the woman with her hair down about her shoulders, clad in nothing but a nightdress and a silk wrapper, her hands covered with dust and ink from perusing old manuscripts. She never changed if she didn’t feel like it. She ate sandwiches and drank tea at her desk, laughed out loud, and even whistled tunes as she worked. She received men singly and in groups, sometimes in that same costume, with her ink-stained hands on full display.

It wasn’t that she had no care of her appearance. When she chose, she could dress as carefully and elegantly as any society hostess Adele had ever seen.

“It’s a costume,” she told Adele. “The great thing is to be aware it’s a costume, one I put on and take off when I choose. This”—she gestured at her bronze silk gown —“means as much about who I really am as the color of its hide means to the horse.”

The idea had stunned Adele. Aunt Kearsely had always taught her nieces that their clothes, their appearance, their demeanor were the deepest and truest expressions of themselves and their breeding. All her education—all those lectures and lessons—had been to make sure that appearances, and therefore the girls, were perfectly correct.

If her appearance wasn’t herself, who was she? And who were all those women in all those parlors and ballrooms?

“But isn’t that what we’re doing?” murmured Adele. “Aren’t we all working to become something we’re not?”

“If you were, I’d never have joined your project,” Miss Sewell answered. “But you three, I am pleased and proud to say, are working to become more yourselves every day.”

Adele heard this, and she went away. She couldn’t quite make herself believe it. But she wondered, and she thought, and she looked at the women and girls around her, and she kept on wondering.

Just as she wondered who Miss Sewell really was, and why she’d decided to take on their project. Oh, when she agreeed she’d answered breezily enough. “I accept your proposal, and you may keep your money. You’ll need all of it. As a critic of the haut ton, the spectacle of you three standing society on its head will be payment enough for me.”

But her last set of critical observations about the haut ton had ended up in the pages of a novel. Was she planning another even now, and would it feature three audacious girls who dared to take on society? And just what ending did this woman with her razor wit and laughing eyes intend for those girls?

Not that Miss Sewell had been anything but generous so far. Perhaps most importantly, she’d secured them all invitations to Mrs. Wrexford’s ball for the opening of the season proper. While not on the scale of Almack’s, Mrs. Wrexford’s ball was highly popular, and the cream of the ton would be in attendance, eager for a chance to view one another and what the season might bring.

“Adele?” Miss Sewell said. “I believe Helene asked if Mademoiselle Marie is capable.”

“What?” Adele shook herself. Of course the others knew of her attraction to James. It had been impossible to keep the secret from the two girls who had over the course of the past month become not only her coconspirators, but her best friends. “Oh yes. She’s more than capable. Her ideas are improving everything. Although she does say she may have to take on another assistant to have things ready in time.”

“Th-that will mean an extra expense?” asked Madelene.

“I’m afraid it will. I told her no, but . . .”

“Oh no. I can manage. That is, I think I can. Mister Thorpe has been very supportive so far.” Mr. Thorpe was Madelene’s principal trustee. It was another year before she had full control of her own money and so must go through him to request any advance over her monthly allowance. Adele had no idea what Madelene was telling the dour banker, but he’d been astonishingly forthcoming.

“I’m afraid we’re asking a lot of you,” Adele said to Madelene. “I will pay you back, I promise.”

“I don’t mind, really. It’s . . . it’s nice for once to have the money going to, well, something that I can be happy about.”

None of them had any answer to that. Adele remembered Madelene’s brother, Lewis, and his horrid behavior at the house party, including those times she’d glimpsed him in the card room and wondered just where he got the money to keep playing, and losing.

“Come help us update the visiting lists, Adele.” Helene shifted sideways on the sofa. “I’ve just procured a card from Mrs. Trentwell. I think that’s one Madelene and I might well take ourselves, which would free you for another meeting with Mademoiselle Marie, if it’s needed?”

Adele dutifully took her seat and picked up her own visiting book from the stack. Helene’s approach to the social world made Patience and Aunt Kearsely look like raw beginners. Whenever the girls met at Miss Sewell’s, Helene had the name of a new matron with whom an introduction needed to be managed. This, ideally, should lead to an exchange of cards, which, ideally, would lead to an opportunity to call, which in itself would lead to a new introduction, or even a formal invitation. Helene tracked the tree of acquaintances across the pages of her visiting books, for she kept more than one. Each call paid successfully was written down along with notes on how it had gone, what the topics of conversation had been, and any names that had been particularly mentioned, and in what context.

“It is like being a spy,” Helene said when Adele tried to make a joke out of it. “We are engaged in a siege of the fortress of society, so we need to gather all the intelligence we can.”

“It’s almost exciting to look at it that way,” said Madelene. “I like telling myself that I’m working for Wellington. It makes sitting in all those drawing rooms so much easier.”

The mention of spying made Adele glance toward Miss Sewell again. If Miss Sewell noticed, she gave no sign. Adele might feel uneasy, but what else were they to do? They needed her, as much as they needed this house. No. 48 was the one place they could talk and act freely.

Well, Adele told herself, if Miss Sewell did intend to write anything mischievous, she would find what it was to have a daughter of the Windfords to deal with. Not to mention the duke himself.

***

March paraded down London’s streets, dressing itself first in snowdrops, then crocuses, and finally daffodils. The three girls paid calls, meticulously following Helene’s schedules and lists. They went together, and they went separately. As they did, they slowly refashioned their apparel.

A new bonnet made an appearance here, new gloves there, or perhaps it was a new detail to a dress, such as lace or a new bag or shawl. But those were not the only changes. Nor were their growing circle of acquaintances the only ones to remark on them.

Adele had just come out of her closet to find Aunt Kearsely standing in her bedroom and staring.

“Adele, what on earth is the matter with that dress!”

Well, the color, the ruffles, the . . . Adele clamped her mouth shut. She’d hoped that watching her new wardrobe take shape under Marie’s clever fingers would give her more patience with the dresses her aunt selected, but it wasn’t working. Still, she had to keep quiet. The success of the entire plan depended on Aunt Kearsely not knowing that any plans existed.

“It’s positively bunched up.” Her aunt strode forward and began fussing with Adele’s dress, tugging at the shoulders, attempting to resettle the waist. “Don’t tell me we need to let it out again!” She paused then and looked at the twist of fabric in her fingers. “No. It doesn’t need to be let out. This needs to be taken in.” She stared at her niece. “Adele, have you lost weight?”

“I . . . well . . . it’s possible, I suppose.”

“Turn around.”

Adele did. Aunt Kearsely watched. Then she walked around Adele on her own. “I . . . well . . . I must say. I . . . It is very well done, Adele. I will send a note to Madame Flaubert asking her to come and make the alterations. I . . . well.”

With that, Aunt Kearsely took her leave. Adele walked back into her dressing room and, for the first time in her life, it seemed, stood in front of her mirror and took a very long look.

She was slimmer. It wasn’t her imagination. The loose-fitting dress told the truth. How had that happened? When had that happened? She’d been eating just the same, and the weather had been too foul for regular exercise . . .

It was the work, she realized. Usually, Adele’s little season consisted of eight weeks of tedium, with nothing to look forward to but another season of sitting by the wall. She ate to pass the time. She ate because it was comforting and, if she admitted it, because it was forbidden.

These past weeks, though, she’d eaten only at mealtimes, and then distractedly. There’d been so much to do. Designing full wardrobes for three very different girls was no small thing. There were a thousand details to be considered. Even with Mademoiselle Marie’s expert help, the effort had been absorbing all Adele’s time and attention. Was the weather bad? It didn’t matter. She must venture out to meet with the others, or to stop by Mademoiselle Marie’s workroom to see her progress and review plans and patterns; or she must be off to the warehouses with Marie to select silk and ribbons and beads and lace. She hadn’t walked so much since she was a little girl in the country, and she’d done it in all weathers.

And this was the result. Adele pressed her hands against her flattened stomach, and then against her blushing cheeks. She wasn’t slender, not like Patience, but she was undeniably slimmer than she had been just at Christmastime. The morning dress was still awful, but for the first time, the ruffles didn’t look quite so outrageous; the gathers around the waist were, well, they were gathered, and hanging neatly, not straining out. It looked almost . . . almost . . .

She stood straight. She struck a pose. She laughed and clapped her hand against her mouth to smother the sound.

“Look at me,” she whispered behind her fingertips. “I’m pretty.”