Sitting beneath the glittering chandelier of the Maison Lucile, Eliza felt self-conscious. Why hadn’t Clara told her their shopping excursion to Lady Duff-Gordon’s dress salon included an invitation only ‘mannequin parade’? If Eliza knew she’d be rubbing elbows with socialite Linda Morritt and actress Kitty Gordon, she might have worn something fancier than a pearl gray walking suit. Especially since Clara was outfitted in a Paul Poiret summer dress of yellow crepe de chine. It was an engagement gift from Clara’s only prosperous relative, Aunt Lavender, a Bohemian artist with an eye for fashion. Eliza felt under-dressed beside Clara – and in the Maison Lucile, of all places.
As soon as she saw the chauffeured motorcars lining the street before No. 23 Hanover Square, Eliza knew it was not business as usual at the salon. And she gasped when the beautiful and renowned singer Lily Elsie entered the white Georgian row house just ahead of them. Eliza grew even more nervous at the sight of a willowy woman in rose chiffon, who stood guard just beyond the curved front doorway.
“She’s taking cards from everyone,” Eliza whispered. “They must be tickets.”
Clara pulled a small vellum envelope from her pocketbook. “They’re invitations, and I have one. Don’t look so worried. Mine includes a guest, and you’re my guest, silly.”
The woman in rose chiffon stopped them, but one glance at the card in Clara’s gloved hand and they were waved through. “I thought we were only coming for the final fitting of your wedding gown,” Eliza said. “And for last minute alterations to your trousseau.”
“We are,” Clara replied as they followed the other guests into the couture room where a string quartet played softly in the corner. Small tables set for two lined a long upraised walkway in the center. “And my wedding dress had best fit properly or I don’t know what I shall do.”
Eliza waved her arm at the tea tables now filling up with women dressed in the height of fashion. She gulped to see Lady Asquith sitting at a table next to them. “I recognize almost everyone here from the society columns.”
“Naturally. This is one of Maison Lucile’s famous mannequin parades. Lady Duff-Gordon hosts one every season. The models will soon come out and show us her latest dresses. And we get tea and cakes while they do so. Souvenirs, too.” Clara pointed at the small gift wrapped boxes set beside everyone’s teacups. “Isn’t this fun? I’m so glad Tansy told me about it. A shame she’s in Devon today and couldn’t come.”
Tansy was Lady Hortense Saxton, an old school mate of Clara’s. Having met her this past summer at Ascot, Eliza thought the young viscountess was a proper snob. Still, Lady Tansy was the person who introduced Clara to her fiancé Lord Richard Ashmore. It was the reason Clara was about to become a baroness, earning her an invitation here today. Seeing how happy Freddy’s sister was, Eliza felt grateful to Lady Tansy, who otherwise was insufferable.
Naturally, Freddy and his mother were just as excited over the upcoming wedding. They could hardly believe eighteen-year-old Clara was about to marry the most powerful baron in England. Eliza found it hard to believe herself. Not that Clara wasn’t a pretty girl. But until now, her big blue eyes and curly blond hair had not been enough to attract a gentleman willing to rescue her from genteel poverty. Although Clara deserved to be happy, especially after being rejected this past spring by a banker’s son, whose father squashed any hopes of marriage due to Clara’s lack of dowry and family connections.
Unfortunately, Clara’s engagement had inspired her brother to intensify his desire to marry Eliza. It did little good to protest they hadn’t known each other long enough to become engaged. After all, Clara and Lord Ashmore’s courtship had been so swift, Higgins dubbed it ‘cyclonic’ rather than ‘whirlwind’. From the moment Lady Tansy introduced the baron to Clara, the girl set her cap on him. Clara had even hinted to Eliza that she was willing to use all her wiles to obtain a proposal and brief engagement. Since their wedding would take place a mere seven weeks after their first meeting, Eliza feared there might be another reason – aside from romantic fervor – for such a quick courtship. However she hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to ask Clara if the cries of an infant would be heard eight months from now.
She preferred to worry over whether Lady Duff-Gordon would meet the challenge of fashioning Clara’s wedding dress and trousseau in such a short time. Eliza was surprised the Ashmore family didn’t object to the quick wedding. Of course, it was quite possible they did. Clara rarely mentioned Lord Ashmore’s mother and sisters, which wasn’t a good sign.
“After the mannequin parade, I’ll be taken away for my fitting.” Clara smiled in anticipation as waiters in black jackets began serving tea. “While I’m doing that, you should go to the Rose Room and have them show you Maison Lucile’s lingerie.” She leaned closer to Eliza. “I bought scads of it for our honeymoon. Richard will be thrilled.”
“You’ve bought a trunk-load of clothes this past month.” Eliza looked on approvingly as the waiter placed a tiered plate of finger sandwiches and iced cakes on the table. “Lord Ashmore is a wealthy man, but twelve thousand pounds a year only stretches so far.”
“Don’t be a goose. Twelve thousand is only what Richard gets from his barony. But he’s heir to three more titles; that means even more money and land. And he’s got investments in lots of companies and businesses. I could buy Lady Duff-Gordon’s entire fall line, and Richard wouldn’t blink an eye.” She giggled. “I’m going to be even richer than Tansy. Isn’t that fun.”
Eliza sat back in astonishment. How in the world did Clara manage to land such a catch? Richard Ashmore was attractive, wealthy, and only twenty-eight years old. Why hadn’t a dozen other debutantes with titles already snapped him up? Could he really have fallen so madly in love with Freddy’s sister? Or was he marrying her to save Clara from being disgraced if she was indeed with child?
“I’m surprised you wanted to marry in such a rush.” Eliza gave her a shrewd look. “You could have postponed until later in the year. Think how lovely a Christmas wedding would be.”
Clara avoided her gaze. “Oh, Richard wouldn’t agree. He’s as eager to marry as I am.” The gilded crystal chandelier overhead dimmed, while two spotlights appeared on the white curtain. “Oh look. Lady Duff-Gordon is about to begin the show.” She nodded towards the older woman who walked out from behind the curtain at the back of the stage.
Eliza had briefly glimpsed the famous designer the last time she was here. Born Lucy Sutherland, the fifty-year-old matron reputedly learned to be a fashion designer by making clothes for her dolls when she was a child. Since then, she had married twice and built a fashion empire which now included salons in London, Paris and New York. Eliza adored her clothes which favored draping, ease of movement, and handmade details that were perfection.
Despite her success, Lady Duff-Gordon ran into a rough patch last year when she and her husband sailed on the Titanic. It was rumored she bribed the sailors on her half-empty lifeboat not to return to the ship where they could have rescued their fellow passengers. Scandal surrounded her salon after a court inquiry brought the Duff-Gordons in for questioning. Found innocent of any wrong doing, the indomitable designer quickly won back her influential clients. Eliza suspected most women were willing to overlook character flaws in their dressmaker as long as her creations were as heavenly as those found at Maison Lucile.
Lady Duff-Gordon looked out over the gathering as if she were an empress surveying her court. She wore one of her “personality dresses” celebrated for their slit skirts and low necklines.
“I welcome all of you to Maison Lucile’s mannequin parade,” she said. “What I shall present to you today comprises my newest designs for the autumn line. Each of these ensembles marks yet another chapter in my dream to create the most modern and carefree fashion for the twentieth century woman. Enjoy.”
The white curtain opened and the first of Maison Lucile’s mannequins stepped onto the long, narrow walkway. A striking redhead, the young woman wore a draped, cream-colored evening gown with a wide black bodice and bow. Eliza thought it a darling dress, and one which would be most comfortable to wear. As the mannequin glided down the walkway, Lady Duff-Gordon said, “Miss Osgood is wearing a gown I call ‘Evening in Athens’ due to its draping inspired by the columns of the ancient Parthenon.”
If Lady Duff-Gordon introduced her models as they came out, this would make it easier for Eliza to find Pearl Palmer afterwards. But Eliza soon became so riveted by the fashions, she forgot about Miss Palmer, at least until the end of the show when a shapely brunette appeared.
Lady Duff-Gordon announced, “For those chilly autumn days when one wishes to do little else but take tea at Claridge’s, Miss Palmer wears the ideal outfit to do so. The white chiffon blouse has bell sleeves and a wide flowing collar, while the slim black skirt boasts a bolero sash; a splash of color is provided by the green soutache of metallic thread along one side. Please note the shorter hemline. I call this creation ‘October Sonata’.”
Eliza wasn’t certain what was more entrancing: the flattering skirt and blouse or the dark-haired mannequin who paraded past her. Once again, Eliza felt sorry for the Duchess. She could never have held Ambrose Farrow’s attention with such a young, desirable woman vying for it.
Clara whispered, “I see that one has caught your eye. Tansy told me that if you like any of the dresses shown during the mannequin parade, you can ask to see it in a private dressing room afterward.”
Eliza watched Pearl Palmer glide to the end of the walkway, pose briefly, then walk back. “I may do just that.”
And if she could afford it, she’d blooming well buy that outfit, too.
Afterwards, Eliza followed Clara through white French doors into the area of the salon where clients were shown Lucile creations in the privacy of sumptuous dressing rooms. Eliza admired the pale gray carpet, wallpaper, and silk upholstered furnishings. Sheer draperies had been tied back with cords of tiny pink silk rosebuds, the only hint of color. Such a pale palette was designed to allow the clothing to be seen to best advantage.
Clara did not seem overwhelmed by her grand surroundings. In fact, she gave the impression of a young girl about to play dress up with her mother’s clothes. It occurred to Eliza that the enormity of the change about to take place in her life had not fully dawned on Clara.
The tall, slender woman in rose chiffon who had greeted them at the front entrance now swept Clara away for her fitting. Another woman, just as willowy and intimidating, came to take Eliza to her private viewing room. “I am Miss Estelle. Please follow me.”
Ushered into a room lined with mirrors and filled with what Colonel Pickering had taught her was called French provincial furniture, Eliza turned to the woman before she left. “You will send Miss Palmer in, won’t you? The ‘October Sonata’ outfit looked especially fine on her.”
Miss Estelle nodded. “But of course.”
Somehow Eliza had to learn as much as she could about Pearl’s relationship with Ambrose Farrow, and whether or not she had a hand in changing her lover’s mind about marrying the Duchess of Carbrey. After all, an hour after meeting Pearl in the church graveyard, Farrow jilted his bride. What if Pearl had slipped into the church vestibule before she met him? Had she intended to poison the Duchess, guessing the bride would drink first? Farrow would have then inherited everything from his recently deceased wife. Only he couldn’t have known about the poison, or else he’d never have drunk the lethal brew.
Sitting on a tufted velvet chair – more comfortable than it looked – Eliza listened to the murmur of voices. Several guests had followed Eliza’s example and were now ensconced in various parts of Maison Lucile for their own private showings. She took a deep breath. The salon smelled as if the carpeting were made of crushed gardenia. Looking at her expensive surroundings, Eliza feared she would not be able to afford anything at Maison Lucile. At least not until her racehorse had a few more victories under his belt.
“Here is the ‘October Sonata’, Miss Doolittle.” Miss Estelle waved in the raven-haired mannequin. “If you have any questions, or wish to try on the outfit yourself, Miss Palmer will assist you.” She left without a backward glance, leaving Eliza alone with Pearl Palmer.
While Eliza felt suddenly awkward, the same could not be said for Pearl. The young woman proceeded to walk about the small room, hands on hips, head held high. She was quite beautiful. Enormous dark eyes, complexion as smooth as alabaster, and lips so full and lush, Eliza hardly believed they were real. A stylish coiffure made her dark hair appear like a soft cloud pinned about her face. Higgins would have called her profile Grecian, which Eliza took to mean perfect. Except now that she saw Pearl up close, Eliza glimpsed sadness in those large eyes, along with an air of melancholy that surrounded her just as much as her jasmine perfume. Despite her elegant hauteur, it was clear Pearl Palmer was grieving.
“This design will see you through the autumn season,” Pearl said in what Eliza recognized as an American accent. “The skirt is wool, but the decorative green braid is made with metallic thread. And the blouse is silk and chiffon. Would you care to try this on, Miss...”
“Eliza Doolittle of 27-A Wimpole Street. To be honest, I’m not certain the outfit’s in my price range. I simply found it so lovely when I saw you model it that I wanted another look.” She leaned forward as if to take Pearl into her confidence. “I’m only here to keep a friend company while she has her fittings.”
For the first time, Pearl smiled. It made her even lovelier. “I understand. As a mannequin, I can’t afford even a pair of Lucile gloves. But at least I get to wear her dresses every day.”
“All the ladies at the salon seem to be a socialite or a famous actress or singer.”
“Ballerinas, too,” Pearl added. “Lydia Kyasht of the Ballets Russes is here.”
“I don’t know how I dare show my face. At least my friend is about to marry a baron. However I did become part owner of a racehorse this summer. His winnings have allowed me to expand my wardrobe. Maybe by winter, I’ll be able to afford that darling skirt you’re wearing.”
“If he’s as good a horse as that, you’re sure to make money on stud fees.” She paused. “I know something of horses.”
“Please sit down, Miss Palmer. You must be dying to get off your feet for a moment.”
She looked longingly at the tufted chair beside Eliza.
“Go on. I won’t tell anyone.” Eliza almost laughed when Pearl dropped onto the chair with an audible sigh. “It must be difficult, parading back and forth all day.”
“Oh, it’s an easy job. Most of the time I enjoy it, but these shoes are a bit tight.”
“Excuse me, but you look familiar. Have we met before?”
“Don’t think so. I’m American, and I’ve only been in England for a year.” She lowered her voice. “I’m awful homesick. I miss Oklahoma. That’s where I’m from. And it sure doesn’t look anything like this.” Pearl waved a hand at the elegant décor. “Or London either for that matter. It’s rough country – prairies and mesas – but I’d trade all of Hanover Square for one more glimpse of the Ouachita Mountains.”
“It sounds wonderful. I’ve never seen a prairie or mesa. Or a mountain.”
“I didn’t used to think it was wonderful when I was a child. Times were hard, and I had to help my family make ends meet.”
“So did I. Lady Duff-Gordon might be shocked if she knew that only last year I was selling flowers out of a Covent Garden barrow.”
Pearl seemed surprised. “And yet here you are.”
“Yes. Professor Henry Higgins taught me to speak like a lady. And Colonel Pickering taught me how to act like one. But it took a lot of hard work, believe me.” Eliza cocked her head at her. “How did you happen to come to London?”
She clasped her hands. “I met an art gallery owner in New York while on tour with a Wild West show. We fell in love right away. I could hardly believe my luck. He decided to come to England to open a gallery here, and he asked me to come with him. How could I refuse?”
“Sounds very romantic.”
“It was.”
“Was?”
“He died.” Her large hazel eyes filled with a sheen of tears.
“I’m sorry. If you only came to England last year with him, he must have died recently.”
She nodded. A long pause followed as Pearl fought back tears.
Eliza felt uncomfortable and wanted to prevent her from completely breaking down. “You said you were in a Wild West show. That sounds exciting. What did you do in the show?”
“I was a sharpshooter. A good one, too.” She shot Eliza a watery smile. “I grew up dirt poor in Oklahoma. My brothers and me had to help feed our family. That’s how I learned to shoot. People were amazed a young girl could shoot and ride as well as I did. But don’t let my looks fool you. I was a better trapper than my brothers, too.”
“I bet you blooming were.”
“A scout from a Wild West show happened to be in Tulsa when I was competing in a Fourth of July shooting match. He offered me a job right on the spot. Since I was only fifteen, he needed my parents’ permission.” She laughed. “They nearly pushed me out the door. We Millers were poor, and one less mouth to feed came as a relief to Ma and Pa.” Pearl leaned closer to Eliza. “My real name’s Gertie Miller. Pearl Palmer’s a stage name.”
“I don’t know much about Wild West shows. Were you famous?”
She shrugged. “Not as famous as Annie Oakley. But I made a good living for five years. By then, I had moved up to the Kit Carson Buffalo Ranch Wild West show, the best there was. We played all the big cities, even Madison Square Garden in New York. That’s where I met my gentleman. He was such a cultured, handsome fellow. So different from the hayseeds and con artists in the shows. He read me poetry, and taught me about fine wine and things like opera. I loved him so much, and he loved me. I was also bone weary of living out of a trunk. When he asked me to stay in New York with him, I left the show. We were happy until we came here.”
“Too bad you couldn’t convince him to go back America.”
“He had big plans in London. I couldn’t ask him to leave.” A longing look crossed her face. “And I would never leave a man as wonderful as Ambrose Farrow.”
Eliza feigned surprise. “Ambrose Farrow? Is he the same man who was supposed to wed the Duchess of Carbrey? My goodness, I attended the wedding. Her Grace and I are fellow horseracing owners. I’m so sorry. That was such a tragedy, him being poisoned.”
Pearl shuddered. “Tragedy? It was evil. The work of a monster! I didn’t even know Ambrose had been killed until the police showed up on my doorstep. Can you imagine how awful that was? I’d just been told the man I loved had been murdered, and those heartless police treated me like I was the killer! The devil take them all.”
“How horrid to find out about his death that way.”
“I still can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t. It must be a sick joke. Or a mistake.” Pearl brushed a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to live without him.”
“Yet he was about to marry another woman. That must have been painful to you as well.”
“Painful, but not surprising. The Duchess is rich and important. And Ambrose was a handsome young man. Of course, she wanted to marry him. He would have been a right fool not to marry her.”
“But he jilted her at the altar. I was there. Everyone in the church was shocked.”
Pearl hesitated. “I wasn’t shocked. Ambrose told me he couldn’t go through with it. What did shock me is that some filthy scoundrel planned to poison him.”
“The Duchess, too. The bride and groom were both meant to drink the poisoned cog.”
“That’s what I don’t understand. Why kill both of them at the wedding?” She shivered. “The murderer was at the church. He had to have been. Probably wanted to enjoy watching Ambrose and his bride die in front of him. The cold hearted bastard.” Pearl shot Eliza a defiant look. “And I won’t apologize for my language. Back in Oklahoma, we’d call him a lot worse.”
“Back in the East End, we would, too.” Eliza wondered how far she dare push Pearl for answers. “I’m not surprised the police are interested in you. After all, you moved clear across the ocean to be with Mr. Farrow. Now he was marrying another woman. Who else had a better reason to want both the bride and groom dead?”
“If you knew me, you’d realize how downright loco that sounds. What did I care if he married another woman for her money? I had his heart. Yes, and his soul, too. Have you ever been in love, Miss Doolittle? Have you ever loved another man so much that your every waking moment is about making him happy? Even your dreams at night are filled with the sound of his voice, his scent, his touch. Do you know what that’s like?”
“No, I don’t.” Although she cared for Freddy, Eliza knew her feelings for him did not resemble what Pearl felt for Ambrose.
“I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you.” Pearl choked back a sob. “No one here guesses that I was Ambrose’s lover. We had to keep our romance secret from the Duchess. Now I have to walk about, modeling clothes, making small talk, pretending my world hasn’t broken in half and I’m screaming inside. I couldn’t even grieve at his memorial. They chased me out like I was a mongrel dog!” She clutched Eliza’s hands. “What am I supposed to do? How do I keep from going crazy with grief?” She bent over and began to sob.
Eliza knelt down and took Pearl in her arms. “Shush, you just cry it out. That’s what you need to do. Let it all go.” She wasn’t certain how long she knelt there, holding Pearl Palmer. When Pearl finally straightened, Eliza smoothed back her hair, then handed the stricken woman a handkerchief.
Pearl blew her nose. “If anyone from the salon walked in right now, I’d be fired.”
“I’ll say I made you cry with a sad tale of my own. I do have a few, which I‘m sure you’d understand. After all, we both grew up poor.”
“I shouldn’t be telling a client my problems. And you’re too young to hear any of this.”
“I’m hardly a child. I’m twenty.”
Pearl gave a rueful laugh. “I’m twenty-two, but I feel years older.”
“Maybe you should take a few days off from work and stay home. You need to recover from your loss.” She patted Pearl on the shoulder. “And to grieve properly. Parading about here won’t help you do that.”
She wiped her eyes with Eliza’s handkerchief. “You’re very kind, Miss Doolittle. But there’s no peace for me at my apartment. The police are hounding me. And now Scotland Yard is involved. Some dreadful detective called Jack Shaw had me brought in yesterday. He treated me as if I was a hatchet murderess like Lizzie Borden.”
Eliza feared Jack was being overzealous. ”He’s just doing his job.”
“No, he’s determined to get me to confess. Never stopped asking me the same questions, no matter how many times I answered. He kept me in his office for hours. Telling me how jealous I must have been over Ambrose marrying another woman. How I wanted to see Ambrose and the Duchess dead. Over and over and over. I swear, if I had my rifle with me, I might have shot him dead just to shut him up.”
“I don’t blame you.” Eliza frowned. “Men can be stubborn fools.”
“He’s the worst I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Oh, Eliza!” Clara burst into the drawing room. “There you are.”
Eliza and Pearl quickly got to their feet.
Clara wore a travel suit of sapphire blue moiré silk, with wide lapels and black frog closures at the waist. Lace fell from the sleeves and the back collar. The suit made her look less like a girl and more like a woman. After surveying her broad-brimmed feathered hat in the tall gilt mirror, she turned to Eliza with a look of concern.
“This is the dress I plan to wear when we take the train to Dover to start our honeymoon. What do you think? Will Richard approve? It’s not too dark a color. Is it?”
“Not at all,” Eliza said. “The dress seems perfect for a September trip.”
Pearl Palmer took a step forward. “And that’s a lovely color on you, too, miss.”
“Thank you.” Clara admired herself in the mirror. “But I won’t model my wedding dress for you, Eliza. I want it to be a surprise. I only hope those other weddings you’re going to this month aren’t too fancy. I’d hate for you to be disappointed when you come to mine. Although I can’t imagine the wedding gown of that suffragette your cousin Jack is marrying will be the height of fashion.”
“Sybil will look beautiful in anything she wears.” She hoped Clara didn’t mention Jack again.
Clara gave a derisive laugh. “Whatever she wears, I’m sure she’ll be more stylish than her groom. Then again, what can you expect from a Scotland Yard detective.”
Pearl turned an anxious face to Eliza. “Your cousin is a detective?”
“Of course, he is,” Clara answered for her. “A bit famous, too, thanks to Eliza’s exploits this past summer. You’ve probably read his name in the paper. Detective Inspector Jack Shaw.”
“Detective Shaw is your cousin?” Pearl went deathly pale.
“Yes, he is. But—”
Before Eliza could say anything else, Pearl ran out of the room.
“What was that all about?” Clara asked, fussing with her hat.
“Murder,” Eliza said glumly.
“Oh, you and murder. I swear, you should join Scotland Yard yourself. At least you’d get a salary for playing detective.” She examined the buttons on her dress. “I wonder if I should ask Lady Duff-Gordon to change these black frog enclosures to pearls.”
Eliza walked over to Clara and stared at the girl’s reflection in the mirror. “Leave the enclosures. It makes the dress more sophisticated.”
“Yes, sophisticated. That’s exactly what I look like in my new clothes. Sophisticated and modern.” Her grin turned catlike. “Except for my lingerie. I look like a proper hussy in those. Or rather, an improper hussy.” Clara giggled, and Eliza couldn’t help but join in.
Why in the world was she getting involved with Mr. Farrow’s murder? She barely knew the man. His death had nothing to do with her or any of her friends, except for the Duchess of Carbrey. And judging from her appearance at the memorial service with Mr. Thaddeus Smith, she seemed to be recovering nicely. Besides, the Duchess would have succumbed to the poisoned drink herself if Ambrose had not rejected her. In a way, he’d saved her life.
Eliza vowed to focus on nothing but weddings for the rest of the summer, especially since it was Jack and Sybil’s wedding next week. She refused to allow anything to spoil it.
And while she felt sorry for Pearl Palmer, it was Jack’s responsibility to figure out who killed the art gallery owner and why. Unfortunately, the Duchess had convinced Commissioner Dunningsworth to assign Jack to the Farrow case, the last thing he needed right before his wedding. Pearl’s description of his harsh treatment towards her proved he was determined to make an arrest before his honeymoon. But Eliza didn’t believe Pearl killed Ambrose Farrow, even if they had quarreled the day of his wedding. Her grief over his death seemed far too genuine and deep.
“Did you decide to buy the outfit your mannequin was wearing?”
Eliza shook her head. “I didn’t ask the price, but I’m sure it’s too dear.”
“You may have to ditch my brother for someone with a title. I’m sure Richard has lots of bachelor friends who’d find you quite sweet. And it would serve Freddy right for not pursuing a profession. The lazy fool.” This sent Clara into giggles once more.
Eliza suspected Clara was not entirely joking. Yes, she probably could attract a baronet or knight if she put her mind to it. Then again, look how far she had come on her own, with a little help from Higgins and Colonel Pickering.
Taking in the posh surroundings of the famous Maison Lucile, Eliza felt a stirring of pride. To think she’d once walked the streets of the East End in a patched coat and a squashed hat she pulled out of a dustbin. Now she was an invited guest at one of Lady Duff-Gordon’s prized fashion shows. And if she counted her guineas and took on a few more students, she might be able to afford a Lucile creation by the end of the year.
Best of all, she wouldn’t have to marry anyone to do so.