Camilla looks amazed at the fabric.
“You are truly remarkable.”
The women laughed. Prim felt a weight lifted off all her shoulders. She laughed with Abigail while Camilla explained the merits of being bold and she knew that all would work out in the end. Her sisters were happy for now and she had Abigail now to be her rock in need.
“Miss Primrose Jenkins?” A voice was heard right after the bell at the entrance chimed.
The air suddenly changed. Prim, still holding a spool of silver lace, looked over her shoulder. The precious fabric fell through her fingers. Bridget, Duchess of Covington, stood framed in the doorway, sunlight from the street glinting off the perfect waves of her coiffure.
Prim turned fully and placed herself between the Duchess and her sisters. Abigail fell right beside her. Of course, her friend knew exactly who she was. Leo’s mother. By chance, in Madame Sybil’s, the most notorious modiste in London. Prim knew this was a very elaborate trap.
“You must excuse me, Your Grace,” Madame Sybil was the first to act. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Blackwell, has booked the place for her company this morning. I would be delighted to accommodate you in the afternoon.”
“But with the Duchess we are family friends,” the woman tried.
“The Duke of Mildenhall is a family friend,” Abigail clarified.
The quip was clear enough, so the Duchess of Covington changed her tactics.
“Miss Jenkins,” she smiled. “You look lovely.”
Prim felt cold sweat down her spine. Prim’s guard shot higher. She felt the cold walls of the trap close-in.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Bridget stood there awkwardly, her fingers wrinkling the embroidered handkerchief she was holding. Prim frowned. This was not the same woman that had approached her at the Opera, with the fake smile and the saccharine voice. There was a tension around her mouth that spoke not of smugness, but of strain.
“Miss Jenkins,” Bridget said with brittle confidence. “I was hoping to run into you.”
Prim felt every hair on her body rise. Leo had warned her of this. He was sure that either his mother or his brother or both of them are the culprits of the fabricated scandal. For Bridget to openly admit that she was seeking Prim was certainly a bad sign.
“Since we are both here,” the Duchess continued, “I… I wonder if I might impose upon you for a moment of your time.”
The shop went still. All eyes flew to Prim, awaiting her reaction. Madame Sybil didn’t know what exactly had transpired between the two ladies in her shop, but she was looking at Prim with a resolve that said ‘just say the word’. Abigail shifted a little closer to her, her hand finding Prim’s in a silent encouragement. As for the twins, they had no idea who the elegant lady requesting an audience with their sister was, but they could sense that something bigger was in play here.
“I am afraid I am chaperoning my sisters in this outing, Your Grace,” Prim said. “Perhaps another time.”
“Miss Jenkins, please.”
Prim studied the woman once more. Her shoulders, usually drawn back in impeccable posture, held a subtle, weary slump. The tone of her voice seemed earnest as if she really just wanted to talk to Prim, not out of malice but out of need.
Prim had relied on her instincts most of her life. She couldn’t expect guidance from her parents, so she developed an inner compass. Only one person had managed to make that compass useless: Leo. But the woman before her… Prim saw that there was honesty in the request.
“Very well,” Prim decided. “A moment. Abigail, will you, please, take care of my sisters?”
“Of course,” Abigail said with a warm smile. “I will berighthere.”
The pointed tone was an open warning. Abigail would not hesitate to intervene if Prim was abused in any way. Prim nodded, grateful to her friend.
“Madame Sybil,” Prim asked very gently. “If you allow, may we use the private room?”
Madame Sybil straightened to her small stature and somehow became the tallest person in the room. She inquired with her look if she was comfortable with the arrangement. Prim nodded in reassurance.
“I will arrange for tea,” Madame Sybil said.
Prim followed the modiste into the private room, a cozy little room with delicate decoration, one round table, and two chairs. Prim sat down on the side and watched as the Duchess took her place. They sat silently, looking intently at nothing in their laps. The maid brought a tea cart and left the room.
When the door closed, Prim dared to look at the woman across the table. Bridget did not reach for the teapot and, truth be told, Prim was in no mood for tea either. The Duchess’s hands remained clasped in her lap, the knuckles pale against the dark silk of her gown.
