“Once they discover the wine is vinegar, and he tires of their constant brangling, he'll be glad to see the back of them.” He attempted to cut his meat pie with a fork.
She sliced the larger bits of beef for him. “In the meantime, it's good to not be alone out here with Hugh on the loose,” she murmured, before turning back to generate conversation as she’d been taught. “What cities do you play in?”
“Birmingham, mostly,” Mercurio replied. “Bath, when we can.”
“If we can develop a following, we'd like to try Oxford, and then on to London,” stubbled Kitty added. He/she appeared to be the youngest.
“Are all of you from around here?” She was out of practice, but even in these unusual circumstances, she knew how to direct polite conversation.
Jacques speared an onion and waved it on his fork. “The crew back at the house are Oxford. I met them while Damien was there.”
The older gentleman with a bosom pointed at the very large, pig-tailed Othello. “He's from Worcester, proper. We're all from that district originally.”
Rural, then, not London. That couldn’t have been easy.
“Worcester? I don't suppose you know the Marie family? They own a modiste shop, I believe.” Kate was eager to know more of her previously unknown cousins.
Kitty brightened, “Mrs. Marie made my very first frock. I was a lad in school and told her I needed it for a play. She only asked what time period it was set in. I had to learn history quickly so I could tell her.”
“We miss her.” Othello sipped his wine and grimaced. “Her daughter is good but a bit of a prig.”
Which most likely meant she didn’t want to dress men in skirts. Or flowing silk trousers.
“So was Mrs. Marie's assistant,” Kitty admitted. “A real sourpuss. At least, after Mrs. Marie’s daughter took over the shop, she was smart enough to toss the old besom out.”
“The younger assistant wasn't so bad,” Othello mused. “Not bright but she loved fabric. She made this shirt.” He patted the fine satin. “Wonder where she went?”
“Married, most likely. She was pretty and had every man in town chasing her,” Mercurio replied. “We can still rely on the modiste for gowns, but we need to recruit a tailor for breeches and coats.”
“Tailors are hard to come by outside of the city,” Kate admitted, enjoying hearing of a world beyond her own. “Only the wealthy can afford them.”
“Mrs. Morgan is being polite and not talking of herself.” Fletch stood to replenish his plate. “She manages a shop full of seamstresses and is helping to open a dressmaking establishment in the village.”
Kate smiled in gratitude at his recognition and overrode the ripple of excitement from the company. “Unfortunately, we have yet to find a tailor willing to work in rural splendor. The gentlemen must travel to Birmingham, or allow us to make over the second-hand goods our local peddler finds. So we are not of much use to you.”
“Do you think your peddler might look for clothes to our specifications?” Mercurio asked in excitement. “And then your seamstresses could adjust to what we need? Finding good costumers outside London is impossible.”
Fletch filled his mouth with bread and didn't speak. Jacques turned to her in hope.
Kate floundered. “I can only ask. We tailor and mend the second-hand garments, but none of us are competent at measuring. . .”
“Men’s trousers,” Fletch said bluntly through his bread.
“We can measure your current garments for size and adjust the second-hand ones to fit,” Kate added apologetically. “But the construction of gentlemen’s clothing is beyond our simple means.”
Mercurio grinned, “But can you measure a female for gentleman's garments? Vivien did.”
Vivien? Kate took a healthy gulp of cider.
SUNDAY
April 7, 1816
Twenty-one
Fletch
Moving his clockwork parts back to the dining table Sunday morning, Fletch only half listened to the mother-daughter argument over whether Lynly could wear her second-hand Easter frock now instead of waiting to refurbish it for Easter. Not being much of a church-goer, Fletch didn’t see the difference, so he stayed out of it.
