Then, they left the shop after a few nods of courtesy. They moved on, still fully aware of the men following them through the damp streets. Victoria grinned, looking like she was thoroughly enjoying the excursion.
“Smile, Richard. We will find her. But we also should not look too desperate. Whoever you think is endangering us may be watching,” she whispered, as Melody cooed.
He smiled back.
However, he could not help but look grim again when they entered the second shop. It might be slightly bigger, but it also showed deep neglect. The woman was perhaps in her late forties, looking suspicious. Her eyes were narrowed, and her mouth was pressed tightly. The tension in the room seemed to be what was making this shop feel stuffier than the last one.
“How may I help you?” she asked, a little rudely.
Her eyes scanned Richard’s expensive coat and Victoria’s gown. Her suspicion was probably not unfounded, for what would fancy people, as she surely thought of them, want with a seamstress in the pits of Soho like her?
“Our baby, Melody, just wants to say hello,” Victoria replied, fixing a smile on her face although Richard could tell that his wife’s temper was fraying a little.
“Ah. S’that so? Don’t know ‘er. Don’t want to,” she retorted, her eyes returning to her needlework.
“Such a shame, then,” the duke murmured, leaving one gold sovereign for the seamstress, anyway.
The woman’s eyes darted back at them, looking shocked and then, finally, regretful.
The couple was already on their way out, with Melody giggling. She was enjoying meeting different people, even those who were scowling at her.
“Will we ever find the place?” Richard grumbled as they trudged on to the next shop.
Victor and Elliot, his two men who were pretending to fight, were now louder. He wondered if the fight had somehow become real.
Richard shook his head in disbelief. At least, the two were drawing more attention than the three of them. They were all dressed simpler than their usual, but they still stood out in the grime and hustle.
Finally, they reached the third shop. Richard exhaled sharply as the sagging building came into view. The paint was faded and covered in years of soot. The sign,M. Weaver—Seamstress, looked like it was about to fall off its rusted chain. Below the name, he could read “Alterations and Repairs” if he squinted, and he found it ironic that the shop offered those services and could not repair itself.
As they entered, a bell gave a melancholy chime to signal their arrival. The space smelled old, just like the other two, but for some reason, this one had a more pleasant atmosphere. It must be the cedar mingling with old dust or the faint scent of tea. Here, there was also evidence of some work done. The duke eyed the half-finished bodies wrapped around headless manikins.
“Oh. At least, we know this shop has some clients,” murmured Victoria appreciatively. Melody babbled, agreeing.
Behind this shop’s counter was a woman who might be in her fifties. Her hair was graying and tied into a neat bun. Her spectacles had slid down to the tip of her nose as she continued sewing what looked like a gown for a little girl.
As Richard and Victoria moved closer, the seamstress’s eyes finally rolled up to meet theirs. Her eyes studied both duke andduchess. Then, her gaze landed on Melody. The baby cooed at her.
The woman’s eyes widened as if in recognition. Her hands trembled, and she let out a ragged sound. Finally, there it was. It looked like they found the right seamstress. There was no way the relief and recognition could mean anything.
“Y-you found her. You kept her,” she whispered, her spectacles clouding at the onslaught of hot tears that came over her.
“Yes, uh, Miss—?” Victoria asked, after giving Richard a quick glance.
“I’m Martha Ewing,” she said, as she seemed to have gained a burst of speed that belied her years.
In seconds, she was at the front door, locking it, and flipping the wooden sign so that Closed faced outwards. The duke and duchess gaped at her, and even little Melody was silent.
“Let’s go back to my house,” she urged, her eyes wide and frantic.
Richard frowned. Was he right all along? There was a degree of danger attached to keeping the child?
“Please,” the seamstress begged, “I cannot have the neighbors hear our conversation. It’s also for the little one’s own good. We would not want people questioning her place with you.”
Richard understood, nodding. Victoria gave the same perceptive nod as they followed the woman to her home, which was barely partitioned away from her shop.
In it, they discover a small, modest, but clean home. It was a decent place to live in, with floorboards thoroughly scrubbed and walls not grimy like the shop in front. Miss Ewing had tried her best to make it feel and look like home.
Still, it was apparent that the seamstress was living in genteel poverty, somewhat desperate in its unintended minimalism. Everything was crammed in one room, and a single loaf of bread adorned the wooden table next to a small teapot.
