“It is true,” she replied. “And we only employ the best.”
“Do you recall a girl named Alice Brent? She worked here at one time. A few months past, perhaps.”
The pin paused midway to the fabric. A tiny hesitation—less than a heartbeat—yet unmistakable.
Mme Delacroix resumed her work. “We have had many girls, my lady. Names come and go.”
“This one came to my attention recently,” I said. “I believe she was in your employ, and I am told she left suddenly.”
Another faint pause. The muscles at the corner of her jaw tightened.
Chrissie looked down at us from the platform. “Who is Alice Brent?”
“A seamstress,” I answered. “A very talented one. I am curious what became of her.”
Mme Delacroix let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than simple exhalation. She smoothed the silk against Chrissie’s bodice, then signaled for her assistant to hold a fold in place.
“If you wish to speak of Miss Brent, my lady, perhaps we might do so a little apart,” she said. Her voice remained low, careful.
Chrissie’s eyes widened. “Am I to be excluded from this mystery?”
“You are to hold still,” I said. “Or your seams will sit crooked.”
She wrinkled her nose but obeyed.
Mme Delacroix guided me toward a small table near the window, where pattern books lay neatly stacked. She adjusted the edge of one that did not need adjusting. “Two days ago, a Mr. Finch inquired about Alice. I refused to speak to him as I believed him avaurien, a man without honor.”
Finch would be amused when I shared that with him. “He’s quite honorable, I assure you. I hired him to look into a matter, Madame. Some young women have gone missing.”
“And Alice is one of them?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“Mon Dieu.” A troubled look crossed her face. “Alice was a good girl. Her stitching was fine. Her manner respectful. She needed the work, and I was glad to have her.”
“What happened?”
“She left. Not of her own impulse, I think, although she said it was her choice. A woman came. Well dressed. Refined. Notthe sort one expects to see in a workroom. She said she acted on behalf of a household in need of extra staff.”
My pulse quickened. “Did she give a name?”
“Mrs. Kincaid. That was the name. At least that is what she told us. She said she was hiring on behalf of a house in Chelsea. Near the river. I believe she called it Riversgate.”
“Riversgate,” I repeated softly, fixing the name in my mind. “Did she say what role Alice would have there?”
“A sort of companion and a lady’s maid. The details were vague.” Doubt flickered in Mme Delacroix’s eyes. “The wages she offered were quite high. Alice was delighted at first. Then she seemed nervous. She came to me two days later and asked if I thought she ought to go.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That I could not make such a choice for her. I only said that when something appears too generous, one must ask why.” Her mouth tightened. “She went all the same. She thanked me for the opportunity she had had here and left her work neatly folded.”
“Did she send any word afterward? A letter? A message?”
“No. That was months ago. She did not return.”
Or been heard from, according to Sister Margaret. “Have you seen this Mrs. Kincaid since?”
“Not here. But I ‘ve heard her name. Other shops have mentioned her. Always with the same pattern. A girl recommended for a very nice position. Wages higher than usual. A house near the river.”
