Except that she could not think where in the world Alex could hide her. Georgy must go to her mother’s as soon as he returned. And he’d made it clear she must have a chaperon.
Oh, dear, she was causing him no end of difficulties! And wasn’t he also supposed to be going home for Christmas? Apple sighed. It would not do. She could not impose upon him to that extent. Only if Mr Vergette proved obdurate, what was she to do?
She was no nearer thinking up a solution when she and Georgy set out upon the following day. Apple had to chivvy her hostess to ensure they left in reasonable time, and succeeded so well that she found herself in Romsey and browsing in Emmeline’s little premises above the papermakers in Bell Street by eleven o’clock.
Georgy might disparage the quality of the sample garments on display, but Apple was in a fever of delight. Papa had never been ungenerous, but while he was alive she’d only worn gowns suited to a schoolgirl. When she came home, she’d had no choice but to bow to Marjorie’s judgement and her notion of what was appropriate to her station.
But that was at an end. Knowing she would be able to repay Lord Dymond within weeks, she was free to select just what she liked.
She would have preferred to browse quietly with the attendance of the proprietress — who turned out to be a Miss Emma Sharpe and looked nothing like an Emmeline — to show her the samples in made-up gowns. But the moment Miss Sharpe realised Lady Georgiana Edginton had deigned to patronise her tiny salon, she addressed herself almost exclusively to Georgy, whose intervention did little to assist Apple.
Although she listened and dutifully examined whatever the two women put in front of her, Apple was not to be persuaded into buying anything she disliked. Georgy thankfully refrained from openly criticising Miss Sharpe’s creations, though she whispered in Apple’s ear from time to time.
“Don’t buy that, Apple. The cut is perfectly dreadful and it will not hang well.”
Despite refusing to try on anything she didn’t like, Apple was bundled in and out of half a dozen sample gowns with little opportunity to make up her mind about which she preferred. She refused to consider the light muslins Georgy favoured with tiny puff sleeves.
“I’ll freeze to death! I must have long sleeves and a warmer material than muslin.”
“Well, you may wear a shawl, Apple, don’t be silly!”
But Apple remained adamant. In the end, she opted for a round gown with a modest neckline in russet-coloured poplin for day wear and, for evening, a white full-sleeved gown embellished with tiers of ruffles and knots of green ribbon. It was indeed of muslin, but double-layered and at least the sleeves were long. Neither of the samples fitted her slim form, but “Emmeline” pinned them where needed, took her measurements and promised the new gowns would be made up and delivered to Merrivale House by the following day.
Apple was astonished. “How will you manage that?”
Miss Sharpe gave her a pitying smile. “My sewing women will keep at it until they are done, ma’am. I will do the cutting, of course.”
She could not but pity these unfortunates, obliged to sew half the night and likely for a pittance. But she was not granted the opportunity to dwell on the thought as Georgy exclaimed all at once, “You ought to have a new hat, Apple!”
But Apple had no notion of indulging in unnecessary extravagance. “This one will suffice for the time being. But I must get a nightgown and a couple of shifts perhaps. I can’t keep wearing yours.”
“Oh, you may have them, for I am well supplied. But I can do with more stockings myself, so let us repair to Dawes’s in Market Place. They are mercers, but they sell all manner of things and you may purchase a toothbrush and anything else you need there.”
It did not take Apple long to make her purchases. She added a couple of handkerchiefs and a small valise to the necessities and was then ready to depart from Dawes’s. But Georgy, a dawdling shopper, had discovered a tray of colourful ribbons and another containing a selection of cheap fans, brooches and such and was engaged in rummaging and exclaiming, encouraged by the proprietor who lost no time in finding more trays to lay before her.
Losing interest, Apple wandered to the front of the shop and looked idly into Market Place through the windows in the door, watching the passing traffic and pedestrians strolling through. Her gazed passed over a weighty woman in a purple pelisse and a large bonnet, who was crossing the open space from across the street. Apple caught sight of her face and the whole figure became abruptly familiar.
“Marjorie!”
Apple’s shriek attracted Georgy’s attention.
“Why, Apple, what is the matter?”
Marjorie — for it was indeed she, Apple now realising she knew those particular clothes only too well — was moving out of her line of sight and she had to lean into the glass to see her.
By this time, Georgy was at her elbow, trying to peer through the door. “What is it? What did you see?”
Apple fell back from the door, her heart pounding. “It’s my cousin, Marjorie Greenaway! She must have come after me. That means Walter is here too. Oh, Georgy, what shall we do? If they see me, I am sunk!”
Georgy gripped her wrist. “They shan’t see you! Come away!”
Hustled to the back of the shop, Apple saw the proprietor’s shocked features, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead.
“My lady?”
Georgy flapped a hand at him. “Shush! There is someone outside we don’t wish to meet.”
Apple began to feel faint. “I need to sit down.”
