“I have taught children and servants on Papa’s estates many times, and it was a great pleasure. I thought you and some of our émigré friends might write letters for me.”
Her cousin nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps it can be done. Certainly I can give you a character. But jobs are scarce.” Her eyes rested on the plain white wall without focusing. Christa leaned forward and took her hand.
“And now will you tell me what is troubling you?”
Her cousin started guiltily. “Is it so obvious? It is of no importance—nothing can be done.”
“Tell me anyhow,” Christa coaxed.
“Well . . . you know themodisteI have been working for, Mme. Bouchet? Though she has never been closer to Paris than Greenwich, she has been a good employer. I have become her chief assistant this last year.” Christa nodded. The two had corresponded regularly, and she knew her cousin had been pleased with the situation.
“Madame’s hands have been bothering her. They are too swollen now for her to work easily, and she has decided to sell the shop and move to Canterbury to live with her sister. She would like to sell it to me, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“You cannot afford it?” Christa questioned.
“Exactement. There is an Austrian woman interested and she can meet Mme. Bouchet’s price. Madame gave me some time to see if I could raise more, but I sold everything I could, even my wedding band, and it is still not enough. I even thought of writing to you, to see if I could borrow some, but now . . .” She raised her head proudly. “I shall manage. I will find another situation. Soon I will be chief assistant again. And in a few years, perhaps I can open my own shop.”
Christa knit her brows. Suzanne must have been desperate indeed to consider borrowing—she had refused Christa’s help in the past.In the days when I thought I had money.
“How much more do you need?”
“A fortune . . . a hundred pounds.”
Christa reached under her skirt and wrestled with the pouch hanging from her waist while Suzanne watched in bemusement. Finally unfastening it, Christa pulled it free of her petticoats and poured the golden coins inside onto the scrubbed deal table. “Voila! The shop is yours.”
Suzanne gasped. “Marie-Christine, I cannot! It may be years before I can repay you. Perhaps never.” She reached one hand out longingly, her once-white fingertips roughened from constant manual labor. If she accepted the money, it would mean a future for her children . . .
Christa said severely, “It is not a gift, it is an investment. You will buy the shop and call it ‘Suzanne’s’ and work very hard. A year or two from now, when you are the premiermodistein London and can afford to pay me, I shall come work for you. We shall be partners.”
“You could become my partner now,” Suzanne offered.
Christa shook her head firmly. “That would strain your resources too much. You will want to make changes in the shop, won’t you?” At Suzanne’s nod she continued, “That will cost money. And you must support yourself and the children and be able to weather slow spells and customers who do not pay quickly. Money will be in very short supply at first. You do not need another mouth to feed. And your flat here is too small for another person.”
Suzanne was silent, unable to refute her cousin’s logic.
“And there is another thing,” Christa said slowly. “It is very strange of me, but . . . I want to know that I can stand alone, without help. If I work with you, once again I would be sheltered.” She smiled with a trace of embarrassment. “I know I am foolish—but the time to become your partner is in a year or two, when you are a success.”
Suzanne was silent for a moment. “I think I understand. But if I am not a success—”
“Ofcourseyou will be!” Christa laughed. “You have more style and fashion in your little finger than any woman I ever met. And will it not be amusing to work together?”
Suzanne came around the table and hugged her, tears of gratitude in her eyes. “You are my good angel!”
Christa wrinkled her nose in embarrassment. “Eh,bien, but even angels need sleep. We must both be up early in the morning.”
* * *
When Suzanne arrived home the next evening, she paid little attention to the carriage standing in front of the draper’s shop until a man stepped from it to address her. “Mme. de Savary?”
She whirled and looked at him suspiciously, seeing a tall, fair man with a cold face and impeccable tailoring. “Monsieur? I do not believe I know you.”
He bowed. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lord Radcliffe, and I would like speech with you.”
She looked at him with interest. So this was the wicked uncle! “Very well,” she agreed. “But it must be while I begin the evening meal. My children will be home from school soon.”
The earl nodded, then followed her up the dark stairs to the low-ceilinged flat. She removed her cloak and went to the stove to build a fire. “What did you wish to speak of, Lord Radcliffe?” she asked without looking at him.
“I am seeking your cousin, Marie-Christine d’Estelle.”
