Where does it lead?
Amelia found herself looking forward to exploring.
“If you enjoy strolling,” Letitia said, following her gaze, “then you will thoroughly enjoy the gardens here. There are all sorts of walks, and a folly up on the hill behind the house. I cannot make the walk myself these days, but you may explore as you like with the girls. Perhaps Stephen will be your guide.”
Perhaps not.
Amelia managed a terse smile and fell back against her seat.
This is going to be my prison for the foreseeable future. A pretty prison it may be, but what should it matter if the bars of my cell are gold or plain iron? I still cannot get out.
At that depressing thought, the carriage lurched to a halt.
Peering out of the window, Amelia caught a glimpse of wide, polished marble steps leading up to a massive, arched front door. Two lines of servants winged away from the door, backs straight, presumably arranged in descending order of importance. A butler and a housekeeper were descending toward them. At least, she assumed that was what they were.
Letitia clapped her hands. “We are here! Out you get, girls. You will be well cared for, and we shall be back soon.”
Nancy and Marjory needed no further encouragement. They scrambled out of the carriage, talking excitedly, without so much as a backward glance. With hardly any warning, Stephen appeared out of nowhere, stepping nimbly into the carriage and slamming the door shut behind him.
He carried the strong scent of horse sweat, and perhaps his own sweat. It was not repulsive, not with the undertones of soap on his skin. It was… It was strange.
Amelia shifted, clearing her throat, and wished her heart would stop beating so hard.
“Well then,” Stephen drawled, and she felt his eyes land on her. “Shall we go?”
CHAPTER 14
Amelia’s stomach flipped as she clambered out of the carriage. Stephen silently held up a hand to help her down, his signet ring glittering in the sunlight. She pretended she had not seen it and jumped down onto the cobbled street.
Mrs. Potts’s was situated in a very nice part of London. The streets here were cleaned at least once a day, sometimes more. Street sweepers prowled the pathways, filthy, bristling brushes at the ready, keen to shove away a pile of dung or a particularly foul-smelling puddle out of the way of some lady or gentleman.
The street sweepers had never offered to help Ameliawhen she scurried along the streets every morning at the crack of dawn, ready to begin work.
That was the routine. She would leave home while it was still dark to make the long walk between their house and the modiste’s, and would arrive just as the sun was rising, ready to prepare the shop for the expected procession of customers.
What time was it now? Midday? The flow of people in the streets was just beginning to ebb in time for luncheon. Emmeline did not stop for luncheon herself, preferring to avoid the new fashionable meal altogether. Which meant that her employees did not have lunch either.
“This is the place, then?” Letitia enquired, clutching at her grandson’s arm and leaning heavily on her cane. She gestured with the cane at a yellow-painted store with mannequins wearing fine dresses in the window.
“Yes, that’s it,” Amelia responded, glancing this way and that.
The carriage had stopped on the opposite side of the road, so they would have to cross it. She was used to it, of course, and seized the moment between a large hackney cab and a slower-moving ox-drawn cart bearing heavy barrels. She reached the other side unharmed and glanced back.
Her heart sank. Letitia seemed particularly nervous about crossing the road, glancing fearfully at the large carts. Stephen was trying to soothe her, clearly preparing to hustle her across. She would move more slowly than he or Amelia, and the carts and cab drivers generally did not bother to slow down for pedestrians.
Amelia was just wondering if she ought to go back and help when a cold hand clamped around her elbow, making her shriek.
Spinning around, she found herself staring at the too-pale face and black false front of hair belonging to Emmeline Potts.
“Well,” Emmeline hissed. “You saw fit to turn up, did you?”
“Emmeline, I can explain.”
“And so you shall, but not in front of my shop. I won’t bawl like a fishwife in the street. Come inside at once.”
Emmeline was not as tall as Amelia, but she was sturdier. Certainly strong enough to tighten her grip and haul Amelia across the pavement and into the shop.
The shop was empty. A short, thin woman of about five-and-twenty stood in the center, her eyes wide, bearing a tray of buttons. This was Simone, the second employee. She was something of a dogsbody, fetching and carrying and helping with sewing wherever needed, but she rarely set foot on the shop floor. Judging by her neat black dress and carefully pinned-back hair, she seemed to have taken a step up in the world in Amelia’s absence.
