Emmeline dismissed her with a wave of her hand. Simone obeyed, shooting Amelia a sympathetic look.
“Well?” Emmeline demanded, folding her arms tightly. “Where have you been? It’s been three days, and there has been no word from you. I sent Simone to your house, thinking perhaps you’d all been carried off by the plague or something, but no, it was closed up, and no one answered her knocks.”
“Things have been rather complicated,” Amelia admitted, swallowing. “But I did not mean to leave you in the lurch. If I could have sent you a message, I would have.”
“Oh, tosh. You think I’m a soft touch, don’t you? You think you can do as you like. Well, you are in for a nasty surprise, little madam. Simone can do everything you can, including managing customers. What do you have to say tothat, hm?”
Amelia let out a shaky breath, staring pleadingly up at her employer.
At one-and-forty, Emmeline Potts had done relatively well for herself. It was not easy for a modiste to compete with the juggernauts of London fashion, especially a modiste who had not been to Paris and was not French.
Of course, most of the modistes in London werenotFrench, and simply had the bright idea of calling themselvesMadamethis or that and affecting a French accent. Being from Liverpool, poor Emmeline had never quite managed a convincing accent, and so her shop remained just that—Potts’.
Perhaps it was the constant feeling of not being good enough—not beingFrench,specifically—that had left poor Emmeline with a sizeable chip on her shoulder and a propensity to torment her employees.
Amelia swallowed, realizing that she needed to answer, and quickly.
“I had to go away,” she said.
I was abductedseemed like a foolish thing to say, and might engender unwanted consequences.
Emmeline gave an incredulous laugh. “And you really think that is a good enough excuse? I think not.”
Amelia bit her lip hard, tasting copper. “Emmeline, do I not work hard for you? How many days have I come in early, long before dawn, and stayed to work into the night? You don’t pay me for those hours, do you?”
“No, I pay you to finish the job.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “But I never have time to finish the work you give us. I told you so many times that Simone and I are overwhelmed. If you were to hire somebody else?—”
“Enough. I am not wasting money on another seamstress just because you are lazy. Here is what will happen. Since you were not here to manage the sizeable Muthrie order, we werelatein delivering. I had to knock a little money off the price to placate Mrs. Muthrie. You’ll be paying that money back out of your wages, as well as working on half-pay for the rest of the month to make up for the work you missed. You may also consider it a punishment for treating me with such disrespect.”
Amelia pressed a hand to her forehead.
If I were at home and not with Stephen, half-pay and such a penalty would put us on the streets.
“You think that is fair?” she forced out.
Emmeline sniffed, placing her hands on her ample hips and lifting her chin. It always seemed to irk her that she had to lift her head to meet Amelia’s eyes.
“I think it is more than fair,” she hissed. “I think that I ought to dismiss you on the spot. How dare you treat me like this? How dare you disobey me? Youoweme your hard work, and if you cannot get work done in the hours I pay you for, well, of course you must stay later. Did you think of complaining about it? Did you?—”
“Are we interrupting?” drawled a male voice from the doorway.
Amelia flinched, and Emmeline almost jumped, eyes widening.
There stood Stephen, with Letitia peering in from behind him, under his arm.
Color rushed to Amelia’s cheeks.
How long had he been standing there? Did he hear me being scolded by my employer? How humiliating.
“No, no, you are not interrupting at all!” Emmeline laughed nervously, scurrying forward. She bobbed an ungainly curtsy, the jet-black ringlets of her false front of hair bobbing over her forehead. “I was simply scolding my seamstress, I’m afraid. She is most lax in her work. Well then, Amelia, go back. There’s a deal of mending and work for you to do. Get started, Simone will show you what to do. Now, sir?—”
“It is Your Grace,” Stephen gritted out, stepping into the shop.
Letitia scurried in after him, and the door banged shut behind her.
Emmeline flinched, shuffling backward. “YourGrace. I… I see. Well, I am keen to help you, I…” She paused, realizing that Amelia was still standing behind her, and shot her a glare of pure rage and incredulity. “Amelia, what are you about?”
