Page 12

“He didn’t pay for it,” Ella guessed, wincing. “I apologize.”

“It happens,” Mrs. Quimby said. “Mind you, I did wish that I hadn’t put so much gold braid on his pantaloons. But no doubt it did my reputation good to have a viscount wearing my costume.”

“That’s what he told you,” Ella said, biting her lip.

To her surprise, Mrs. Quimby chuckled. “He’s a rare one, your uncle. He informed me that he was born to be my benefactor—given that my costume would rub shoulders with the Prince of Wales—and that would increase my stock of happiness.” She laughed. “I’ve never forgotten that. The man thought that debt was a privilege of the upper classes!”

Ella’s stomach clenched into a knot. She couldn’t ask Mrs. Quimby for help. “How much does he owe you? I shall make good that obligation.”

The seamstress blinked. “Indeed, you shall not!”

“I have to,” Ella said miserably.

“No, you don’t. The debt is his, and dear, if you don’t mind the advice, never take on the burdens of menfolk, whether they’re family or not. Now, you tell me what you need, and I’ll do my best to help.”

“I can pay,” Ella blurted out. She held up her reticule, bulging with guineas.

“Excellent. I’m guessing you are seeking clothing for the Season. I can put you in garments that won’t put you to shame,” Mrs. Quimby said, “so it’s practically meant that you made your way here, isn’t it? Undoubtedly, your mother is guiding your footsteps.”

“I have a pet squirrel, Joe, who started a nest in your hatbox,” Ella explained. “I noted the name.”

“Squirrels are popular pets these days, aren’t they?” Mrs. Quimby said. “I had an actress bring in the prettiest little animal wearing a gold chain as a leash. She asked me to make it a little cloak so he could be Hamlet.”

“Joe would not care for clothing,” Ella stated, sure of that.

“Now there’s a smile,” Mrs. Quimby said, patting Ella’s hand again. “You’re a lovely lass, and no mistake. Your mother had the same strawberry-colored hair. I have an imperial blue silk somewhere that will have the attention of every man in the room.”

“I don’t wish that kind of attention! It’s my cousin who needs to be elegantly attired,” Ella explained. “My uncle has arranged a betrothal, but the gentleman in question, Lord Peregrine, hasn’t met Fulvia yet, and won’t until the upcoming ball.”

“She needs a ballgown,” Mrs. Quimby said, nodding. “Her mother as well, and you, of course.”

“Something plain for me,” Ella said. “But Fulvia must shine.”

“Oh, she will,” Mrs. Quimby said, sounding amused. “That girl is as shiny as a new guinea. You three will need more than ball gowns. You’ll need tea gowns, and promenade dresses, and at least two evening dresses. I would hope your uncle has arranged for you both to be presented to the queen?”

“We could never afford court dresses,” Ella said, avoiding the question. “I will give you the money I have, but I’m afraid it won’t be enough for all the garments you’ve mentioned. I was wondering if you ever reuse trim from older garments. I have trunks of my mother’s clothing, much of it made by Parisian modistes, sewn with lace and seed pearls.”

“The mice haven’t been at them?”

Ella shook her head. “The trunks were locked. The gowns are old-fashioned, but I was hoping that the trim would be useful.”

“I’ll buy those trunks,” Mrs. Quimby exclaimed, clapping her hands. “I often buy whole estates. I take the gowns apart and remake them, or I use them on the stage. You don’t think all those queens prancing across London stages are wearing new garments, do you?”

“I’ve never seen a London stage, let alone a queen atop one,” Ella said. “You really mean it, Mrs. Quimby? You aren’t saying it merely from kindness?”

“A fine businesswoman I’d be if I handed out money to anyone with a sad story. You keep your guineas,” the lady said, coming to her feet. “I’ll give you a fair price for every scrap of cloth in those trunks.”

“But you must keep back enough to pay my uncle’s debt,” Ella said, rising as well.

When Mrs. Quimby frowned, Ella added, “I insist. Or I shall go to another costume shop.”

“Prideful, aren’t you?” She laughed. “Well, so was your father, and not in the way the current viscount is, either. In the real way. You could tell his family had antiquity and importance, but he didn’t feel the need to boast about it.”

Ella followed the costumer down the stairs, clutching her reticule and thinking that now they could have champagne at the ball, and perhaps even rent some lemon trees.

The viscountess had emerged from the sitting room. She and Fulvia were seated together, arms wreathed around each other’s waists, listening to whatever Mr. Woodward was saying.

“Aren’t they a picture?” Mrs. Quimby asked, pausing. “That bright hair of your cousin’s would be a splash on the stage, I don’t mind telling you. It will be a pleasure to clothe your family, indeed it will. Now when is the ball?”