Once they were out on the square, Augusta said, “I’d like to walk to Pauline’s. I have a strange intuition, a desperate need tobe active and doing. I need the feel of a needle and thread in my hands.”
Phyllida stopped dead. “Your La’ship! Won’t the shop be locked up and everyone abed for the night?”
Augusta shrugged. “Possibly.” Then she reached into her cloak pocket and drew out a key. “But we can go in and we won’t disturb anyone.”
The two of them hurried through the almost-deserted streets—as well as they could over the slick flagways, anyway. Rather than staying a respectful distance behind her mistress, Phyllida kept a firm hold on her elbow, muttering warnings and admonishments as they went. When the season was in full swing in the springtime, they might have been spotted by any number of people out walking or driving to rout parties and balls, coming home from the theatre or the opera, or on their way to gaming hells and gentlemen’s clubs. But the frigid weather kept all but the most intrepid souls indoors. Aside from a few carriages and hacks, they encountered almost no one.
Pauline’s was not far, and Augusta’s fur-lined cloak kept her tolerably warm. Only her feet felt like blocks of ice by the time they arrived. She unlocked the door and she and Phyllida crept in. All was dark. The fires were banked, as she knew they would be at that hour. She hoped that Sally would not awaken at the sound of the tinkling door bells and be frightened. But the maid generally slept soundly, and her room near the kitchen was far away from the front door.
“See if you can light a taper from the embers,” she whispered to Phyllida, who withdrew a screw of paper and two candles from the recesses of her capacious cloak.
“Already done, My Lady,” she said, and hurried to light the paper and the candles, casting a warm, flickering glow around the showroom.
Augusta smiled at what she saw. Two or three of her most elegant creations hung from wrought-iron stands or headless torso forms that had been made to match the sizes of some of their best clientele. Unlike Madame Noelle’s, the room was otherwise only decorated with mirrors and tasteful furnishings. “We must be quiet as mice. I don’t want to wake Pauline. She deserves her rest.”
They did not linger to admire the room thetonsaw through the square display window that jutted out into the street but passed through a second door swiftly and silently to the large workroom, the one where most of the sewing was done. Augusta was hoping to find some bodice or skirt partially finished that she could pick up and continue, losing herself in the absorbing repetitive action of making tiny but strong stitches in a seam that would only pull apart under the greatest strain. This thought made her smile as she recalled her wedding night, when the gown Pauline had labored over for weeks was so brutally treated. The seams did not come undone, but the delicate silk ripped in more than one place.
However, to Augusta’s surprise, not only was the workroom bereft of seamstresses, but it was also so completely tidy that not a single unfinished garment was to be found. She and Phyllida exchanged surprised looks.
“I knew Miss Dawkins intended to give the girls a day or two off ,” Phyllida said, “But I didn’t think they’d finish everything on their plate afore the holiday!”
Augusta admired Pauline’s skillful management of the staff, and understood why she had given them this holiday, how she valued their hard work and the occasional sacrifices they made to complete a garment in a rush. But she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. And with disappointment came fatigue. She sank onto a bench.
“My Lady! Yer all done up! Let me fetch a hack to take us back.”
Before Phyllida could act on her suggestion, a noise coming from the direction of the outer room made Augusta put her finger to her lips and open her eyes wide. It couldn’t be Sally or Pauline. They would have come down the stairs directly into the workshop or out from the back. The dresser stopped, her recently shed cloak halfway to her shoulders, and listened.
Something scraped. Metal on metal. A key in the lock. Could it be Pauline? She would hardly be out so late at night, Augusta thought. Her heart started pounding. Was it a thief?
Apparently Phyllida had the same thought. She tiptoed to the shelf where the wooden sleeve shapers were to be found, picked one up, and held it aloft as she crept to the door that led to the showroom.
The scraping sounds gave way to the creak of the door on its hinges and the delicate tinkling of the bells at the entrance, soon followed by footsteps. Whoever it was took no trouble to be quiet, Augusta thought, although she could tell from the heaviness of the tread that it was a man. She slowly rose and placed herself on the other side of the door from Phyllida, arms folded across her distended belly.
Now the intruder had started humming quietly, and Augusta creased her brow. He’d used a key. And he wasn’t afraid of making a little noise. This was odder and odder.
The footsteps drew nearer to the closed workroom door and Phyllida positioned herself so she could strike anyone who came through it.
“Brrr!” said a man’s voice as he threw the door open.
Instantly, Phyllida brought her weapon cracking down upon his head.
He fell to the floor, stunned but not quite unconscious, silent for a moment, but soon lifting his hand to rub the growing lump on his head. “Stow me!”
It wasthe very last thing Cooper expected. He’d come armed with the note for the maid if she awoke, but he hoped he could come and go without rousing her. He hadn’t been expecting anyone else to be there. He’d been a little surprised to find the street door unlocked, but thought Miss Dawkins must have rushed out so fast she forgot to secure it. On reflection, it didn’t sound like something she’d do, though.
And now here he was, staring up into the faces of two women he’d never seen before—one clearly a lady of consequence and just as clearly big with child, the other a careworn old woman with a fierce scowl and the offending weapon still clutched in her raised fist.
“Who are you?” asked the fine lady, more curiosity than fear in her voice.
He sat up and winced. “Benjamin Cooper, Ma’am.”
“And what d’you think yer about here skulking around at this time o’night—and why hasn’t Miss Dawkins come down in all this ruckus?” the old lady said. The last bit she directed at the fine lady, though, not at him.
Still a bit dazed, Cooper held up the note in his hand for the inspection of the lady. She took it and read it, then shot a rueful glance at the old biddy. “Phyllida, you can relax. We’re in no danger. Mr. Cooper has a note from Pauline.”
At that, the lady reached down and started to bend to help him up, then abruptly stood and pressed her flat palms below her bump, holding it up. “Phyllida,” she said in a pinched voice, and that lady dropped the wooden block, ran around his sprawled form to her mistress, and led her to a bench. Cooperrolled onto his knees and hoisted himself to a stand. He executed a hesitant bow, conscious of the increasing pain in his head.
“And if I might be so bold,” he said, “as to ask you who you are and what yer doing here?”
