She then sent an assistant to bring her sisters tea andbiscuits and some fashion magazines to peruse and whisked Zoë behind a velvet curtain to where some of the working aspects of the business took place. She took out her measuring tape, chatting in a friendly way as she measured every aspect of Zoë’s body while another assistant wrote everything down.
She soon understood not only why her sisters and Lady Alice liked Miss Chance but also why they patronized her business almost exclusively. Daisy Chance was an original, both in personality and in designs, several of which were displayed in the shop, and several more were draped, awaiting their final fitting, in the back section.
And she’d made no attempt to improve her accent. “Nah,” she said when Zoë tentatively asked her whether or not she felt pressure to change how she spoke. “Most of the other dressmakers in London give themselves French names like Estelle or Amélie and put on fake French accents to hide the fact that they were born as common as me. And because so many people think French mantua makers are the best.” She chuckled. “Me, I can’t be bothered with all that. Me designs are what people come for, and if people think an accent is more important than one of me special designs, then more fool them.”
Zoë liked that.
The measurements taken, to Zoë’s surprise, she was then ushered back to join her sisters. The appointment, it seemed, was over.
“But what about the design?” Zoë asked.
“Oh, that’s all settled,” Izzy said, her eyes twinkling. “We worked it out before you got here. Miss Chance has done us proud.”
Us?she wondered, but clearly they weren’t going to explain. “And the fabric?”
“That, too. It’s green silk. Don’t worry, it will be perfect on you,” Clarissa said with a laughing glance at Izzy. “You’re going to make a real splash.”
Miss Chance, who was obviously in on whatever plan her sisters had hatched, grinned and said, “Yeah, you’ll look a treat, miss. Mind you, you’ll need to come back for at least one more fitting, but I’ll let you know when that is.”
It was an odd way to do business, but Zoë didn’t really mind. She’d already spent hours and hours with Lucy in Paris, poring over designs and standing endlessly, having things fitted and pinned and draped and repinned and redraped until everyone was satisfied. She liked fashion and had decided ideas about what she liked and disliked, but the long process of getting there was frequently tiring and very boring.
Who knew what this dress would look like in the end? But in the meantime it gave her more time to paint.
Lady Scattergood had been so delighted with her new portrait that she insisted on hanging it in pride of place above the mantelpiece in her drawing room, where everyone who visited could admire it. Naturally, they commented on it, and such was their interest that the old lady set up a workroom for Zoë to paint in, on the ground floor so it would be easy for her visitors—most of whom were elderly—to pop in and observe Zoë at work.
She also directed her butler, Treadwell, to set up a number of chairs there so ladies could sit and watch Zoë at work, painting the portraits that had already been commissioned. Treadwell then instructed the young footman, Jeremiah, to fetch them. Butlers did not carry furniture around.
Zoë, not bothered by an audience, was entertained by the fuss Lady Scattergood made of her and her paintings and was delighted by the commissions. She was even acting as a kind of agent for Zoë, urging her friends to get their portraits painted before Zoë got so busy and well known that they could not afford her, and taking charge of the payments. She charged far more for Zoë’s paintings than Zoëwould ever have dreamed of asking, and even opened a bank account in Zoë’s name.
“Now, Zoë, my dear,” she said, “you mustpromiseme that you willneverdivulge the existence of this bank account toanyman, especially if you are ever foolish enough to marry.”
Bemused, Zoë agreed. “But—”
“A woman should always have control over her own money,” the old lady continued. “It is iniquitous, positively iniquitous, that according to the law, all of a woman’s property becomes property of the man upon marriage. All of it! An heiress becomes a veritable pauper overnight, totally dependent on the goodwill and honesty of her husband—and you know as well as I do how many men are to be trusted!” She snorted. “I’ve written several times to the prime minister about the matter, but of course, he’s a man, so he does nothing. So keep this bank account hidden, do you hear?”
Chuckling, Zoë agreed. She had no plans to get married anyway. And it was very good of Lady Scattergood to take such an interest in her career.
So she painted and painted, morning and afternoon, unless Clarissa and Izzy had some plans for her. And the visitors kept coming.
“What is it, Treadwell?” Lady Scattergood said one morning as she and two of her friends were sitting, watching Zoë work and chatting.
“A caller, m’lady.” The butler bowed and presented a silver salver, on which rested a card.
Lady Scattergood picked it up, snorted and tossed the card toward the fire. “That woman again! What did you tell her?”
“I took the liberty of telling Lady Bagshott—again—that you were not at home.”
“Quite right!” The old lady turned to her friends. “Do you know her? No? Anarriviste, my dears, and quite pushy.She’s called I don’t know how many times, and each time, Treadwell sends her off saying I am not at home. But the wretched woman cannot and will not take a hint!”
“What does she want?” one of the old ladies asked.
“What anyarrivistewants, of course:entréeto my home and access to my friends. And a portrait by Zoë. The creature has had the temerity to write to me—several times—requesting one.”
“You’re a snob, Lady Scattergood,” Zoë told her. “She can’t help her birth. None of us can.” She was particularly sensitive to that sort of thing, having herself been born in the back streets of London, not to mention illegitimate.
The old lady sniffed. “Perhaps not, but apart from her background in trade, the woman is aggressively forward and I cannot abide her.” She added smugly, “And every time she writes to request a portrait, I increase the price and tell her she cannot afford it. Which, of course, makes her want it even more. She always did want the best of everything.”
“You knew her before now, Olive?” one of the ladies asked.
