Page 10

Tears began flowing down her cheeks, no matter how hard she tried to keep them back. Feeling like an old woman rather than a girl of scarcely twenty, she went back to the rocking chair. Joe climbed to her shoulder, and Starlight leapt onto her lap. The three of them rocked back and forth to the sound of Starlight’s rusty purr and Ella’s occasional sob, until her lantern reflected in the black panes of her windows, and she was calm enough to think.

In addition to the gowns and the ball, she had to pay the butcher and the baker. Her uncle held fast to his conviction that the world was honored to serve him, but Ella knew that unpaid debts led to hungry children.

“He’s a criminal,” she whispered, and Starlight’s rumbling purr seemed to agree.

She couldn’t think of anything they could sell other than her mother’s gift. Her uncle had sold everything of value, including the family portraits. The attic held a few trunks containing clothing, but the apparel was hopelessly out of date. Some of the trunks might even contain garments belonging to the very first viscountess.

She could probably find a gown that would fit Fulvia, but “Starry, Starry Night” hadn’t been announced as a masquerade ball.

Joe leapt down and scrambled onto the bed where Ella had tossed the hatbox. She watched listlessly as he tried to drag her nightcap inside.

Then she straightened.

Modistes charged a fortune.

But costumers? How much was a costume?

How much would it cost to costume a “viscountess” or a “young lady”?

CHAPTER FOUR

FAIRY GODMOTHERS COME IN DIFFERENT GUISES

One week later, the St. Trevelyon town coach pulled up before a building with a large glass window. The sign above proclaimed that Quimby’s Fashion Emporium was a “Purveyor to Drury Lane Theater & More.” Its window displayed the brocade gown of a medieval lady, complete with ermine trim and a conical hat with a veil falling in graceful folds to the floor.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Fulvia muttered to Ella as she climbed out.

Her mother followed, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. “I feel as if I might spew,” she whispered.

“The carriage does jolt horribly around corners,” Ella said, taking her aunt’s arm. “I expect that the springs are flattened by age. You are white as new snow, Aunt, but you’ll feel better in a moment.”

She guided the viscountess up the front steps, Fulvia behind them. They walked into an open room where three women clustered around a man standing on a platform before a huge mirror. One of them was on her knees, pinning the hem of the man’s breeches.

A stout woman turned and began walking toward them, smiling. “Good morning. I am Mrs. Quimby,” she said, dropping a curtsy.

“This room is so hot,” the viscountess moaned, her handkerchief pressing even more firmly against her lips.

“Good morning,” Ella said to Mrs. Quimby. “I’m afraid that my aunt is not feeling well. Would it be possible for her to repose herself in privacy?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Quimby exclaimed, guiding them toward a door that led to a snug sitting room. Ella’s aunt gratefully sank onto the settee. A few minutes later, she already looked better: worn but comforted, a cool cloth on her head and a steaming cup of tea beside her on a small table.

“I’ve asked one of my seamstresses to loosen her ladyship’s stays, which will have her feeling better in no time,” Mrs. Quimby said, ushering Ella out of the room and shutting the door. “A little peace and quiet, and your aunt will be right as rain.”

“Thank you,” Ella said, smiling at the kindly woman. “My cousin—” Suddenly she realized Fulvia had not accompanied them into the back room. She pivoted, discovering that Fulvia had walked over to the platform and was chatting with the gentleman being fitted.

“He’s fully clothed,” Mrs. Quimby said quickly. “I’d not allow anyone to see one of my customers in a state of undress. We use this room for a final fitting as it has the grand mirror. Perhaps your cousin saw Mr. Woodward on the stage at Drury Lane? Young ladies are always curious to meet actors.”

Ella shook her head. But after all, two seamstresses were there as well; this “Mr. Woodward” surely wouldn’t make an improper comment under those circumstances.

“What can I help you with, Miss? A costume ball, perhaps?” Mrs. Quimby asked.

Ella was about to answer when Mr. Woodward turned to smile down at Fulvia. He was extraordinarily handsome, all the more so for his gorgeous costume composed of white satin and detailed with gold embroidery. In profile, he had a distinct resemblance to an etching of Jupiter in her old nursery book of Roman gods.

Ella had hoped to speak to Mrs. Quimby in private, but she couldn’t leave Fulvia unchaperoned.

“Thomas Woodward is the new lead at Drury Lane,” Mrs. Quimby said, following her gaze. “His first large role. We’re costuming him for a play called Catherine and Petruchio.”

Woodward was wearing a broad hat with a sweeping feather; as they watched, he doffed it in an elegant bow.