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“Goodness me, he and your cousin match like china statues, don’t they? Both of them blonde,” Mrs. Quimby commented. “She’s lovely, though that gown does her a disservice, if you don’t mind my frankness. Inexpensive satin is never worth the thrift.”

“Mr. Woodward is quite good-looking,” Ella said, wondering if she ought to interrupt the conversation.

“A dimpled chin’s not enough to keep a man in the lead position,” Mrs. Quimby said, with the air of a woman who had actors traipsing through her emporium daily. “The upcoming role will make or break his future.”

Ella cleared her throat. “I should like to talk to you in private, Mrs. Quimby, but I hesitate to leave my cousin in company with Mr. Woodward. She’s only sixteen, and we’ve just come from the country.”

“As if her gown didn’t tell me that,” Mrs. Quimby said. Clearly, she was a woman who called a spade a spade. “Mrs. Peebles!”

A matronly lady trotted over.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Mrs. Quimby said. “Keep a shrewd eye on Mr. Woodward and that young lady. If there’s a hint of anything improper about the conversation, you take her away sharpish, do you understand?”

Mrs. Peebles smiled. “There’s nothing like that, I assure you. She’s curious about the theater, but isn’t everyone? Mr. Woodward is explaining how a director chooses a play and decides who to cast in it.”

“That’s all right,” Ella said, relieved. “We’ve never been to the theater, and my cousin has always loved reading plays.”

“You’re true country mice,” Mrs. Quimby exclaimed. “Now you watch the young lady carefully, Mrs. Peebles.”

With that, she led Ella across the room. “You’ve not seen a performance by a traveling theater company?” she asked, as they climbed a flight of stairs. “We make costumes for companies that spend most of their time touring the island.”

“We live deep in the country,” Ella explained. “We did go to a Christmas pantomime in a local inn.” That had been two years ago, after Fulvia read about it in the local paper and threw such a fit that the viscount escorted them.

Burly men dressed in gowns had sung, danced, and thrown pies at each other. Not one of them resembled Mr. Woodward.

The chamber above was brightly sunlit, dotted with dressmaker’s forms clad in half-made garments. Shelves were lined with bolts of fabric in vivid colors and patterns. Huge open barrels held curling feathers like the one that graced the actor’s sweeping hat. Lace and ribbons spilled from an open drawer.

“Now what can I do for my country mice?” Mrs. Quimby said, leading Ella to a comfortable settee. “I don’t mind telling you, my dear, that I’m feeling sorry for you. Your age, and never been inside a theater! It’s a disgrace. Unless your parents are Quakers?”

“My parents aren’t alive,” Ella admitted. “But no, they weren’t Quakers. Actually, you may remember them, as I found one of your hatboxes among my mother’s belongings. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, they went to a masquerade ball dressed as the North Wind and his consort.”

Mrs. Quimby’s brow knit. “I’d have scarcely opened the emporium.” She snapped her fingers. “Viscount St. Trevelyon and his wife. Oh, but they were a lovely—”

She broke off. “They’re no longer with us?” Her eyes looked genuinely distressed.

“I’m afraid not.” Ella smiled. “They had such fun wearing your costumes. I still remember how much my father enjoyed his icicle crown. He wore it at Christmas dinner the following year.”

Mrs. Quimby patted her hand. “I’m so sorry, dear. So very sorry. You are their only daughter?”

Ella nodded.

“You look just like your mother, as I’m sure you know. That’s your aunt downstairs? Thankfully, you have her to care for you. That must be a comfort to your parents as they watch over you from Heaven.”

“No doubt,” Ella murmured.

“The North Wind was one of my first costumes for nobility,” Mrs. Quimby said nostalgically. “My father started the business in a market stall, you see. We were only providing to theaters, not that it isn’t still my primary business, but these days I have a lively business in masquerade balls as well. Do you know the Duchess of Trent?”

Ella shook her head.

“The American Duchess, they call her. She’s a great lover of costume balls. These days I make regular clothing for the gentry as well, those that can’t afford a modiste.”

There couldn’t be a better opening. Ella took a deep breath. “Mrs. Quimby, I am one of those ladies.”

The costumer nodded. “I know, dear.”

“You guessed because of our clothing?”

“That, and the fact that I costumed your uncle, Viscount St. Trevelyon, for one of the Regent’s masquerades at Bath. He came with his own design for a fantastical creature. A genie, as I recall.”