Page 11 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)
Chapter Eight
The shop had been empty all morning. The people of Harewood and its surrounding estates were no doubt preparing for the Faversham dinner later that evening.
Marguerite only knew of the event because it had been the deadline for most of the gowns and embellishments that had been hurriedly commissioned in the last few weeks.
Marguerite was still finishing the embroidery on a ball gown for a late order, but as the ball was not until next week, she still had time.
Setting down the sleeve she was working on, she leaned her head back and looked at the blue sky through her parlor window. It was deceptive, of course, for it was much cooler outside than the bright sunlight made it look.
The bell over the front door stole her attention. She set aside her project and let herself into the front of the shop. Ruth Rose stood alone, her gloved hand running over a fine blue silk. She wore a thick green spencer jacket over a cream gown, both of which Marguerite had made for her last year.
“Good day, Mrs. Rose.”
“Ruth, please,” she said, dropping her hand from the silk. “ We have known one another long enough to drop the formalities, surely.”
Marguerite was stunned, having no ready response.
“Perhaps that was forward of me, but I am not known for my subtleties. I should like to be your friend.” Ruth glanced at the wall of ribbons and silk flowers. “I should also like a new ribbon for my dinner gown this evening, if you would be so kind as to help me select one.”
It was forward of her. Marguerite only knew a handful of people in town who called her by her Christian name. She struggled to draw close to people, to let them in. When one held too many secrets, there was only so much room for honesty.
But, in this case, she could see no harm in accepting friendship.
“I can help you with both, Ruth.”
The woman beamed.
“What color is your gown?” Marguerite asked.
“White. I had thought a blue ribbon, perhaps?”
The envelope with the length of damask ribbon came to Marguerite’s mind.
She studied Ruth for any sign of an ulterior motive, but found nothing telling.
Surely it was coincidence. Many people loved the color blue.
The ball gown in her shop window could have been the influence in this decision, for heaven’s sake.
She peered at the woman’s brown eyes. “Blue would be nice. I’ll show you what I have.”
“I should have brought Samuel.” Ruth shook her head in exasperation, then noted Marguerite’s confusion.
“Samuel Harding? He is brilliant with color. He told me you have a pink brocade that would make my skin glow. I ought to have forced him to accompany me so he could show me exactly where it is, that I might commission a dress.”
Marguerite laughed. “You do not need him at all, Ruth.”
“Oh? ”
“I know the exact fabric he spoke of.” She crossed the floor and pulled the bolt, watching Ruth’s eyes light up.
She hadn’t immediately thought of this when Ruth walked through the door, but now that it was mentioned, she could see how it was a perfect balance for Ruth’s skin and hair.
The man had a knack for color. “Mr. Harding is rather brilliant.”
Ruth’s gaze took in the brocade, her fingers running over it. “Will you make me a gown, Madame Perreau?”
“Of course.” Marguerite set the bolt down on her long counter and pulled out the books of fashion plates. “If we are to be friends, you ought to call me Marguerite.”
Ruth grinned so brightly, one would think she had offered to create the dress that very day and free of charge.
“Tell me, are you interested at all in the party taking place at the Faversham estate? I’ve been told a portion of the visitors are French.”
Marguerite was glad to have the book to focus on. She kept her gaze on the gowns as she flipped through the pages. “It is not my place.”
“I only wondered if you were interested in speaking with people from your homeland. Or a meal of French cuisine.”
It was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture. Marguerite raised her gaze. “You are kind, Ruth, but I have not given it any thought. The only time I enter the Faversham house is when I am fitting Lady Faversham for a gown. It would not be comfortable otherwise.”
She hoped Ruth understood. Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed. Marguerite didn’t sit in her little parlor and dream of one day dancing with handsome men in large ballrooms. She was content where she was.
Marguerite was not the only woman in Harewood who was left off the invitations for this dinner.
Eliza Rose had married the town blacksmith, Jacob Ridley, and fallen in station.
As such, she was no longer invited to Faversham events, but she seemed no less happy for it.
In fact, Eliza’s joy had only seemed to grow.
“Shall we decide which style would suit you best?” she asked, hoping to shift the conversation.
They spent the following half-hour planning the gown and taking Ruth’s measurements. When they returned to the shop, Marguerite helped Ruth choose a ribbon for that evening and cut it perfectly.
“Oh, someone left you a note,” Ruth said, picking up a folded white letter on the counter. It had not been there before they had gone to the parlor for measurements.
Unease skittered down Marguerite’s spine. It was probably nothing, but she did not wish to open it in front of Ruth. She picked it up and tucked it in her pocket.
“Strange we did not hear the bell,” Marguerite said. “I must have left it there earlier.”
No sooner had she spoken than the door opened to admit a large party, none of whom looked familiar.
Ruth caught her eye, dark eyebrows lifted. “I shall take my ribbon and leave you, Marguerite. Thank you for the help.”
“Good day, Ruth.”
The men and women filtered into the shop, some going directly toward the wall of ribbons while others meandered about, admiring the fabrics. Wisps of conversation reached her ears, mostly English with an occasional French word, which revealed just who this group of people was.
Ruth pulled her gloves on as a gentleman opened the door from the outside and held it for her, then let himself in after she left.
A very familiar-looking man. He was not terribly tall, with dark hair and a deep brown gaze.
His defined jawline ended at a cleft chin, and his figure, though not broad, appeared healthy.
Marguerite could not place how she knew him, but something about his face—or perhaps it was his eyes—tugged at her memories the same way the damask ribbon had.
She found the folded letter in her pocket and wanted to open it right there, to know if it held more of the same, or perhaps a further explanation.
Could it have been left by Mr. Harding? Had the man received her letter, discovered her identity, and written to her directly to break all contact?
She needed to take a deep breath and see these patrons out, then she could open the note.
The familiar gentleman approached Marguerite, forcing her heart into her throat. “Excuse me, mademoiselle?”
“Madame Perreau,” she corrected. “How may I help you, monsieur?”
A smile spread widely over his face, evidently delighted by her accent or her name. Perhaps both. “ Pourrions-nous parler francais ?”
The very question she had been dreading. She did not wish to be seen as an outsider within her own village. “I prefer English, sir.”
His face fell, but he quickly corrected it. “Of course. It is more respectful of those who do not understand. I wondered, do you have any handkerchiefs?”
“I do.” She showed the gentleman where he might find them, then returned to the counter, hoping the distance would be a signal.
The man did not seem to read her signal. He approached the counter almost immediately. “My name is Armand Leclair.”
Shock permeated her body. Marguerite knew that name.
She knew this man. Or rather, she had known him as a boy.
His family had lived near hers, had been regular guests in her home.
Did he recognize her as well? Was it possible after so many years?
She had not immediately recognized him, not fully, not until she had heard his name.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said politely. She looked to the rest of his party. The women were still debating over ribbons and the two men appeared bored. Were any of them also Leclairs? Armand had not been an only child. How many of his family had made it out of France alive?
“From what I know of my friends, we shall be here a great while.”
Marguerite smiled. Friends. So none of them were his sisters or younger brother. The chances of her being detected decreased. She spoke, maintaining a level voice with great effort. “It can be difficult to select the perfect color.”
“I learned to be patient a long time ago, and it is a skill which has served me well.”
“Your future wife will be quite grateful.”
Mr. Leclair flashed a smile. “I hope so. Tell me, Madame Perreau, will you be attending dinner this evening at the Faversham house?”
“No.” She did not expound. Surely the man understood why.
He looked disappointed.
Fortunately, one of his friends desired help at that moment, and Marguerite was called away to assist the ladies with their ribbon purchases.
She wrapped them each in brown paper and tied them with twine.
As they filed outside again, Mr. Leclair held the door for a beat longer, searching her face.
The shop was empty while she stood at the other end, hands clasped lightly in front of her, body tensed beneath her calm exterior.
Armand searched her face. “You look familiar to me, though I do not know why. I hope to see you again, madame.” He bowed to her before closing the door. The bell chimed in the silence, filling the disquiet within her with the vibrations of sound.
What did his presence mean for her? So many years after her escape, surely it mattered not if she was discovered.
But Paul’s warning rang out in her mind, his fierce hold on her thin shoulders, the wild look in his eyes as he made her promise never to reveal her true name—how danger awaited her if she did.
A shiver crawled up Marguerite’s spine. Enough of that. She needed to know if Mr. Harding had left her a note. She promptly let herself into the parlor and closed the door.
Sitting on the sofa, she pulled out the letter. A wave of scent rolled from the paper as she unfolded it, knocking into her with force. She was thrown into a memory so fiercely, she would have cried out had she not been struggling to breathe.
It was her mother’s perfume.
Lifting the letter to her nose, she inhaled orange blossoms and was transported back to being young and curling up on her mother’s bed, sleeping there as she waited for her parents to return from a dinner or a ball.
She remembered her mother climbing in beside her, the smell of her perfume surrounding them in a cloud.
Oh, how comforted Marguerite felt to know all was right in the world again.
The memory, the scent, the feelings now tumbling over her one after another were overwhelming. She drew in a shaky breath and read the note left in the center of the page.
You may have the entire bottle.
Was it a promise or a threat? Whoever had left this must have known its significance to Marguerite. They had to know it was the scent her mother had worn, that it would be important to her.
But that was not the relevant detail. She lowered the paper and looked to the window Mr. Harding had seen someone peeking through just last night. Whoever was leaving these notes, if they knew what her mother’s perfume was…that meant they knew who her mother was.
Who her father was. What she had run from .
Marguerite had changed her name twice. She had thought she was safe.
She had believed no one but her father’s friend, Paul, knew where to locate her, or furthermore, that no one but Paul would have any reason to. Her French past was behind her. It was no longer relevant.
None of this made any sense at all.
Marguerite lifted the letter and carried it up the stairs to her chamber. She pulled out the first note and flattened the two papers, side by side, on her writing table. They had the same hurried writing, like the person had dipped the pen and not taken much care when forming any of the words.
This is only the beginning.
You may have the entire bottle.
Marguerite leaned back. Whoever was doing this had a plan. Neither of these were complete notes. They were building up to something, that much was clear.
But what?