Page 7 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Four

Sometimes even the sunlight was not enough to make a house call enjoyable. Marguerite shifted her bag to the other arm and inhaled the fresh air as she walked down the country lane. A breeze moved through the tree branches overhead, dropping dry leaves down along the path like spinning fairies.

The elite Faversham estate was her least favorite to pay a call to. She had always struggled with those who valued their station above all else. Lady Faversham refused to visit Marguerite’s shop, but her patronage was worth the effort of walking clear to her estate.

Marguerite felt it was a fair trade: she brought her bag full of fashion plates and fabric samples, her notebook, pencil, and a good deal of patience, and typically walked away from the appointment with enough funds to keep the shop closed for the rest of the day, should she wish to.

And that was only half of what she was owed.

The remainder would come once the gowns were completed.

She arrived a quarter-hour before the set appointment time and went directly to the servants’ entrance, using the metal knocker to rap on the door .

“Oh, good. You’re here.” A wiry, thin woman with circular spectacles stood in the threshold. Her black gown was snug, the chatelaine at her waist jingling with her movements.

“Good morning, Mrs. Knutton.” Marguerite wiped her shoes on the mat before stepping inside the kitchen. A flurry of activity forced her to the side quickly. Red-faced maids scurried about while the cook stood at the worktable, chopping onions.

“This way,” Mrs. Knutton said, directing her through the bustle of activity.

“You must be preparing for another event.”

“The Lord and Lady are to have visitors of great import soon. We’re preparing everything for their arrival.” Her eyes flicked to Marguerite. “I believe that is why my lady has sent for you as well, madame. She must have new gowns for her various functions, of course.”

“It is an eccentricity I shall never argue with.”

This earned her a small smile. “I imagine not.” Mrs. Knutton opened the door to the parlor where they typically met for fittings. “If you will wait here?”

“Yes, thank you.” When Marguerite was left alone, she crossed to the small round table painted with hummingbirds and exotic trees and began to lay out fabric samples, opening the books to the fashion plates she had previously marked, ones she believed would suit Lady Faversham’s stature.

Once Marguerite was prepared, she stood in front of the table and looked around the opulent room.

Everything was dressed, from the gilded frames to the adorned mantle.

Even the high ceilings were frosted with dripping white plaster in an intricate design set against the pale blue wall.

It was beautiful, calling to mind a room she remembered from her youth.

Marguerite didn’t recall much from her homeland, but occasionally a memory would flash, and she would know instinctively that it was connected to her parents.

The parents she’d had to leave behind in France .

The door opened, sweeping her strange memories away at once. She pasted a pleasant, neutral expression on her face as a footman stood sentinel and Lady Faversham came into the room. If there was a person who believed herself of the greatest import, it was this woman.

Marguerite would not be surprised if the woman forgot to back out of the room should she ever meet the queen.

“Madame Perreau, I am so glad you could come.”

“It is an honor, my lady.” Marguerite curtsied low. “Your note implied you have a number of upcoming events. I have taken the liberty of finding a few gowns that might suit your purposes.”

Lady Faversham held her gaze, her beady eyes unwavering. “These visitors are different. I will need your particular expertise, as a portion of the party hails from France.”

Marguerite’s heart began to thump. She had carefully balanced her heritage with the reality of where she had spent her life, and never before had her knowledge of France been called upon so directly.

“It is very important that I am rigged out in the first stare of fashion. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Of course, my lady. I always do my very best to give you first-rate gowns.”

Lady Faversham leaned closer, her stale breath washing over Marguerite’s face. “These must be even better.”

Goodness. First the Kimballs, and now this. If every one of her patrons wished for her to increase her skill this month, she was going to let some of them down. She was only human, after all.

“When do your visitors come, my lady?” Marguerite asked.

“Three weeks.”

“Not very much time, no?”

“I was not given much notice, but I know you are capable of great things. Shall we begin?”

“I will do what I can. ”

Lady Faversham paused. Marguerite worried she would lean closer again, for she could only hold her breath for so long.

Instead, she glanced down at the open books, admiring the fashion plates there.

“You can manage it. I know this. If you are hoping for a higher payment, I will see what can be done.”

That was not Marguerite’s intent, but it was only fair if the woman wanted her items rushed.

“We can discuss that with delivery dates. First, we must choose the gowns.” She moved to the side of the table and pushed over another book.

“Allow me to point out this lovely ball gown with a unique trimming.”

After three hours, one tea break, and a plethora of decisions and measurements, Lady Faversham had designed the three gowns she wanted made before her visitors arrived.

Over the course of the visit, Marguerite discovered the group consisted of Lady Faversham’s young cousins, whom she felt the need to prove herself to.

Those cousins were bringing an assortment of French friends, people who had fled France, likely coming from noble stock but now penniless, if Marguerite had to guess.

She didn’t know much about the current state of French nobility within England, but she imagined Lady Faversham esteemed these guests far more than their status warranted.

Tugging her bag higher on her arm, Marguerite slowed her steps, delighting in the breeze. The weather would soon grow cold, and she knew her time outside was limited. But she had a letter to leave her anonymous friend and she was going to take her time, enjoying the walk to do so.

There was one person on the earth she could be completely honest with.

One man knew the entirety of her history before he had dropped her on Mrs. Gladstone’s doorstep as a young girl of eight—Paul.

Even still, she hated to burden him with her complaints when he was happily settled and safe.

While she did occasionally write to her late father’s friend, she did so sparingly.

On that fateful day when Marguerite had dropped Paul’s letter in the mud while crossing through the kissing gate, she had not even finished addressing it.

She had not been sure she would post the letter—which had been a blessing, as she’d begun to greatly fear it had fallen into the wrong hands.

That was the last time Marguerite wrote of the despair she sometimes felt, the loneliness that set her apart from others.

She was content with her situation, but that did not mean she did not value friendships or desire them.

The people of Harewood were kind, but she had not found deep companionships yet.

At least, not outside of her correspondent.

At one time, Paul had been the only person who could understand her pain.

Now she looked forward to passing the notes with her friend, with someone she could be honest with, who shared their deepest thoughts without reservations.

He did not need to know the details of her troubled past to hear her thoughts now and reply in kind.

She valued his insights, and while they spoke in generalities, she often received valuable advice from him.

Marguerite scanned the surrounding path and trees as she reached the kissing gate to ensure no one was coming.

She looked over her shoulder while she passed through, and when she felt comfortably alone, she removed the loose rock and took out the letter, sliding it into her bag.

She’d already written a silly note telling him of the debacle with Claude, so she left the letter behind and wedged the rock back in place.

Birdsong filled the sky overhead, and sunshine bore down upon her. In moments such as these, Marguerite believed her secret correspondent to be a blessing sent from Heaven. For how else could she explain the answer to such loneliness?

He had wanted to meet her a few months ago, but that was not wise. There were no good outcomes to such a meeting. A man with such practiced handwriting was educated, and the only educated men in Harewood were either far above her station or married.

Neither of which Marguerite would ever consider a relationship with. As a widowed modiste, she needed to be cautious about the people she conversed with in public. Maintaining a relationship through letters was the best course of action. It was the safest.

The rest of her walk passed quickly, her steps sure and swift as she eagerly anticipated reading the letter. She could have broken the seal right away but feared coming upon the man himself and being discovered.

Marguerite let herself into her shop and locked the door behind her, the bell ringing overhead. Dropping her bag on the counter, she broke the seal and crossed into her small sitting room, pushing open her drapes with a startled yelp to find Claude sitting on the windowsill.

Relief flooded her. She unbolted the window and pushed it open. “Come inside, you reckless creature. Where have you been?”

Claude made no noise, jumping to the floor and pressing herself along Marguerite’s ankles.

“You caused quite the disturbance last night. I feared Mr. Harding would require recompense for the injuries he sustained, but he appears too polite a gentleman for that.”

Claude crossed to her bowl and lapped at the water.

Marguerite lowered herself on the end of her sofa and unfolded the letter, settling in. The familiar looping letters did something silly to her heartbeat, sending it into a quick rhythm.

My dear friend?—

You may not credit it, but I have been the recipient of a good deal of adventure of late.

It all started with a bit of pity for myself, if I am being honest. There are things I would like to accomplish, and I haven’t.

So as I was riding home from a friend’s house the other night, I was wallowing in my own self-doubts.

You know the feelings; I know you do. We’ve spoken of the unfairness of wanting something just out of reach.

Well, there I was, pitying my lamentable situation, unable to see beyond my own woes, when a cat?—

Marguerite lowered the paper, ice running through her veins. Surely that was not happening. The clock ticked on the wall five times while dread pooled in her stomach.

She sat in a moment of denial, where she knew if she put down the paper and didn’t continue to read, she wouldn’t confirm what she suspected.

No. That wasn’t true, was it? The last sentence she read was already condemning enough.

—appeared as though a specter meant to haunt us and spooked my horse. I will not provide all the details, as I will surely bore you, but suffice it to say I fell on my back more than once, it was well after midnight, and I feel too old to be put through such physical torment as that.

Marguerite drew in a tremulous breath and lowered the letter onto her lap.

Her hands were shaky as she reached for Claude, who obliged her by leaping onto the sofa and curling into the cushion beside her.

An image of Mr. Harding’s smile as he stroked the cat in her shop filled her mind.

He was her friend? The man she had been writing to these last eight months?

The man she had unburdened her deepest thoughts to?

He felt as lonely as she did? Marguerite could hardly credit it.

She found it difficult to breathe. Mr. Harding was not married, so Marguerite had measured his character accurately in that regard, but he was wholly ineligible.

The man was far above her in station. Worlds apart.

He attended balls and routs and parties, while Marguerite made the gowns for the women he danced with.

At least she could bury this knowledge as she had done so many other things.

She was well versed in keeping secrets. What was one more?

As much as she had enjoyed their friendship, it was safer to end it now than allow it to continue, anyway.

Developing a rapport had been harmless in the beginning, but it must be?—

Oh no . Marguerite gasped, standing so quickly she startled her cat into a yelp.

She had written about Claude in the letter she had left today in the wall.

It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned her cat, of course, but this time she spoke of Claude’s frustrating propensity for disappearing at inopportune times.

She had never mentioned the cat by name before.

Surely Mr. Harding would be intelligent enough to make the connection after everything they had endured together over the last few days.

She shoved the letter into a drawer without finishing it and hurried to tie her bonnet on as she left the shop. Marguerite needed to reach the kissing gate before Mr. Harding did, or her secret would be out.

And that was not an option.