The Meeting
C aroline waved goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Thompson and their daughter and gently shut the door of her shop, Mrs. Brown’s Elegant Millinery & Dress-Rooms , to draw an exhilarated breath. The scent of wood, fabric, and beeswax invaded her senses, and she gave a deep sigh of happiness.
The shop was now hers and hers alone. As of today, she was officially a modiste—the proprietress of her own business. Well … hers except for the interest-free loan from Lord Saunton that she must repay as profits allowed.
Caroline still experienced moments of unreality, wondering if she had dreamed all that had happened in the past few months.
Lord Saunton had summoned her to London, nearly two years after the incident in the stables, to apologize for the disruption he had caused to her life.
He had offered her financial assistance, but instead of accepting charity, Caroline had seized the opportunity to request the loan Miss Annabel had once intended to provide following her planned marriage to Lord Saunton.
Of course, Miss Annabel never married Lord Saunton. Caroline had since learned from local gossip in Filminster that Miss Annabel had married the Duke of Halmesbury and now lived somewhere nearby in Wiltshire.
Lord Saunton had corrected his wayward behavior and wed a young woman in London, for which Caroline could only be grateful.
His offer to help her pursue her dream of opening a shop had been part of his effort to make amends.
He had set his man, Mr. Johnson, to find a suitable location and assist her in preparing for a successful enterprise.
The humiliating events that led to her proprietorship must remain a secret now that she had begun afresh in Wiltshire. It would ruin her business before it began if the townspeople learned she had been compromised—or if they assumed she was a kept woman.
That will not happen.
Those who knew the truth of her past were the Duke and Duchess of Halmesbury, the Baron of Filminster, Mrs. Harris, Lord and Lady Saunton, along with his men, Johnson and Long, and Caroline herself.
Thus far, all involved had been discreet, and Caroline was the only one living in Chatternwell.
She supposed Mr. Thompson, the earl’s half-brother, might be aware, but he had given no sign.
As long as Caroline focused on her business and formed no personal entanglements, she could safeguard her secret. She had employed the same caution in Filminster while working for the local doctor.
For months after being caught in the stables, Caroline had lived in fear that her shame would be exposed.
But then, thanks to her book learning and knowledge of numbers—skills Miss Annabel had imparted to prepare her for business—she had earned a promotion to housekeeper.
That had been the day she realized her secret was safe.
No one intended to reveal that she had once been caught kissing her mistress’s betrothed.
She had vowed to devote herself to her duties and avoid forming close attachments, and she had thrived in that role.
If she adhered to the same rule here, she would succeed again.
Caroline had been in Chatternwell for two months preparing for today’s opening, and she was satisfied with the progress she had made.
Lord Saunton and his brother, Mr. Barclay Thompson, a renowned architect, had made a point of endorsing her shop. Lord Saunton had ordered a banyan for himself—loudly enough for other patrons to hear—and Mr. Thompson’s wife and daughter had each placed orders for carriage dresses.
Word that an earl had visited a modiste’s shop spread swiftly. Caroline had gained introductions to other merchants and secured several high-priced commissions once the local elite arrived to see the mysterious modiste with such noble patrons.
When Lord Saunton first announced his intention to attend her opening, Caroline had worried her reputation might suffer.
Would the townsfolk guess the truth of their history?
But he had ensured propriety, attending with family members and making it known that he was visiting his nearby estate.
Loud, artful remarks about his surprise at finding such an elegant shop in town were made within earshot of affluent customers, and Caroline appreciated his tact.
Still, it felt like a dream. She was truly running her own shop. The gloves and scarves displayed in the window, the bolts of fine fabrics fitted into cubbyholes soaring up the walls—all of it was hers.
She ran her hand along the smooth walnut counter and hummed quietly. After what she had done to Miss Annabel, she would never have dared to hope for this future. Yet when the opportunity came, she had taken it, knowing it was her last chance to claim the life she had once imagined.
Here in Chatternwell, she was respected. The dishonor of her past—a few impulsive kisses shared with the wrong man—was a private memory, one she kept close as a warning. Never again would she risk forming an attachment that might destroy everything she had built.
Work, and only work, was the path to redemption.
A smile touched her lips as she caught sight of a little girl pressing her nose to the shop window.
The child came by often, mesmerized by the ribbons, though she had yet to venture inside now that the shop was open.
Her hair was a wild tangle of mousy brown, and Caroline longed to offer her a bit of ribbon to tame it.
Still humming, she tidied a stack of fashion plates and glanced back to the window.
But something was different. The girl’s shoulders were slumped, and Caroline thought she saw tears glinting on her cheeks. She straightened, alarmed.
She did not know the child or her family, but someone cared for her—the girl’s garments, though worn, were clean and carefully mended.
Biting her lip, Caroline reminded herself that she must build a friendly rapport in town, even if she could not allow herself deeper ties. She walked around the counter, paused a moment to gather her resolve, and then opened the shop door.
William Jackson stood at the mullioned window of the Chatternwell post office, waiting for the clerk to finish assisting Mrs. Butterworth. With a bored sigh, he watched little Annie Greer peering into the window of the new dress-rooms across the road.
He wondered how the Greers were faring. He really ought to have called on them more often. Brian Greer had served in the same regiment—William had not known the man well—but he had fallen the same day as William’s cousin Charles, at the farmhouse they had defended against Boney’s army.
William’s only excuse was that, after decades of war with the French, every town in England was scattered with widows. Annie and her mother had simply slipped his mind.
A slight frown creased his brow when he noticed that Annie’s small shoulders were shaking. Was the child crying?
He stepped forward to gain a clearer view, but his attention was swiftly diverted when the shop door opened and a woman stepped out.
His breath caught at the sight of her—Annie Greer’s plight momentarily forgotten.
This must be the newly arrived mantua-maker, if the local gossips were to be believed, though none had mentioned how young or striking the proprietress was.
Her wheat-colored hair was swept into an elegant coiffure that revealed a fair, oval face.
A pointed chin lent her an air of delicate determination, while thick lashes framed eyes whose color he could not yet discern.
Her wide, full mouth was at once soft and resolute, and the deep mulberry of her gown offset her complexion to perfection.
It had been many years since William had allowed himself to feel anything.
That part of him had been silenced on the battlefield at Waterloo, when battle rage had overtaken his senses.
He had welcomed the numbness when he awoke in the field hospital.
It had spared him the agony of losing Charles.
And he had clung to it when he returned to Chatternwell five years ago to inform his uncle and aunt of their son’s death—news that shattered them before his eyes.
From that day forth, William had lived by logic, keeping emotion at bay. He had stepped out of the role of nephew and taken on the mantle of son, assuming his cousin’s place as his penance for convincing Charles to join him in the army.
But that belonged to the past, a door he had closed long ago.
Now, in the present, he watched as the young woman gently beckoned Annie Greer inside. For the first time in years, a strange sensation stirred in his chest—rising up into his throat and settling in his mouth—as if his heart had stirred and taken a solitary beat.
As the pair disappeared into the interior of Mrs. Brown’s Elegant Millinery & Dress-Rooms, William exhaled slowly. The truth was plain. If he meant to preserve his peace of mind, he would do well to stay far away from that shop.
Caroline ushered the weeping girl into the back room. As they passed through the doorway, she swept aside the curtain, allowing a clear view of the front of the shop.
Mrs. Jones looked up from the worktable where she and her eldest daughter, Mary Beth, were sewing gowns. The seamstress’s round face creased into a welcoming smile. “Mrs. Brown, there be fresh tea in the pot.”
She gestured toward the hearth with her needle still in hand. Both women were positioned near the window where the light was strongest—every seamstress’s greatest ally.
Caroline had enticed the town’s most talented needlewomen with fair wages and regular hours.
Many worked from home, but Mrs. Jones and Mary Beth preferred the quiet of the back room.
They claimed the light was better, but Caroline suspected it also allowed them a bit of peace from their bustling household—and a quiet cup of tea.