Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter Ten

A
rranging and stocking his two new emporia had cost Archibald Neave a dizzying amount of money. He expected the grand opening to cost him a considerable amount more, possibly permanently. His bankers had made it stunningly clear to him that, unlike his business associates, the nobility were notorious for living on credit. When it came to paying their bills,
noblesse oblige
did not come into it at all. Not unless it was a gambling debt. Paying for clothes, furnishings and everything else barely troubled anyone’s conscience.

Nevertheless Archibald was undeterred. His scheme would offer a whole new way of obliging the noblesse. That, he hoped, would lead to the influx of hordes of the more financially considerate middle classes. Where the
ton
went, the eager new rich followed.

Years of importing goods from east and west only to see middle men make the major profits were, as far as he was concerned, over. From now on, the items he imported would only be available from his own establishments. Exclusively from his own establishments. And he intended them to be very exclusive. He also intended to nurture his customers in much the same way as he had nurtured his daughter. That is to say, by supplying their every need. The four main floors of the two buildings he had leased and rearranged – one for gentlemen and one for ladies – would stock all that his customers could possibly require, except for snuff and jewellery. Even those might appear later.

Araminta had been too occupied by Miss Orksville’s lessons or engrossed in Pegasus to follow her father’s achievements. His progress, however, had not been overlooked by Wilhelmina. More than once her advice had alerted him to an issue he had not previously considered. She it was who suggested a way of bringing the new venture to the attention of the
ton
. As a result he had placed advertisements on the front page of
The Times
that were four times larger than any others. He, however, was proud of his own idea for alerting the town to his emporia. A small army of men, old soldiers to the last, had walked the most fashionable streets with hoardings slung around their necks, back and front. Elegant script had declared the advent of a new, more convenient way to purchase the latest fashions in both apparel and items for the house. The men were not dressed in such remnants of their old uniforms they still possessed. Archibald had seen the effect battles had on garments. That would never do. No. Each man was garbed in a simple livery of bottle green jacket and dark pantaloons. A top hat braided round the brim and beribboned round the crown with brilliant yellow bands completed the outfit.

Today only half of them still paraded the streets. The rest were lined up either side of the pair of newly-painted double doors, lavender for the ladies, green for the men. Their orders were to hurry forward to help every potential customer alight from their carriage or dismount from their horse. Two sweepers armed with besoms stood with them, ready to sweep clean the lengths of red carpet that ran from the kerb to the doors.

Dressed today with exceptional care, Archibald crossed his fingers behind his back and prayed it did not rain. By the time the wide doors were flung open at eleven in the morning he was happy. A small crowd was hovering outside. Some were pretending disinterest. Others were breathing on the windowpanes so keen were they to see the goods enticingly arranged within.

The first customers did not deign to rush in. This was only to be expected of such superior personages. Nevertheless, a gratifyingly constant steam of ladies entered through the Ladies’ Emporium’s lavender doors. The stream of gentlemen ambling through the dark green ones was somewhat smaller.

True to her husband’s promise, the Countess of Conniston was among the first to alight from her carriage. Smiling her thanks to the green-clad man who assisted her, she entered the shop and looked about her. A row of young women fetchingly attired in pale green gowns with yellow ribbons at the neck, stood in a line near the door. The nearest of them curtseyed.

‘May I help you, ma’am?’

‘I really cannot say,’ Rowena answered.

She surveyed the scene again. A spacious area near the door had been left clear apart from two displays. In the nearer one, three lengths of embroidered silk were draped over a chaise longue of lavender damask. Miss Orksville had chosen their colours. Chinese yellow, rose and pomona. She had even herself draped a white satin ribbon across them and clipped onto it birds of paradise plumes the like of which London had never seen. The result was stunning. So was the display flowing over a polished table next to it. It was specifically designed to temp the ladies further inside. A cornucopia of ribbons, spangles, silk flowers, lace and semi-precious stones carved into buttons spread around the latest fashion plates from Mr Ackermann’s print shop in The Strand. A scroll was balanced in the centre. It said ‘For the Discerning Patroness’ in flowing script.

Beyond these artifices, two long counters stretched into the depths of the shop. Several lavender-upholstered chairs stood before them. Green-gowned women waited decorously behind. High above their heads bolts of fabric unrolled from gilt bars topping banks of glass-fronted drawers. Loops of coiled silk cord held the precious cloths clear of the floor.

Rowena gasped. ‘There’s so much to see.’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’ The girl indicated the counters. She drew a deep breath. ‘As you will observe, ma’am, materials are here and more trimmings further inside. If you would care to ascend,’ a hand was raised stiffly towards a flight of stairs, ‘there’s a wide selection of millinery on the next floor. Also gloves, fans and reticules.’ Voice and hand were lowered. ‘There are items of clothing of a more personal nature up there too.’ A slight colour entered her cheeks. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘Also pom . . .’ She inhaled to recover herself. ‘Pomatums. Perfumes and lotions,’ tumbled out of her mouth. ‘Should you wish to consider any material for a gown, ma’am, there are three
modistes
lately of the French court on the floor above. They can be called down in a moment to wait upon you. There’s also . . .’ She began to count on her fingers. ‘A shoemaker, a glover, and a variety of parasols. And if you should welcome some refreshment, there is a tea room serving ices and cakes at the rear of this floor.’

At the end of the litany, her shoulders relaxed.

Rowena suppressed a smile. ‘I think perhaps the millinery.’

The girl curtseyed. ‘Of course, ma’am. If you would be kind enough follow me.’

She led the way past the counters and up the stairs. After some thirty minutes of hovering attention the Countess of Conniston ordered three hats. The girl’s later reward from the chosen milliner was whole three farthings.

Rowena had left by the time Araminta arrived. She had tried her utmost to persuade Wilhelmina to let her ride there on Pegasus but to no avail. Her new riding habit of approved style donned in expectation had to be changed. It had delayed them both. A lecture on Punctuality being the Politeness of Kings had occupied most of the journey in the barouche.

Araminta paused at the threshold so abruptly, Miss Orksville was three paces ahead before she realised.

‘Good gracious,’ she said. ‘Whatever has Pa . . . Papa done? I hadn’t realised he’d been so ambitious.’

‘Indeed, child.’ Wilhelmina was well aware her assistance to Archibald, including selecting his female staff, was unknown to his daughter.

The opportunity had delighted Wilhelmina. Her fascination for distant and exciting lands had spurred an interest in Archibald’s business. Tales of her ancestor’s exploration had always enthralled her. It had not faded with advancing years. Regretfully, she had to admit gratifying her ambition to travel was becoming more remote by the year. Had she permitted herself to envy, she would have easily succumbed.

Archibald Neave had been equally delighted by her interest. Musing after dinner one evening while Araminta was discordantly practising scales on the piano he had been surprised to discover Miss Orksville supported many of his ideas. She had not, however, approved of one of his proposals. Offering the foremen of London’s most fashionable businesses superior wages to leave their employers and join him must be abandoned. It would guarantee unpopularity with the deserted employers. The last thing he needed was a disgruntled tailor muttering of him to a valued and significant patron. Gossip like that would soon tarnish Neave’s business. The
ton
, as she well knew, could be most fickle. They would quite probably desert him. Instead Archibald had enthusiastically adopted her suggestion of inviting the best tailors and craftsmen from some major cities to join him.

Wilhelmina walked further into the shop. ‘Stop gawping like a simpleton, Araminta.’

A green-gowned woman approached but was forestalled by a tall, thin man with drooping eyes and long hands clasped behind his green tailcoat. The lacklustre appearance of his eyes was misleading. Archibald had suspected, rightly, that nothing would escape his sharp attention. The name of his patron’s daughter certainly did not.

He bowed. ‘Miss Orksville. Miss Neave. My name is Crompton. I’m Mr Neave’s manager for the ladies emporium.’ Crompton would have preferred the gentleman’s shop but he was not about to miss the opportunity offered here. He had adequately disguised his ambition to manage both. Or so he thought. Archibald was not deceived. He knew that ambition would drive Crompton to greater efforts.

‘Allow me to show you the results of Mr Neave’s vision.’

He had barely escorted them to the nearest counter when a commotion developed behind them. He turned. Araminta saw his face drain of colour.

‘What is it?’ she said.

Crompton gulped. ‘I must beg you to excuse me, ma’am. I think . . . I’m almost certain it’s His Royal Highness with your father.’

At the door, Archibald Neave stood to one side to allow a vast, gaudy personage to enter. He followed him in, leaving the gaggle of favourites hovering on the threshold. Silence descended on the front of the shop and slowly engulfed the rear. Only the rustle of skirts as all the ladies present curtsied broke it.

‘Well, I say, Neave,’ the royal voice boomed. ‘I never expected to see the like.’

His Highness ignored the ladies, several of whose curtseys were beginning to wobble. He stared about the long room.

‘Thank you, sir. I must own to be a little pleased with the result.’

‘Indeed. Indeed. Now you said you had some jewelled plumes.’ The Prince’s eyes fell on the birds of paradise feathers on the chaise. ‘Ah.’

‘Imported from the depths of Africa, sir. I beg you will choose whichever pleases you.’

A smile spread across the fat royal face. He grasped a spray of vivid yellow plumes in a holder of carved yellow jade chased with gold. Another of the deepest blue of a summer sky bound with silver trembled in the royal hand.

Confident the plumes gathered into his fat fist would so please Prince that he would not object, Archibald said, ‘Perhaps, sir, you will permit me to present my daughter and her companion?’

His Highness glanced up briefly from wafting the plumes back and forth. ‘What? Oh, yes, yes. Do. Do.’ The curtseying ladies caught his eye. He bowed and gesticulated with the feathers. ‘Up ladies, up.’

Relieved sighs accompanied more female rustling. Wilhelmina Orksville put a gentle hand in Araminta’s back and propelled her forwards. Six paces from the Prince’s portly figure she stopped and sank into a deep curtsey. Araminta dragged her eyes from the vast magnificence before her and did the same.

‘My daughter Araminta, sir,’ Archibald said, oblivious of the convention that required the senior lady to be presented first.

The Prince eyed the titan hair. ‘Magnificent,’ he sighed. ‘Delighted. Delighted, ma’am.’ He gestured them up.

Wilhelmina Orksville rose. So did Araminta, honest enough to be grateful for Wilhelmina’s insistence practising her curtsey so much.

‘And her companion, sir, Miss Orksville.’

His Magnificence frowned. ‘Orksville? Orksville? Wasn’t he secretary to m’grandpapa?’

‘My grandfather had that honour, Your Highness. Gasperd Orksville.’

‘Ah, yes, well.’ The Prince’s interest faded. ‘Thank you, ladies.’ He bowed to Wilhelmina and bestowed a final, approving smile on Araminta. ‘I hope I may see you again.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Wilhelmina inclined her head a fraction. Only willpower kept the delight at such recognition from her voice.

His Royal Highness, still wafting the glorious plumes that had cost Archibald a considerable weight of guineas, waddled towards the door. His cronies hovering there parted. He passed out of the shop with Archibald scurrying in his wake. One of Prinny’s friends lingered. He stared in Araminta’s direction. His gaze scrutinised her from stunning hair to open face to the one cream slipper that peeped from under the charming gown. The Prince had smiled at her. It was something to think of. As was the fortune this place must be costing her father. Lucius Renford, fifth Viscount Trelowen, smiled to himself.

Chapter Eleven

T
he very shop itself seemed to sigh with relief when the portly figure departed from view.

‘Well,’ Araminta announced, blinking.

‘Well indeed.’ Wilhelmina leant closer and lowered her voice. ‘We could not have wished for a more fortunate event. You have been presented to Royalty. Excellent. Excellent.’ A frown deepened the single wrinkle across her brow. ‘Admittedly it was quite informal.’ A smile banished it. ‘Not that any royal attention is ever completely informal.’ She patted Araminta’s arm. ‘It bodes well. Very well. And your curtsey was everything one could wish.’ A slight sniff qualified the praise. ‘You must continue to apply yourself and remember how to accomplish it.’ Miss Wilhelmina Orksville did not approve of excessive praise.

A certain amount of whispered conversation eddied from the ladies at the counters. Araminta turned round to find they were all staring at her. Not normally given to bashfulness, she felt colour rise to her cheeks at the naked curiosity.

‘Keep your chin up,’ Wilhelmina whispered. ‘Let us –’

‘Miss Neave.’ Well-modulated tones interrupted her. The Countess of Conniston was walking towards them. ‘How delightful to see you again.’ She extended a gloved hand.

Araminta took it and curtseyed. ‘Rowe- . . . Miss . . . I mean, ma’am.’

Rowena smiled, well aware that the scrutiny around them was reaching a greater pitch. ‘I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting your companion.’

‘Oh, no. Please allow me to present Miss Wilhelmina Orksville. Ma’am, Lady Conniston.’

The two exchanged bows and briefly touched three fingers.

‘Delighted, Countess. I was not aware Araminta had the honour of your acquaintance.’

Rowena smiled. ‘We met at my aunt’s house earlier this year. Lady Tiverton. Just before my marriage.’

‘Permit me to offer you my felicitations.’

‘I think it’s my felicitations to Mr Neave that are due this day. I was here earlier but I forgot I stood in need of some gloves. It is a most interesting enterprise. I can think of no other establishment to equal it.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. I’m amazed at what Pa . . . Papa has achieved.’

‘I think the only possible problem is going to be the inevitable crush when news of it spreads,’ Rowena said. She fanned her face briefly.

Wilhelmina was not slow to discover the second opportunity of the day. ‘Mr Neave has arranged for refreshments at the rear. Perhaps your Ladyship would be pleased to accompany us and partake of some? I understand he has engaged Mr Gunter to supply them.’

Rowena looked past the counters with their shimmering waterfalls of silks, satins and damasks. She walked forwards. He voice rose slightly. ‘What an excellent idea. I must tell you how delighted I am to have discovered you again.’ She patted Araminta’s slightly browned arm. ‘You must come and visit me. We are here for another two weeks before we remove to Ampney Park.’

Listening to Wilhelmina’s well-bred acceptance, Rowena was more than aware that the ladies nearby, none of whom could boast her own degree of nobility in either title or character, were all taking serious note of her approval of the titan-haired girl, notwithstanding her association with Trade.

Refreshments were to be served in a discrete area at the rear of the ground floor. Thanks to Wilhelmina’s advice, Archibald had invited Mister John Crace to design the decoration. Mister Crace held a commission from the Prince of Wales himself to provide him with Chinese works of art. He was, therefore, somewhat aghast to be approached by someone involved in Trade. His son, Frederick, well knew of Archibald’s trade with the East. It had taken him very little time to perceive a business arrangement profitable for both parties. That, and the most favourable consideration Archibald had offered, had resulted in an elegant interpretation of a Chinese pavilion in the shop.

One table was more visible to customers than others. Rowena swept towards it. Every eye followed her, Wilhelmina’s and Araminta’s included. Both were determined to commit as many details of her appearance to memory as possible. She was a vision of deep rose and cream. It matched her delicate complexion to perfection. A cream gown rose to a high collar and was fastened from neck to hem by tiny buttons so close together the deep pink rosebuds embroidered on them looked like single garland. The style of sleeves could only be guessed but those of the rose twill half coat covered her arms to the wrist. It had no collar but was edged with ribbon patterned with more rosebuds. On her fair hair she wore a striking bonnet of cream silk. Its deep brim was pinned up to the high crown by a single dark bloom whose many petals fluttered with each move. Cream gloves and lacy parasol completed her outfit.

Once they had settled themselves on the lacquered bamboo chairs, two of the green-gowned young women hurried to wait upon them. In moments a silver-topped glass decanter of lemonade appeared. A double-tiered china stand bearing tiny cakes accompanied it. Rowena poured the lemonade for them all with her own hands, apparently unaware of the many ladies who had suddenly invaded the space. Soon there was no table or chair to spare. Those who had failed to capture a place hovered by the nearest counter admiring the ribbons, feathers, flowers on display.

The three women sipped the lemonade and nibbled the cakes, commenting upon the delicious flavours. The only indication of the effect they were producing were the amused glints in their eyes when their glances happened to meet.

By the time Araminta and Wilhelmina were taking the lightest of afternoon nuncheons at home, every woman of note in London had heard how the new Countess of Conniston had spent time with a tradesman’s daughter. Many were scandalised. Several speculated that the Countess might be in an
interesting condition
and therefore a touch distracted. Nevertheless, she was obviously a lady of determination. As was the Earl. Heads drew closer to pour over what he might make of his wife’s predilection for such a girl. Even one who that very day had been presented to the Prince of Wales. Mention of the Prince turned speculation to his current chère amie. Delicious debate as to whether his behaviour was more or less scandalous than that of his wife, Princess Caroline, followed. The Princess, of course, had recently survived a Delicate Inquiry. Was it not dreadful that she had . . . well, let us say abandoned her marriage vows? Or rather, how dreadful it had become so publically known. Heads wagged sadly. And to think of poor dear little Princess Charlotte. So young. So seldom seen. She was in the midst of it all. Was it not a wonder that the Prince could support her? The scale of his debts was preposterous. And then there was Maria Fitzherbert. In the delighted chatter, the Countess and Araminta were soon forgotten.

Alone with Wilhelmina that afternoon, Araminta rose from the table in the small parlour and said, ‘I think Papa’s venture will go very well.’

‘Indeed it will. He could not have hoped for a more distinguished patron than His Royal Highness.’

‘But he didn’t buy anything.’

Wilhelmina sighed. ‘That is not the point. The mere fact that he was there and was gracious enough to accept a gift will assure visits from everyone of note.’

A puzzled look crept onto Araminta’s face. ‘He was terribly fat, wasn’t he?’

Wilhelmina gasped. ‘Never let comments of that nature pass your lips about anyone. Least of all His Royal Highness. They are bound to be repeated. It would ruin you completely.’ She allowed a scowl to crease her face momentarily before playing the strongest card in her hand. ‘Just think how downcast your Papa would be.’

Araminta gritted her teeth. The frequent references to her father’s possible disappointment were beginning to grate upon her. She slumped defiantly onto the chair by the window. Her dreaded embroidery lay on a small table by its side. She prodded it with an angry finger. How she wished she could gallop Pegasus again today.

The effect of her cautionary words was not lost upon Wilhelmina. She resolved to be more sparing of such comments in future. She walked to the fireplace and tugged the bell cord.

A few minutes later a quiet scratch at the door heralded the entrance of a maid. She curtseyed and hurried to the table, a large tray banging against one knee. With the tray loaded, she attempted another curtsey and stepped with care to the door. It opened in her face. She squeaked. The tray tipped and a spoon skidded over the rim onto the floor. Nesbit glared at her, a silver platter balanced on one set of fingertips. Given the choice of lingering while she put down the tray to rescue the spoon or doing it himself, he condescended to pick it up. Blushing furiously the girl whispered her thanks in barely audible tones. She all but fled from the room. Another piece of cutlery clanged onto the hall tiles.

Nesbit sighed. He advanced to Miss Orksville. ‘A message, ma’am. Delivered just this instant.’ He inclined slightly so the fold of white paper on the platter was in easy reach of Wilhelmina’s angular hand.

‘Thank you, Nesbit.’ Wilhelmina lifted the paper from the platter and broke the wafer that sealed it. She read the few lines scrawled inside the folds then lowered it to her lap. ‘Thank you, Nesbit. Please ask Pilton to have the barouche brought round at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’ She paused. ‘No. At half past one.’

‘What –’ Araminta began, only to be halted by Wilhelmina’s raised finger. She drew in a sharp breath and gritted her teeth again. Much more of this, she told herself, and I shall run away to sea. She frowned. Life in India had been so much freer. Since she had come to London with Papa there had been nothing but orders, orders, orders.

The door closed behind Nesbit.

‘Try not to comment upon your affairs when there are servants present. Otherwise your business will be the gossip of your servants’ hall. And possibly others.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Araminta said, her voice tight. ‘But what . . . does the note concern me?’

‘It does indeed.’ Wilhelmina lifted it from her lap. A satisfied expression filled her narrow face. ‘It’s the confirmation of the Misses Berry’s invitation. They have asked us to join them tomorrow afternoon. It is rumoured Sir Arthur Wellesley might be among their guests. They know Mr Neave was of great help to him in the India campaign.’

‘Oh. Is that all?’

‘All?’ Grey eyebrows rose. ‘All? You must realise how important this is. It’s your first invitation to the house of a member of the
ton
.’ She glanced at the note again. ‘This will make Mr Neave’s day perfect.’ Her earlier resolution returned to her. ‘Your application to your tasks is of great credit to you, Araminta. I could not have hoped for a more agreeable pupil.’

‘Oh.’ The praise was unexpected. A flush of pleasure overcame the irritation Araminta was feeling with the order of her life. Apart from galloping Pegasus of course. Her mind drifted to the conversation with Lord Frederick. He really liked Pegasus. She smiled. What could be more exciting than the possibility of a gallop across the Ellonby acres?

Miss Orksville had the satisfaction of seeing her charge place several neat stitches of purple silk into her embroidery before the smile faded.