Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley (16 page)

“Yes, as promptly as possible. I wish to order a dinner gown, in pearlescent silk, and I think I should like to have a gossamer train.”

Maggie looked her over, mentally applying styles and fabrics. The train, she decided, would look absolutely dreadful with the woman’s height. Her mind racing, she wondered how they would talk Madame Gallois out of picking a gown guaranteed to make her look absurd and ruin the shop’s reputation.

She was reminded once again that just because one happened to be an arbiter of mode, did not mean that one was responsible for creating one’s own wardrobe. That was where the
modiste
tactfully stepped in.

Cecile seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“Manon, please set out the fashion plates. Madame, if you will take a seat, we shall begin discussing patterns.” She indicated an elegant cherry-wood table, surrounded by comfortable matching chairs.

Madame Gallois crossed over to the chairs as though she were an empress. Despite herself, Maggie was impressed by the woman’s poise.

Once the fashion books had been brought out and the ladies seated, Cecile opened the first one.

“Now, you have requested a gossamer train and that can certainly be done with the right kind of silk,” she indicated a plate with a woman exhibiting an elegant mid-length train.

“I sense that you have an objection,” said the lady, raising a challenging eyebrow. “I think that you must have heard of me before today and I will tell you that I am unaccustomed to being contravened.”

And this, thought Maggie, was Cecile’s moment. She read in Madame Gallois a similar character to her father’s and so it was not a great leap of the imagination to presume that any pandering would only earn the woman’s utter disdain.

And Madame Finette had a reputation to uphold.

She steeled herself for Cecile’s reply.

“Indeed, I can well believe that you are not, Madame,” her friend replied in the
modiste’s
brisk, clipped tone.

“Yet you mean to challenge my choice regardless?”

“Just so,” said Cecile with a tight smile.

The Monsieur Alard watched Cecile with a great deal of interest and a curious intensity.

“And why is that?”

“That is simple. The gown you have described would certainly be a lovely thing and I could not begin to fault you on your taste. The drape in particular would be very charming. But there are many well-draped dinner gowns in Paris, and many with trains. I could easily pander to you with assurances that the creation will be the most startling thing in town, and the most becoming. However, I am a woman of skill and reputation and it is my business to know dresses. There are two simple reasons why this dress in particular would not do for you. Firstly, you will allow yourself to be a tall woman and, as such, the train would have to be a deal longer than you want – and long trains are rather falling out of favour, as I am certain you are aware. Secondly, as a leader of Parisian fashion, you must always appear in the first flush of
mode
, and that would be quite impossible in a gown the likes of which can be seen all over town.”

Cecile paused a moment. The lady was watching her imperiously.

“What you ought to wear is a round skirt – the very latest thing, with a row of ruffles at the hem and a ruffle lace collar
a la Renaissance
. It will want a daringly sharp bodice for the evening.”

“A round skirt!” Madame Gallois exclaimed, taken aback enough that she broke her intimidating silence. “When Grecian drape is the height of mode!”

“Grecian drape is indeed very much the thing
now
. But rounded skirts are the fashion of tomorrow, I would stake my very reputation on it.”

“And you wish to dress me in the fashions of tomorrow?” the lady chuckled. “Well, you have stood your ground. Very good, Madame. I don’t rightly tolerate impertinence in my dressmakers, but I also don’t tolerable pandering. You will have your round skirt. It is certainly an interesting concept. You’ll make my dress. We will see how it takes and decide from there.”

Maggie barely held back a sigh of relief.

Cecile smiled serenely. “Very well. Shall we discuss the fabric?”

They spent twenty minutes on fabric and trim, while Maggie surreptitiously produced her little notebook, did a quick sketch, and compiled a list of trimmings she would require for the gown.

After making arrangements for the first fitting, Cecile watched her new client leave, along with the gentleman who had stood so patiently at the front of the shop.

“Well, Maggie,” she said at last, with a note of hysterical laughter. “Now we have only to make the dress and our reputation shall be set. Who knew that Monsieur Alard would bring us Madame Gallois. Who knew that she was his aunt!”

Something about the way Cecile said the solicitor’s name caught Maggie’s attention but she was distracted as she glanced down at the list she had made.

“Now we just have to keep her custom.” Maggie grinned. “It’ll be a worthy challenge indeed. How glad I am that I did not stay home with a posset.”

She could already feel her mind teeming with ideas. The dress would have to have a perfection of execution that quite outdid all of Madame Finette’s previous gowns.

All of Paris was abuzz with the latest
on dit
, and it was very big news indeed: one of the city’s most beloved artists had suddenly woken up to a most appalling run of bad luck. Unsurprisingly, the whole city had heard of it by breakfast.

Maggie got wind of the news while trimming the dinner gown for Madame Gallois. She had been enjoying the morning lull at
Maison Finette
and letting her thoughts wander as she worked.

She had just begun the tricky task of folding a satin ribbon into roses for the neckline, while idly listening as Manon helped a customer at the front of the shop.

The jangling of bells announced the arrival of Cecile, who greeted Manon and her patron in a strangely frazzled tone of voice.

Maggie glanced up as their conversation caught her attention.

“Have you heard about the morning’s to-do? The poor, dear man!” the customer’s voice said in the loud whisper of someone imparting the latest gossip. “I don’t know what can be done so close to the performance. What terrible luck. And for the harpsichordist too, of course, though I hear that he will almost certainly play again.”

The floorboards creaked.

“I hadn’t heard the particulars – only that he parted company with his horse coming home in the early hours. It is that serious?” Maggie could hear the concern in Cecile’s voice.

“I gather so. His wrist is broken, without a doubt. And I heard from Madame Japrisot that, without Monsier Schmitt, the performance will have to be called off altogether! Monsieur Blake shall be quite ruined, if it is.”

“I hope not,” Cecile said with genuine feeling. “I hear that he is a very kindly soul.”

“Oh, yes. It is all most tragic. And my husband had gone to such trouble to procure tickets for the opening night…”

Monsieur Blake?

Maggie let the satin rose unravel in her hands, as she sat thinking furiously.

If Sir Lucian’s lead harpsichordist had been injured, could they not engage another in the interim?

Surely, they would not call off the concert. She remembered how passionately the composer had spoken of it, the way his eyes had lit up when he explained to her the delicate intricacies of the music.
The
Gloaming
was to be a culmination of all his efforts, the greatest thing he had ever written.

She did not doubt that it was the composition closest to his heart. He’d spoken of little else for weeks. To have such a thing ripped away from him would surely break his heart.

Worse yet, Cecile’s description of him had been perfect: without a doubt, he was the most generous soul she had ever met. And she knew that he had invested a considerable portion of his own fortune into this production.

Maggie had never been one to sit back and twiddle her thumbs as she watched injustice happen. It was in her nature to step in and do her best to fix matters. Surely she could not let stand such a terrible injustice as this!

If they called off the concert now, who knew when they would be able to put on another production? The tickets would have to be refunded, all the preparation wasted… This could not possibly be the end. There
had
to be someone else who could take Monsieur Schmitt’s place on opening night.

But first she had to learn all the particulars and for that she needed to talk to Sir Lucian most urgently. There had to be a way she could help.

Maggie heard the bell jingle again as the customer left the shop, which spurred her into action.

She rose to her feet.

“Manon, I shall need your help back here,” she said urgently to the assistant, who had come in to dig in the boxes of trim, looking for more ribbons.

Manon looked up, startled by the resolve in Maggie’s voice. “What can I do?”

“I must go on an errand and it cannot wait. Please take over the trim for me. Never mind those ribbons now – we will find them later.”

“As you wish.”

While Maggie carefully handed her work over to Manon, she wondered where she would find Sir Lucian. Did she risk all propriety by calling on him at home? Would he even be there?

She grabbed her feathered bonnet, tying it on hastily.

No, surely not at home. From what she knew, he was hardly ever there.

She considered what she would do if she were in his shoes and their shop was about to be closed down. She would stay right here, and do everything she could to save it.

Just as Sir Lucian would stay at the theatre…

She had to go to the theatre, then.

Rushing out into the shop, Maggie stopped a moment next to Cecile, who looked just as unsettled by the news.

“Sir Lucian…” her friend began. “There has been an accident with one of his musicians – the poor fellow won’t be able to play for months.”

“Yes, I heard. But surely there can still be some way to fix this – there must be! I am going to ask Sir Lucian.”

Cecile nodded. “I dearly hope that something can be done.”

Outside, Maggie summoned a vehicle to take her to the salle Richelieu, wondering if she knew any harpsichordists who might come to the rescue.

*

When Maggie arrived at the elegant square building, she hurried past the fountain and the grand columns, heading for the foyer.

Musicians, actors and theatre employees crowded the space, which seemed to be even more chaotic than usual.

Where was she to seek Sir Lucian in such a crowd?

Maggie looked around frantically until she spotted an actor leaning against a far wall and paging through a book. She crossed over to him.

“Pardon me?” she said.

He looked at her in surprise. Maggie supposed she did not look like the fabulously theatrical ladies that were usually to be found at the
Comedie
.

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

“I am looking for the composer, Monsieur Lucian Blake – do you perhaps know where I might find him?”

The man’s expression grew rather grim. “Ah. Yes. He is just in the auditorium. I should advise you to look in the orchestra pit – he has not left it for some hours.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

With those words, Maggie hurried past him and up the grand marble staircase which led to the stalls and the auditorium. Her shoes made a soft tapping sound with each hurried step.

The auditorium was a vast chamber, with boxes lining three of the walls. Most of the space was occupied with hundreds of rows of plush seating.

She stopped to admire it a moment, despite herself. Maggie loved theatres – to her, they had always been full of a wondrous magic just waiting to draw you in.

Her gaze rose up to the grandiose chandelier overhead and the high vaulted ceiling, moulded and painted in blue and gold. She felt short of breath, as much from the sheer, vast magnificence of room around her as from her unseemly rush.

The majestic space was also a little overwhelming in its emptiness.

Maggie marvelled at the courage it must have taken generations of singers, actors and musicians to perform in such a room. This was a world away from the little theatricals they had sometimes put on at Chenefelt when her cousins visited.

A thump from the orchestra pit far on the other end of the auditorium reminded Maggie of the urgency of her mission. Quickly, she proceeded towards the source of the sound.

When she peered cautiously down into the orchestra pit, she found Sir Lucian sitting on a stool next to a grey-haired gentleman. Both were scrutinizing a heavy score.

Their expressions were preoccupied and they did not seem to have noticed her arrival.

“I’m afraid it simply cannot be done,” Sir Lucian’s companion was saying. “Impossible. I should know – we tried to get the very same lady to perform last month, and she would hear none of it. You’d sooner get St Cecilia herself to come down and play.”

“Alas, it is the only way to save the concert.”

Feeling that she might be intruding on a private conversation, Maggie cleared her throat politely. The men looked up, blinking at her in surprise.

“Madame de Gramont!” Sir Lucian exclaimed, then smiled, as though even in the midst of his tragedy he was pleased to see her.

He really was the very best of men. Maggie wished that her heart were not already well and truly given away, for it would have been a very happy thing, to love such a person.

“Good afternoon, Sir Lucian. I wonder if I might have a word.”

“It would be my pleasure. Madame, may I present my director of music, Monsieur Parny.”

“An honour, baroness,” said the gentleman, still looking extremely troubled.

“I know that I have come at an unfortunate time,” Maggie said, because there was no reason to exclude the music director when it was plain that he already knew what was going on as well as anyone in Paris did. “I had hoped that there might be ought I could do to help.”

Sir Lucian smiled gently, emerging from the orchestra pit, while Monsieur Parny rearranged some music. “You are kindness itself, as ever. But as you must have heard, my harpsichordist is unable to play – and there is no one with sufficient genius to learn the music in time. I have been punished for my hubris in composing with a complex score.”

Maggie frowned and fidgeted with her glove. Sir Lucian looked so terribly sad and resigned that it twisted her heart. “This is not to be borne. There must be something. There is always something.”

“I fear that this time there is not.”

Maggie shook her head. “No, I won’t accept that – and neither must you. I’m afraid I overheard you mention someone who was your only chance?”

The composer sighed. “Miss Cartwell, a well-known musician. Her skill and musical memory are unsurpassed in all of Europe. But no, Monsieur Parny is quite correct on that score. It would be impossible to engage her. You see, apart from being a savant, the young lady is a known recluse. She plays rarely and to a full house, but only when she decides to. It is quite unheard-of to draw her out. She will see no one.”

“Not even an emperor could convince her to play if she does not wish it!” the director of music threw in.

Maggie felt a niggling at the back of her mind. She took a seat in one of the plush chairs, biting her lip as she tried to place the name. She had heard it before, she was certain, but where…

Sir Lucian watched her curiously.

Miss Cartwell, who loved the piano and was a recluse… Maggie tried to connect the name with something more solid.

Was it in Paris that she had heard it? But no. Her brother’s voice came back to her, complaining to Hart.
Since your friend Miss Cartwell would have none of me
…

Could it really be she? But then, how many Miss Cartwells devoted to their piano could there be in polite society?

“Cartwell?” Maggie murmured, trying to recall if Frederick has said anything else that might suggest they were one and the same.

Sir Lucian heard her. “Yes. Miss Frances Cartwell of Brighton, though she resides in France at present.”

Brighton! Surely, such a coincidence could not be.

Her gaze flew up to meet Sir Lucian’s. She beamed. “I think might I have a solution. Yes. It just may be that I do. I will be back as soon as I may, Sir Lucian. Please don’t fret until then. You must trust me. Good day! And to you, Monsieur Parny.” With a very hurried curtsey, and a startled farewell from the musicians, Maggie was on her way out of the theatre.

She felt her heart swell with hope, and her stomach flutter as the solution floated bright and clear in her mind’s eye. Frances Cartwell. Of course!

She reviewed her brother’s words again. They’d been talking about Hart’s London flirts when Frederick brought up Miss Cartwell. She was sure she had it right. She’d never forget that deplorable conversation as long as she lived.

Hart had said something about having known the woman since childhood… It was a gamble, but Maggie’s instinct told her it was a good one.

*

She supposed it was extremely unconventional of her to arrive at the Countess de St Mercy’s residence looking wild and frantic.

Under the butler’s pointedly opaque expression, she sent her card up to the marquess, stressing the urgency of her call, and waited impatiently by the door. It took a lot of effort to keep from tapping her foot.

Impatient and agitated, she hoped that Hart was home and that he would see her.

It felt like a whole eternity passed her by before a footman came back to say that the marquess would see her in the downstairs parlour.

She was shown into the tasteful room, and offered tea.

Maggie supposed Hart was making a point of not seeing her in the library, where passions had flared so brightly. She wasn’t sure her courage could outlast
that
.

Hart arrived soon after, looking concerned, and asked again if she wouldn’t like any refreshments.

“No, thank you, Hart,” she said, noticing again his handsome face and his serious eyes.

Once he’d ascertained that Maggie was neither weeping nor ill, he allowed himself to take a seat opposite her.