"Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old loves are the worst." Arthur Conan Doyle
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XXIII.
Cressie delicately sat down in the carriage, dutifully shielding any pain from her face as she had learned to do so often throughout her marriage. Everett had visited her bedroom the night before, and he had been particularly possessive.
But no matter how sore she was, she felt a very odd sense of relief as the carriage began to move away from the home that had so quickly become a prison to her. She felt no freedom. How could she when Everett's hound in her maid, Imelda, sat atop the carriage with the driver? But there was relief in knowing that for a time, she would be free from him.
"Why were you so interested in Dabney being one of the carriage horses?" Zara asked curiously.
Cressie sat beside her young niece, who had been positively shaking with excitement until she had posed her question. Cressie had wanted Everett's poor horse to be free from his master for a while also.
"It matters not," replied Cressie. "Your uncle could not do without him." It did not surprise her. How could Everett ever live if he relinquished both of his prizes in one day? She prayed for that poor animal.
"Well, I am glad that Uncle Everett could do without you," Zara emphasised. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am that it is you escorting me this Season, and not Grandmamma. Bless her, but I cannot imagine that she would have the will to attend the number of balls and parties that I intend to. I want to meet all the eligible gentlemen, every one of them! I cannot wait to dance and be complimented and called upon. I hear that when gentlemen call, they bring gifts for the mother, or the guardian, too! That's you!"
Zara's brief curiosity over Dabney disappeared, and she returned to her usual rambunctious and romantic notions of what a London Season entailed. And while she was right in the way that there would be balls and gifts from callers, she was so terribly naïve in the romanticism of it all.
"Zara," Cressie said tenderly. "You must keep your head on as we enter this market, for that is what it is. You are for sale, and there will be bidders, and not everyone will be who they seem. You must be clever, and I will endeavour to help you weed out the would-be rakes and blackguards." And Everetts. Cressie would help to weed out the Everetts.
Zara's pale blue eyes widened as her torso turned towards Cressie curiously. "Rakes and blackguards, really?" she gasped, before her lips upturned in a mischievous way. "I cannot wait to reach London."
Perhaps Zara's grandmamma might have been the wiser choice for a chaperone. Nevertheless, Cressie had no stake in Zara's marriage, not as her mother had done with her own. She did not have to fret about the cost to live. She could fully focus on ensuring her niece found a sweetheart, an emerald, in and amongst all the coloured glass there was to be found in London.
***
Cressie and Zara stopped frequently on their trip from Yorkshire to London, staying at inns in small villages while the horses were changed or rested. Imelda dutifully wrote a missive to Everett at every stop to report their location before they were off again.
After nearly a week and a half of travelling, Cressie began to recognise the familiar outskirts of London. Or, at least, they had been familiar at one point in her life. The moment the buildings came into view Cressie was transported back, back to when she had travelled to the city with her mother and she felt quite the opposite to how Zara was feeling. Cressie had approached her Season with dread and trepidation. Her instincts had been superb.
All of a sudden, such memories that had been long forgotten came flooding back. Cressie could hear the arguments that had taken place between her and Mrs Martin, as though her mother was in this very carriage. Cressie had cursed the fact that she was being shopped, and her mother had reminded her that to marry was her obligation to save them both.
Was this what it was like to be saved? Was this being saved? How could it be? Despite the fact that it would not be her who was shopped to the eligible gentlemen of the ton, Cressie's stomach began to clench.
Though Cressie had never been as enthusiastic to find a mate as Zara was, she still saw a lot of herself in her seventeen-year-old niece. Cressie had once had the energy and zest of ten women. She had desired to run and play and laugh until her sides hurt. She had been the type to she had been the type to run into a fountain just to imagine it was swimming. She had been the type to rebel against every formal convention of what a lady should be. She had been the type to ...
She had been the type to fall in love with a man who didn't seem to want to change a hair on her head. A man who made her feel listened to, treasured, worthy and alive. A man who encouraged her energy and spontaneity. A man who was precious in every way.
Precious, and yet lost.
If Zara could but find someone who made her feel such a way, Cressie would make certain that she did not have to suffer the same fate. Even if she did not, Cressie would never allow Zara to settle. She would not stand for Zara being imprisoned in a house, in a marriage, for the rest of her days. It was too late for Cressie, but it was not for Zara.
When the carriage arrived at Everett's London home in Mayfair, Zara asked, "How long until we go to the modiste?"
How long indeed? Cressie had not been entirely ignorant living in Yorkshire. She was well aware of the success that Belle had made of her business. Women, young ladies like Zara, were desperate to be seen in one of her gowns. Anything else was simply unacceptable. With this success, would Belle be at her shop? Or would she have seamstresses working for her?
Vivid memories, again, came flooding back into her mind of the secret liaisons that had taken place Belle's fitting room.
"Let us get our bearings first," Cressie replied in a pacifying tone. "Maybe unpack a little, have some tea, and then we might venture out."
Zara did not seem to be elated with the idea of tea over a visit to the dressmakers, but she participated well as the servants helped them into the house, carrying their trunks and belongings up the stairs. Once Cressie was shown to the master's rooms, Imelda was taken upstairs to the servants' quarters by the housekeeper, leaving Cressie alone in the bedroom.
Cressie looked around the room, noticing the expensive furnishings and tapestries that seemed to align with Everett's taste. It was not as large a room as she had at the house in Yorkshire, but neither was the house as large. It was still divinely decorated with a large canopied bed, embellished with golden drapery. A fireplace and hearth dominated much of the south wall, and two plump, wingback chairs were situated before it. Cressie spied a writing desk near the privacy screen and walked towards it tentatively. She opened the compartments with nary a flicker of hope and saw that it was empty. Not a scrap of paper, nor a quill, to be found. If she wanted to write, she would need to ask permission, and whatever she did write would be read. Why would she have ever thought otherwise? Though he was some two hundred miles away, Everett's reach was never ending.
The door opened suddenly, and Cressie found herself shutting the writing desk in a guilty manner, as she spun around to face whomever it was that had barged in. She needn't have fretted as it was only Zara, and she did not seem to notice Cressie's odd behaviour at the desk.
"Settled?" Zara asked, her eyebrows raising. Her blue eyes travelled to Cressie's as yet unopened trunk situated at the end of her bed. "Unpacked?"
Would Cressie ever know the feeling of being settled? She doubted it entirely. "Alright," allowed Cressie with a nod of her head. "To the modiste we go."
Cressie did not think that Imelda would have predicted that they would have departed for the modiste so soon after arriving. Imelda was still with the housekeeper. But to ensure that neither of them would be in any trouble, Cressie informed the butler of their destination, before she and Zara climbed back inside the carriage.
It was not a long journey to Belle's shop, not compared to the distance they had just travelled from Yorkshire, but Zara was positively shaking with excitement and desperation to arrive.
"Oh, I hope she is not too busy," Zara stressed. "I hope I am not too late. I imagine there are far richer debutantes, from much better families, whom she would prefer to dress. It is not as though I am titled."
"Belle Desjardins dressed me during my Season," Cressie recalled soothingly. "She is decency and modesty itself, and I do not think she possesses a high nor a mighty bone in her body." She happily dressed Cressie for a pittance that summer. The woman was a saint.
"I wonder if I might practise my French with her," Zara thought aloud. "Don't gentlemen prefer ladies who speak more than one tongue?"
In Cressie's experience, gentlemen seemed to prefer women who held their tongues. "I do know that Mrs Den – Miss Desjardins' – mother tongue is French. I imagine she would enjoy the conversation." Cressie couldn't say the name. Her mind couldn't let it escape her mouth.
The outside of the shop looked much like Cressie remembered it, though the designs in the window had changed to reflect the change in society's fashion tastes. Through the glass, Cressie could see that there were several parties inside, all as ambitious as Zara was to have their debutante Season blessed with Belle Desjardins gowns.
The footman opened the carriage door and let down the step. Zara barely used it as she practically leapt from the carriage and down onto the street. She impatiently waited for Cressie to climb out before they approached the door of the shop. Cressie felt her breath hitch in her throat as Zara pushed open the door to the little jingle sound of the bell.
The front room was much the same as Cressie remembered as well, save for the furniture having been rearranged here and there. Several young ladies and their mothers were perusing design books and bolts of fabric. The young ladies all looked to be around Zara's age, and Cressie felt her stomach drop as, once again, the vivid memory of her own journey here with her mother appeared at the forefront of her mind.
What was different about the shop, however, was that Belle no longer seemed to be the only seamstress. She now had, if Cressie counted correctly, three other young women working in the shop. They all were engaged with a debutante and her mother, and it did not escape Cressie's notice that these girls were all women of colour. They were dressed finely, though they donned aprons, and their constitutions and complexions were bright and healthy. Had they come from a similar place as Belle had? Had they experienced similar trials? Had Belle rescued them and given them safe harbour?
Zara darted immediately over to a collection bin of fabric bolts and began to sort through them, running her hands over the silks in admiration and awe. "This feels like butter, Cressie," she whispered excitedly.
Cressie did not respond as she felt her eyes drift to the curtained dressing room at the back of the store. She knew it well. She had known it for reasons other than fittings. Her stomach, once again, clenched tightly, as the pain and heartbreak threatened to expose itself right there on the shop floor.
The curtain was suddenly drawn back, and a mother and daughter pair emerged, followed closely by a beautiful, dark-skinned woman. Cressie had always thought Belle and extraordinarily striking women. Her skin was so cool and perfect, and her eyes were like molten gold, and were unlike any others that she had ever seen. But in the five years that had passed, Cressie observed that she appeared healthier, ever so slightly fuller in the face and figure, that she no longer bore any remnants of a gauntness from a horrendous start to life.
Those molten eyes seemed to find Cressie immediately, as though they were magnetised. Belle stared at Cressie for a long moment, perhaps matching her to a memory. Or to the ghost of one.
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We're in London! I hope you enjoyed it!
I'm sorry this is a little late up - I couldn't keep my eyes open last night!
But it's 10am, I need to get up and get on with the day! Need to go to the supermarket and do my meal prep for the week and all the adult things!
I hope you've all had wonderful weeks. Vote and comment xxx