Page 9 of The Model Debutante
‘Goodbye then, Smithson, you will let me know when…when there is any change?’
Thoroughly depressed, Tallie gave the driver Madame d’Aunay’s direction and climbed back into the cab. One could hardly hope that a frail old lady would live for ever, but Miss Gower had seemed so indomitable and had such a love of life that it seemed impossible that the years would ever catch up with her.
‘That will teach you to refine upon encounters with gentlemen and worry about what they think and say,’ Tallie scolded herself out loud as the cab turned into Piccadilly. ‘There are much more important and serious things happening than your foolish adventures. Poor Miss Gower, and without even any family to support her now.’
Chapter Four
Tallie spent a week engaged in exemplary hard work at Madame d’Aunay’s, activity which entirely failed to distract her mind from worrying about Miss Gower nor, when all self-discipline failed her, brooding about Lord Arndale. She was dwelling upon him, she told herself, because he had proved so infuriating. It was nothing to do with their encounter at the studio and most certainly had not the slightest connection with the fact he was an extremely attractive man.
As she had feared, Lady Parry’s special hat proved beyond rescue so it had to be entirely remade from scratch. Faced with the sale of it twice over Madame was not moved to scold Tallie for the accident and instead recommended her personal service to a certain Mrs Leighton. ‘A cit of course,’ she confided, ‘but newly married and her husband is as rich as they come and denies her nothing. I expect her to spend at least as much as Miss Gower ever did and I would not want you to suffer from the loss of a client.’
But Tallie was not concerned about the size of Miss Gower’s orders and her grief when she heard the news that the old lady had finally slipped away two days after her last hat was delivered was as genuine as if she had been a relative.
On Saturday evening the residents of the lodging house in Upper Wimpole Street gathered together in the parlour before dinner. Although they were each engaged upon some small task Tallie sensed a palpable air of relaxation amongst all of them with the end of a busy week.
‘This is pleasant,’ Zenna observed cheerfully. ‘Do you not go to the Opera house this evening, Millie?’
‘No, the run finished yesterday and they are staging amasquerade tonight. The new production begins on Monday – it is calledThe Lost Italian Princeand is a very affecting melodrama.’
‘And do you have a good part?’ Tallie asked. She was sorting through a pile of coloured silks which had become, through some alchemy of their own, hopelessly tangled while untouched in a closed box.
Millie was a rarity in the world of the theatre – a genuinely chaste young lady – and her aunt and her friends did their best to support her, while living in constant anxiety about the bucks and roués she inevitably encountered.
‘Yes.’ Millie glowed with pride. ‘I have a speaking line all to myself and I sing in a trio in the second act. I play one of the village maidens who, with her friends, helps hide the Prince when he flees his Wicked Uncle.’
‘What happens in the end?’ Mrs Blackstock enquired, looking up from the account book she was filling in at the other end of the table from Zenna who was marking her pupils’ French vocabulary work.
Millie put down the sheet she was hemming, curled up more comfortably on the rather battered sofa and prepared to explain the plot. ‘Well, the Prince falls in love with this village maiden – only she isn’t really, she’s the daughter of the Duke in disguise because he wants her to marry this awful man – and when the Wicked Uncle – the Prince’s uncle that is, who is trying to murder him – finds where he is hiding, she sacrifices herself by throwing herself from the battlements in front of his troops and…’
The sound of the front door knocker thudding with great force brought them all upright with a start, for one moment convinced that the Wicked Uncle himself must be at the door.
‘My goodness, who can that be?’ Mrs Blackstock demanded, putting down her quill.
‘Someone’s very superior footman, I should imagine,’ Tallie replied, getting up to edge the curtain aside and peep out into the dark, wet street. ‘That was a fine example of the London Knock if ever I heard one. It is too dark outside, I cannot make out who it is. Oh yes, now Annie has opened the door I can see the livery. I think that is one of Lady Parry’s footmen. I wonder why she is sending me a message here, she always sends orders to the shop.’
Annie came in, her sharp face flushed. ‘There’s this footman, mam, and he’s brought this letter for Miss Grey. Cor, he is tall.’
‘Thank you, Annie,’ Mrs Blackstock said repressively. ‘Wait and see if Miss Grey has a reply for him.’
Tallie turned the letter over in her hands, then realising that she was never going to find out what it was about until she opened it, cracked the seal in a shower of red wax and spread out the single sheet.
‘But how strange.’
‘What?’ Zenna demanded at last, when Tallie fell silent.
‘Lady Parry asks me to call at ten on Monday morning upon a personal matter. Annie, please say to the footman that Miss Grey will be happy to call as Lady Parry asks. Can you remember that?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ The maid closed the door behind her, mouthing the words of the message silently.
‘What can it mean, Zenna?’
Tallie handed the letter to her friend who scanned it and handed it back with a shrug. ‘I have no more idea than you, goose. Perhaps she wants to set you up in your own millinery business producing exclusive hats only for her and her circle of bosom friends.’
‘Now thatwouldbe wonderful,’ Tallie agreed, smiling back. ‘But somehow I do not think it likely.’ She could think of no plausible explanation for the mysterious note and she couldn’thelp feeling a twinge of apprehension at the thought of another visit to Bruton Street so soon. What if she met Lord Arndale again? ‘I wish tomorrow were not Sunday,’ she said with a little shiver. ‘I hate mysteries and being kept in suspense.’
Sunday dragged, despite morning service at St Marylebone church and a damp walk in Regent’s Park. By mid-afternoon Tallie was disgusted to find herself apprehensive and, as she described it to Zenna, ‘All of a fidget.’
‘But what on earth is the matter with you?’ Zenna asked, looking up at Tallie quizzically from her position on the hearthrug where she was burning her fingers roasting chestnuts. They had the parlour to themselves and had settled down to an afternoon of comfortable relaxation before the chilly walk to church for Evensong.
