A Single Thread of Moonlight Page 2

  Autumn sunlight filtered through them that morning, the kind of sunlight specific to this time of year – heavy, dancing, golden – like a breeze streaming through ripe wheat.

  Last night, I had dreamed of a dress, woken up with the idea for it so clear in my mind that I could almost feel the cool slip of the material through my fingers. A deceptively simple gown of opalescent cream silk and layers of airy tulle, stitched all over with a silver thread so pale that it was only when the light hit it that the pattern emerged. I pictured hundreds of small glass beads sewn across it and hanging from the shoulders to form short sleeves that moved and sparkled as the woman who wore it danced in a beautiful ballroom.

  I had begun sketching my plans, when Claire came steaming into the room, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Madame says we need everything worth showing, quick,” she said. “There’s a lady here, says her daughter’s going to marry a prince!”

  Annie and I leaped to attention. Annie began pulling gowns out and rummaging through hat boxes. I was already lacing Claire into a beautiful sage-green day dress.

  “Can you imagine?” Claire asked, sucking in a breath as I tugged on the laces. “Marrying a prince, I mean?” She clasped her hands together. “It’s like something out of a story. She must be the luckiest girl in the world.”

  “I suppose it depends on the prince,” I said, around a mouthful of pins, as I carefully fluffed the folds of ivory lace at the neckline of the dress.

  “Come on, girls.” Madame Solange appeared, clapping her hands together. She was a formidable woman, tall and generously curved and dressed head to toe in black. “This is a customer worth having. If we get this right, we’ll be set for next season.” Her dark eyes were gleeful, her cockney accent at its most pronounced.

  Madame Solange was about as French as a Yorkshire pudding, but all the most fashionable establishments boasted a modish French designer, and Madame Solange did not care to disappoint her customers. Her false accent was slathered on, thick as butter on bread, the kind that left tooth marks behind.

  She called herself a widow too, though there was no evidence of that. That was the thing about the city. Here you could be anyone you wanted. You could let go of your history, as easily as if it were a feather on your palm – unclasp your fingers and off it flew.

  “Iris.” Madame’s voice was brisk, a world away from the honeyed tones she used on clients. “Make sure you send out the pink silk. It will work well with the young lady’s colouring, and Lady Scott-Holland specifically asked for pastel shades.”

  The world slammed to a stop.

  I froze.

  Madame kept talking, but the pin cushion fell from my hand, bouncing and rolling across the floor and under a table. There was a sound in my ears, like a swarm of angry bees.

  I lurched forward, my legs almost going from underneath me.

  Claire reached out and held my arm.

  Her mouth was moving, but it took me a moment to understand what she was saying. “Iris … Iris? Are you all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

  “Just a dizzy spell,” I managed. “Did you say Lady Scott-Holland?” I was pleased that my voice was almost steady.

  Madame’s clever eyes narrowed. “That’s right. What do you know about her?”

  “Not very much.” I bent down to retrieve the pin cushion, taking a moment to school my expression into something more like indifference. “Only that she has two daughters.” I straightened up, my breathing now under control. It seemed Madame Solange’s reputation had finally reached my stepmother.

  “Yes,” Madame agreed, clearly losing interest. “And she’s unhappy with the work her usual dressmaker has done, so let’s not waste any more time – here’s a pigeon ripe for plucking!” On that note she swept from the room.

  Claire trotted out after her.

  “Glide, Claire, glide!” I heard Madame scold under her breath. “We don’t want any more bloody horse comments, do we?”

  Claire’s pace slowed and she did something droopy with her arms which I supposed was meant to imply elegance.

  I hesitated for a moment, and then, on silent feet, I followed, keeping myself well hidden behind the sumptuous red velvet drapes that separated the back and front rooms.

  “Ahhhhh, Madame Scott-’Olland!” I winced as Madame Solange’s heavily accented words pierced the quiet. “’Ow delighted I am to ’ave you ’ere een our ’umble établissement.”

  “I have heard great things, Madame.”

  That voice. That cool, musical voice. Suddenly, I was ten years old again.

  I edged further along, pulling back the corner of the drape and clinging to the shadows.

  Helena was facing away from me. She was tall and clad in a sophisticated gown of apricot silk. Her hair was coiled at the back and still as dark as I remembered. Not a grey hair in sight. When she turned slightly and I saw her in profile I was startled by how young she looked. I suppose as a child every adult seems older than the hills, but Helena could not have been much more than forty now, and she looked younger than that. Her face was regal, with a definite set to her chin and mouth. Her dark green eyes were framed by long black lashes. She was still a beauty.

  Something seethed inside me.

  “My daughter must have the best of everything,” she was saying. I saw Agatha, standing to her side, running her fingers across the bolts of fabric Madame had already pulled out for them. There was no sign of Cassie.

  Agatha was no longer the child that I remembered. She was a young woman, almost twenty-one. I would not have recognized her, except that she looked much like her mother, though her mouth was softer, her eyes smaller and more grey than green. She smiled at Helena’s words, a self-satisfied smirk that made my toes curl in my sensible boots.

  “Of course, of course!” Madame Solange agreed. “Mademoiselle will be very well looked after ’ere. Your special guest will not be able to take ’is eyes off ’er.”

  Agatha gave a pleased titter and Helena smiled.

  “Naturally, I hope for your discretion,” Helena said in a low voice, and Madame nodded seriously. “But when one is preparing to welcome royalty into the family home, one must put on a bit of a display. We’re hosting a house party at our estate in Kent which is to be quite the affair. That will last a fortnight; there will of course be a large ball, as well as another formal reception, dinners, luncheons, excursions … all the usual entertainments.” Helena’s eyes gleamed. “Most urgent, though – before we get to all of that, there’s a ball being given here in town at the end of the week, which we are to attend, and Agatha must look her best.”

  I thought fast. We knew all about the Devonshire House ball; we had several customers who were planning to attend. It was being given in honour of the visiting Prince Stefan, a member of the royal family of a small Austro-Hungarian principality, distantly related to our own Queen Victoria. His visit had caused quite the stir among the matchmaking mamas who visited Madame Solange.

  So, he was the prince Agatha was to marry.

  “We expect there to be an announcement any day now,” Helena added, the words heavy with meaning. “All eyes will be on Agatha. Then of course the prince will be our guest at Holland Hall for two weeks, alongside several other important visitors.”

  I knew what Helena was saying. If Agatha – a future princess – showed off Madame Solange’s work while spending time with the cream of society, then it could mean big business. Helena might be rich, but she wasn’t above trying to make a deal on a new wardrobe.

  Madame sucked her cheeks in for a moment and then smiled. “Eet will be our verrrry great pleasure to dress your daughter, Madame. I think that we can come to an arrangement that ees très agreeable to us all.”

  With a flick of her wrist Madame gestured Claire forward.

  “Now thees particular design ees very suitable for a luncheon…”

  I let the drape fall from my fingers and backed away into the sewing room where Annie was hard at work.

&nb
sp; “Where have you been?” she snapped.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “I was dizzy. I just needed a bit of fresh air.”

  “Gawping at the customers isn’t going to help with that,” Annie retorted. She peered at me closely. “Are you all right now?” she asked, reluctant concern creeping into her voice.

  I nodded.

  “Then press this gown quickly, will you? Claire will be through any second.”

  I did as I was told, letting the familiar monotony of the work steal over me. I needed to focus on something else while I caught my breath.

  Now that the shock was starting to wear off, I found that what I was actually feeling was anger. Hot, violent, crimson-silk anger.

  Helena and Agatha both looked so carefree, so pleased with themselves, the picture of health and prosperity.

  They’d built a nice life for themselves – or rather, they’d stolen it. Stolen from my father, stolen from me.

  Agatha was going to marry a prince, was she?

  Over my dead body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One thing was clear: I needed to go to that ball.

  It was at the ball that Helena was hoping to secure a proposal. Something had to be done about that.

  The plan started to take shape in the long hours that I spent working on Agatha’s wardrobe over the next several days. Finally, the opportunity for revenge had presented itself and I wasn’t going to throw it away. It wouldn’t be enough … nothing ever could be, but it would mean something to Helena, and it would be a beginning. I would stop that marriage if it was the last thing I did.

  It was a strange thing, labouring over Agatha’s clothes. The first priority was obviously the dress she’d be wearing to the ball here in London, but as Helena was also throwing a small house party for Prince Stefan and some friends, Agatha had to be dressed in a way befitting a future princess for the entire fortnight.

  Helena had clearly thought this through. If Stefan proposed at the London ball, then the house party became a celebration – but if he did not? Well, then there would be plenty more opportunity to throw Stefan and Agatha together until he did.

  There was not enough time to build a wardrobe from scratch, but fortunately we had several items already made up that would work with some clever alteration. Some of these had originally been destined for other customers – “If they can’t pay their bills on time then that’s their fault.” Madame had shrugged, a mercenary spark in her eyes.

  What this meant for me was three nights in a row of falling asleep at my workbench and waking with a stiff neck. It also meant fighting every urge to line the gowns with pins or choose a fabric that would make Agatha look bilious. I knew a nice pea-green trim that would make her look like she had a nasty case of the flu.

  I didn’t do it. Madame Solange had taken me in, taken a chance on me, and I owed her my loyalty.

  Besides, the clothes were sacred. It wasn’t their fault that they were going to be worn by the second most loathsome woman on the planet. I took as much time and care over the alterations as I usually would. I tried to forget that Agatha would be slipping her arms through the sleeves or smoothing down the skirts that were spread across the table in front of me.

  But there was one thing I couldn’t bring myself to do, and that was to turn over the dream dress. I worked on it in secret, snatching odd moments to dedicate to it wherever I could. It was far from being finished but I could already tell that it was going to be special – perhaps the best thing I had ever made – and I couldn’t stand the thought of Agatha owning that.

  It would be the perfect dress for a princess, but then Agatha wasn’t going to be a princess. Not if I had any say in the matter.

  The London ball was in two days’ time. It was a masked ball, which was all the rage, a gift to someone trying to sneak in unseen – someone like me.

  It was being held at Devonshire House in Piccadilly, the site of the notorious fancy dress ball two years earlier. Getting in was not going to be easy. My best hope was to try and sneak in as a servant. At events like this, where each guest was examining each other for clues to their identity, it was the staff who became invisible.

  These were the thoughts that occupied my mind when Madame appeared, unusually flustered.

  “Claire’s been taken sick,” she said shortly. “There’s a woman here looking for something to wear to the ball at Devonshire House. I need you to model for me.”

  “You know I don’t model the clothes,” I said, laying down my work.

  She put a hand on my arm. “She’s brought someone with her … Nicholas Wynter.”

  These last two words were breathless, her tone one of mingled horror and delight.

  Nicholas Wynter.

  I had never met the man, but even I knew his name. Everybody did. Nicholas Wynter was an earl, a title he had inherited from his father almost three years ago. He was, I suppose, what you’d call a tastemaker. If you met with his approval then you were bound for success, but more often than not people encountered the cutting cruelty that he was famous for. He could put Madame Solange on the map, or he could just as easily destroy her.

  “Get that green lamé that Lady Huntingdon hasn’t paid for yet.” Madame’s voice was shrill. “And I don’t care that you don’t model, Iris, this is too important. If you can’t make yourself useful at a time like this then there’s no job here for you. You can pack your things.” She crossed her arms and glared at me.

  I wasn’t fooled. We both knew that I could walk out of here and get a job with one of her competitors. It was hardly the first time she had threatened to give me the sack.

  Still, the note of panic in her voice gave me pause.

  I pressed my lips together.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “But you’re paying me double. If I’m going to have two jobs, then you can pay me two wages.”

  “You’ll take what you’re given and be grateful,” Madame snapped back, but her shoulders eased, betraying her relief.

  On that note she sailed out to the front of the shop again, and Annie began to help me dress.

  I stood in front of the mirror as Annie laced the back of the gown. It was a beauty. Green lamé, shot through with gold threads, and a sheer silk overlay that added to the shimmering effect. It was low cut, with full, trailing skirts. It would be perfect for the Devonshire House ball.

  While Annie fiddled with the fastenings at the back of the dress, I tried to tidy my hair. I had inherited my mother’s colouring, though I didn’t think I looked much like her otherwise. My hair was blonde with a natural curl, and my eyes were the same deep blue, but my brows and lashes were darker than hers had been, my nose more snub, my mouth fuller. I was shorter than her, and less willowy – I remember her as a slim, graceful reed in a long gown.

  I knew that I was beautiful. I suppose it sounds hopelessly arrogant to say as much, but enough people had told me so that I had accepted it as a fact.

  Personally, I thought my looks were a bit on the insipid side, but it was that which made so many people underestimate me. People never thought the pretty little milkmaid would be the one holding a knife to their throat.

  I pinched my cheeks, trying to add colour. Spending all my days in this room, slaving over a sewing machine, had not done my complexion any favours.

  “Right,” Annie said. “You’re in. There’s a bit more to you than there is of Lady Huntingdon.”

  That was true. The dress might be lovely, but at the moment it felt like a lovely cage. The bodice was so tight that it forced my spine absolutely straight – there was no chance of slouching.

  In a way, it helped. I felt made of steel, and I lifted my chin to match my posture.

  “All right, Queen Victoria,” Annie murmured. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

  The corner of my mouth tugged up, but I forced my face to stay serene.

  I swept through the curtains, my steps as gliding as Madame could wish.

  “Ah, ’ere is Iris now,” Madame cried, and the
indulgent look she gave me would have fooled most people into believing I was the daughter she’d never had. I pinned a smile to my face, even as I fought the urge to stare at Nicholas Wynter.

  It was extremely difficult.

  He stood in the corner of the room, one elbow propped up on a cabinet. His tall body possessed a certain grace even when he was standing still. He gave the impression of a big cat – a leopard, perhaps – poised to unfurl himself. He was not a large man, but he seemed to take up a lot of space. I was surprised by how young he was – he must have been only in his early twenties. I had assumed a man who commanded such authority over society would be older, more established.

  He wore a beautiful dark blue jacket, perfectly cut, and a waistcoat that was a trifle too ostentatious for my taste, embroidered in heavy gold thread. In one hand he held a polished wooden cane with a gold handle. There was a white rose in his lapel. His hair was very dark, and he wore it slightly longer than most. His features were a series of hard, sharp lines. From the cut-glass cheekbones to the square jaw, he looked as if he had been sketched by a decisive hand.

  But it was his eyes that made him impossible to ignore. Ice-cold blue eyes, their touch a shiver across the skin. Those eyes were older than the rest of him, full of the sort of lazy amusement that I could easily see would cause people to wilt.

  It had the opposite effect on me.

  Despite my intention to remain inconspicuous, I lifted my own gaze and met his assessing stare full on.

  I did not smile.

  For a moment it was as if the rest of the world fell away. The lazy look disappeared, sharpened, until all that remained was the challenge in those cold eyes. His face was still, but after a long moment a small pucker appeared between his brows. Whether it was because he disliked what he saw I wasn’t sure, but he turned away, and the spell was broken. The room rushed back in, and I realized that my pulse was racing.

  I pasted a vapid smile on my face, and shook out the skirts of the dress, ready to be admired like a china doll.

  “Well, Teresa,” Nicholas Wynter said, “I think you might actually have found something after all.” His voice was a dry rustle of autumn leaves.