“The name Milton Sheridan is famous in some parts for if ’e can’t mend it, nobody can,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I have never heard of him.”
The princess’s haughty dismissal of Da provoked Fancy into replying, “If you ’ad, you would know that ’e’s known equally for ’is tinkering and for ’is good ’eart, and that I can speak to personally. If ’e and my ma ’adn’t taken me in when I was a babe, I wouldn’t be standing in front o’ you today, and that’s a fact.”
Aunt Esther gasped, quickly covering the sound with a cough. Fancy’s heart thumped with anger and fear as the princess regarded her for several long moments.
“You have pride,” Princess Adelaide declared.
Fancy blinked.
“That will serve you well in your new life, Your Grace.” She raked Fancy over with another assessing glance before turning to Aunt Esther. “Lady Brambley, you may bring her to my next monthly salon.”
“How very kind of you, Your Royal Highness.”
Aunt Esther sounded as shocked as Fancy felt. She curtsied, and at her sharp nudge, Fancy followed suit. Princess Adelaide inclined her head and walked out, her maid scampering behind her.
Once the door was closed, Aunt Esther expelled a breath. “That was a near disaster.”
Shame clogging her throat, Fancy clasped her hands. “I’m sorry, Aunt Esther. I know I shouldn’t ’ave—”
“You have no cause to be sorry, gel,” Aunt Esther interrupted. “You just snatched victory from the jaws of defeat…in a manner worthy of Wellington himself! Princess Adelaide is one of the most fashionable hostesses in Society; a word from her can make or break a reputation. Do you know how difficult it is to secure an invitation to Her Royal Highness’s monthly salons?”
“No,” Fancy said truthfully. “Is it difficult?”
“More difficult than getting an appointment with Madame Rousseau. Is that not so, Madame?”
Aunt Esther turned to the dressmaker, who’d been standing there, Fancy realized, discreetly observing all the while. Madame Rousseau had a handsome face and intelligent eyes that gave the impression of missing little.
“Lady Brambley speaks the truth,” Madame Rousseau said. “My establishment, it is exclusive. But only a select few of my clients can secure vouchers to Princess Adelaide’s salon. It is open only to the crème of the crème de la crème.”
“And you will be amongst them, Francesca.” Aunt Esther’s look of awe turned into one of determination. “The princess’s salons fall on the last Friday of the month…which means we have just over a fortnight to get you ready. We do not have time for shilly-shallying!” The lady turned to the dressmaker. “Madame Rousseau, Francesca needs a new wardrobe, top to bottom, immediately. You will have carte blanche, of course.”
“Would you please ’elp me, Madame Rousseau?” Fancy asked anxiously. “I ’ave to make myself o’er into a proper lady.”
“In terms of the outer trappings, oui, this is true. The rest, I think, requires no transformation.” Madame Rousseau smiled, then said crisply, “Follow me, ladies. Let us begin the preparations.”
22
Although Severin owned multiple manufactories, he spent the bulk of his time at his main office. His mentor and former business partner, James Hessard, had converted this block of terraced houses close to Petticoat Lane Market into weaving ateliers. The buildings had been built for the craft, the floor to ceiling windows letting in ample natural light. Having lived in dingy, windowless dens for the first half of his life, Severin liked having a view of the sky.
In accordance to the customs of weavers, the lower floors of the buildings were used as residences for the workers. He kept the rents low to make his weavers happy. Happy employees, to his mind, made for enhanced productivity. On the upper floors were the weaving rooms, vast spaces occupied by the looms.
Severin’s office was on the top floor. Antique tapestries hung on the walls, muffling the clacking of the looms outside. The mahogany furnishings that graced his sanctum were of the highest quality. To the left of his large desk was a wall of windows that gave him a bird’s eye view of the bustling Spitalfields markets.
At present, he was sitting in his chair, looking out the window as Dutton, his man-of-business, delivered the monthly report in a droning voice. Typically, he didn’t have difficulty concentrating, but this afternoon his mind was elsewhere. Thoughts of Fancy kept distracting him, along with feelings of guilt.
Since Imogen’s unplanned visit two days ago, he’d been working late every night. It