Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) by Grace Callaway Page A
Authors: Grace Callaway
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looking at the vine-covered wallpaper and the heavy wood furniture set by the fireplace. A clerk dressed in black led us to the sitting area and brought tea in china cups. As my employer gave crisp instructions, I looked into the roaring flames, my sense of foreboding fanning higher and higher.
Moments later, the proprietress herself appeared. That she was fashionable, there was no doubt. Tall and thin, she wore a morning dress of dark gold, the linen sleeves and collar dripping with fine lace. Her black hair was divided fashionably in the middle with coils hanging over her ears. Her painted red lips parted in a wide smile as we stood to meet her.
"Earl Huxton! Welcome, welcome. 'Tis been an age since you last visited my humble establishment. Not since ..."—her smile widened—"well, it has been at least half dozen years, has it not? Before your nuptials, of that I am certain. Oh—but forgive me! May I offer my sincere and belated condolences on your loss?"
To my surprise, my employer ignored her extended hand and nodded curtly. "Good day, Mrs. Cunningham. I trust business is well. This is Miss Jones, my secretary."
I bobbed a curtsy.
Mrs. Cunningham's black eyes latched onto me, raking me from head to toe. Her thin brows climbed. "Your secretary, my lord? How ... unusual. But lovely, in her own way. The pure skin, the softness of her features. And the eyes, they speak of such innocence, such sorrow. I can see how they must draw at a gentleman's soul."
"I merely arrange his lordship's library," I hastened to explain, "and assist in managing his social affairs—"
"Why of course you do, dear." Her expression reminded me of the painting in the library. Smug, rapacious. "And what a fine assistant you must be."
"That is enough, Clarice," my employer said with quiet menace. "Miss Jones is my secretary, and you will treat her with respect. Do your job with the discretion for which you are known, or I shall take my business elsewhere. Is that understood?"
"Of course, my lord." I caught the flash in Mrs. Cunningham's eyes, but her lashes lowered quickly. When she raised them again, this time at me, the orbs held a smirking gleam. "Come back then, little dove, and I shall see you properly outfitted. Will you be joining us, my lord?"
I stared at her. Surely she was not suggesting that the earl accompany us to my fitting? 'Twas outlandish, the very thought of it. A gentleman present during my state of undress ... I turned to my employer, certain he would give her a set down for suggesting so squalid a thing.
His brows descended, but he said only, "A dozen dresses to start. And whatever else she needs to wear with them." He looked at my cloak, and I was again made aware of its threadbare patches. "And for God's sake, something to keep her warm."
Mrs. Cunningham bowed, her lips spreading wide, I was sure, at the thought of the fatted calf being proffered to her.
"My lord," I said urgently, "I have no need of such—"
"Go, Miss Jones." His tone booked no refusal. "I have business to attend to and will return for you in an hour's time."
Mrs. Cunningham took my arm in a firm grasp. As she steered me into the back of the shop, I saw it was larger than I had supposed from the front. Here, there seemed to be a labyrinth of darkened rooms, some of them not quite completed.
"We are in the midst of renovation," the dressmaker said. "To accommodate my clientele. Business is booming, and one must keep up with the times. Here, this room will do."
The walls of the chamber were papered in an oriental motif of red and gold. Bamboo furniture and a screen painted with peacocks contributed to the suffocating exoticism. It was far more decadent than I would have expected of a fitting room. But the large cheval glass in front of the raised platform indicated that such was its use, as did the table piled with bolts of fabric.
Mrs. Cunningham waved me over to the single chair. "Remove your boots and have a step up."
Despite my feeling of
Moments later, the proprietress herself appeared. That she was fashionable, there was no doubt. Tall and thin, she wore a morning dress of dark gold, the linen sleeves and collar dripping with fine lace. Her black hair was divided fashionably in the middle with coils hanging over her ears. Her painted red lips parted in a wide smile as we stood to meet her.
"Earl Huxton! Welcome, welcome. 'Tis been an age since you last visited my humble establishment. Not since ..."—her smile widened—"well, it has been at least half dozen years, has it not? Before your nuptials, of that I am certain. Oh—but forgive me! May I offer my sincere and belated condolences on your loss?"
To my surprise, my employer ignored her extended hand and nodded curtly. "Good day, Mrs. Cunningham. I trust business is well. This is Miss Jones, my secretary."
I bobbed a curtsy.
Mrs. Cunningham's black eyes latched onto me, raking me from head to toe. Her thin brows climbed. "Your secretary, my lord? How ... unusual. But lovely, in her own way. The pure skin, the softness of her features. And the eyes, they speak of such innocence, such sorrow. I can see how they must draw at a gentleman's soul."
"I merely arrange his lordship's library," I hastened to explain, "and assist in managing his social affairs—"
"Why of course you do, dear." Her expression reminded me of the painting in the library. Smug, rapacious. "And what a fine assistant you must be."
"That is enough, Clarice," my employer said with quiet menace. "Miss Jones is my secretary, and you will treat her with respect. Do your job with the discretion for which you are known, or I shall take my business elsewhere. Is that understood?"
"Of course, my lord." I caught the flash in Mrs. Cunningham's eyes, but her lashes lowered quickly. When she raised them again, this time at me, the orbs held a smirking gleam. "Come back then, little dove, and I shall see you properly outfitted. Will you be joining us, my lord?"
I stared at her. Surely she was not suggesting that the earl accompany us to my fitting? 'Twas outlandish, the very thought of it. A gentleman present during my state of undress ... I turned to my employer, certain he would give her a set down for suggesting so squalid a thing.
His brows descended, but he said only, "A dozen dresses to start. And whatever else she needs to wear with them." He looked at my cloak, and I was again made aware of its threadbare patches. "And for God's sake, something to keep her warm."
Mrs. Cunningham bowed, her lips spreading wide, I was sure, at the thought of the fatted calf being proffered to her.
"My lord," I said urgently, "I have no need of such—"
"Go, Miss Jones." His tone booked no refusal. "I have business to attend to and will return for you in an hour's time."
Mrs. Cunningham took my arm in a firm grasp. As she steered me into the back of the shop, I saw it was larger than I had supposed from the front. Here, there seemed to be a labyrinth of darkened rooms, some of them not quite completed.
"We are in the midst of renovation," the dressmaker said. "To accommodate my clientele. Business is booming, and one must keep up with the times. Here, this room will do."
The walls of the chamber were papered in an oriental motif of red and gold. Bamboo furniture and a screen painted with peacocks contributed to the suffocating exoticism. It was far more decadent than I would have expected of a fitting room. But the large cheval glass in front of the raised platform indicated that such was its use, as did the table piled with bolts of fabric.
Mrs. Cunningham waved me over to the single chair. "Remove your boots and have a step up."
Despite my feeling of
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