The York estates were, by anyone’s estimation, a wealthy and thriving province. The small village that nestled by the Duke’s castle sprawled hither and thither across the hills, and boasted more amenities than most larger cities. The Duke’s good will towards his people had assisted his merchants in finding great success not only amongst his own people, but amongst the other nobles, as well.
The Modiste here was particularly successful amongst the Ton, considering that the Mrs. Shelby who ran it tended to have fashion plates from the mainland well before any but the Queen’s own personal Modiste. Her seamstresses were also rivaled only by the Queen’s Modiste’s seamstresses.
Her shop was opulent, though not ostentatious. A warm, rich tapestry carpet covered the floor, while deep red divans were sprinkled about it. It was unusually large, especially given that its front façade made it look small, as if it nestled sweetly amongst the other buildings in its row.
Wall sconces accommodated the lack of lighting from windows, throwing their cheerful glow into the room. There was one large fireplace, in front of which was a richly-appointed sitting area. Here, the noble elite could sit and be shown fashion plates, dine on scones and crumpets, and take tea as they made the painstaking choices of which dress or cravat to purchase.
Another area was slathered in cloth of various colors. Rich brocades, soft silks, muslins, and various other reams of cloth littered one table, and lined cubbyholes in the wall behind it. Mannequins of wood and metal sported the latest fashions, suggesting bonnets or other accessories to go with them.
The lady who owned and ran the establishment was a large, businesslike, bustling woman. When she saw the Lady Diana Nobel, she immediately curtseyed to her current customer, Lady Harker, and rushed to the Lady of higher rank.
Diana smiled as Mrs. Shelby dipped into a much deeper curtsey in front of her, than that she’d offered to the lower-ranking Isabel. Mrs. Shelby was the picture of efficiency and courtesy, and Diana always enjoyed working with her.
Her pleasure at the sight of the other woman was spoiled slightly, however, by Isabel’s sharp voice.
“Miss Shelby!” she snapped, hauteur and anger clear in her voice, “I’m not finished here!”
“Begging your Ladyship’s pardon,” Mrs. Shelby (not a Miss at all anymore) told Isabel, “but the Lady Nobel is the ranking Lady in the establishment. I am obligated to see to her needs first.”
“True,” Isabel said, a vague sneer covering her face, “but I’m sure the Lady Nobel won’t mind if you help me first. After all, I’m in a terrible hurry, and it’s clear that she has nothing else but time.”
It wasn’t a direct cut, but it was as close as a noblewoman might come to calling another one “slow.” Diana took a deep breath, and then smiled warmly at Mrs. Shelby as a thought occurred to her. It would save the shopkeeper from embarrassment, but it would also put Isabel back into her much lower-ranking place.
“Mrs. Shelby, the queen has asked that you find a dress for the Lady Elizabeth for the ball two days hence. She informed me that you have recently received fashion plates from the mainland, and wishes for us to be indulged in viewing them immediately. She has asked that you overlook, this once, the fact that she has not yet seen them herself. She would consider this to be a personal favor.”
As Mrs. Shelby rushed to get them out of a locked cabinet, Diana continued, “We will happily look at them for the next hour while you help the Lady Harker.” Diana looked pointedly at Isabel, “We wouldn’t want to delay the Lady Harker any more than necessary, and I’m certain that she’s clever enough to conclude her business in an hour.”
It was, in the language of the Ton, a direct command from a woman of the Ton, to one of the common people. Mrs. Shelby would abandon Isabel in an hour, regardless of whether Isabel was done or not. And any retribution by Isabel would become a matter of personal account between her and the powerful Marquis of Hampshire’s daughter, the Marchioness Diana Nobel.
While in the stables, Diana was simply Monk, unassuming, smelling of horse and de facto squire to Sir Andrew…. Here, she was a powerful, high ranking woman whose word was superceded only by a duke or duchess, or the queen or king.
And although Isabel ranked over Elizabeth, the unmistakable insinuation that Elizabeth had the ear of the queen elevated her above the more “common” Isabel in any social situation.
Mrs. Shelby’s face showed her gratitude when her back was to Isabel, as she set Diana and Elizabeth up with tea in the sitting area designed for the Queen’s visits. The curtains were drawn around them, and they began discussing the fashion plates quietly as Isabel’s strident, angry voice fluttered around them like a disgruntled fly.
It had been only a couple of minutes short of an hour when the door slammed open. In rushed a breathless page, who demanded to speak only to Mrs. Shelby. When she arrived, leaving Isabel once again, because the page was the Duke’s own, the page began talking frantically.
Mrs. Shelby attempted to shush him, but Diana and Elizabeth could still hear him perfectly well, “The Duke wants a new coat for the ball, mam! He’s in a dither, he is. Says he needs it right away, and right smart!”
“Calm down, Eddie, lower your voice,” Mrs. Shelby told him, shushing at him. “He wants a new one, not the one we had planned?”
“No, mam, he wants a new one from the fashion plates. He says he’s got to make a good impression. He upset a fancy lady, and he’s gots to make amens he says—“
“Amends,” Mrs. Shelby corrected him absently.
“Amends, and he wants to show her that he’s a gentleman, not the commoner he acted like, he says.”
“Alright, Eddie, you run along and tell him we’ll have one to his measurements on time for the ball.”
No sooner was the page out the door than Isabel’s voice broke in, “Marvelous! That’s wonderful! Last year he practically gave me the cut at a ball. It’s clear that he has come to his senses, and he’ll begin calling on me. Oh, that dress must be perfect! Perfect, I say. Do you understand me?”
At Mrs. Shelby’s murmured assent, Isabel flounced out the door. The sounds of her excitement drifted back on the wind.
Catching Elizabeth’s eye, Diana saw the tear trying to escape her eye. She gathered Elizabeth into a hug. “Surely not, Elizabeth. Surely it can’t be her!” But she could hear the lack of conviction in her own voice. Isabel was immensely beautiful, and quite an accomplished woman. A good choice for a Duchess, certainly, if one discounted her hard personality.
Mrs. Shelby came in then, but in the way that women can have with each other, immediately understood the need for privacy the other women had. Quietly, she slipped away, and whispered with her seamstresses.
Some time later, Diana and Elizabeth left. Ironically, Elizabeth had been given a dress that the Modiste had prepared for Isabel from a combination of the new fashion plates and Diana’s design ideas. Isabel had refused to even look at it, but it happened to be perfectly suited for Elizabeth’s coloring and sizing. With only minor alterations, it would be ready by the next evening.
Mrs. Shelby promised to have it delivered to Elizabeth’s rooms well before the ball, and the pair set off to the castle.
Their previously joyful mood was much muted now, but they soon were back to a fairly even keel. They found that they could enjoy the walk through the village if they avoided certain topics.
Evening found the Lady Elizabeth lying sleeplessly in her bed, and Monk once more curled up in the hay beside Horse’s stall, staring with overly bright green eyes at the wall beside her cowled head.
What could the Duke be thinking to be even considering that witch, Isabel, the Monk wondered as sleep claimed her at last.
Circumstances do not make a man, they reveal him.
- James Allen
Success is a matter of a few simple disciplines, practiced every day. Failure is a few errors in judgement, repeated every day.
- Jim Rohn[This message has been edited by Nimmanu (edited 03-24-2010 @ 07:56 AM).]