Lord Day and Lady Night

38. Shopping Trip

Temperance Penelope Pendelton was in despair. She had returned to England fresh from her years of apprenticeship with a top modiste in Paris, full of hope to bring the wonders of elegant fashion to her beloved (if sadly unstylish) homeland. With the competition in London being so heavy, she had instead decided on settling down in the country, in an area with not one, not two, but three incredibly wealthy noblemen who would need to outfit their elegant, demanding, fashion-obsessed wives. Without doubt, it was a brilliant plan!

Or at least that's what she had thought.

"What...what is this?"

"A list of orders," the lackey from the Ambrose manor said, deadpan. "For Lady Ambrose."

"But...but...these are men's clothes! Tailcoats and trousers!"

"Can you not tailor men's clothes?"

"That is not what I...I mean I...well...yes."

"Then there is no problem, is there?"

From deep inside her, Miss Pendelton heard the sound of her little heart breaking. "N-no."

"Very well. Payment in installments after completion, with ten percent deducted for every day of delay."

"But...but..."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Miss. I'll return shortly to collect the order."

"Th-thank you. Please come—"

Thud!

"—again."

Miss Pendelton stared at the closed door of her little shop—then turned around and sagged against the nearest shelf.

"Parbleu! This...this is...Mon Dieu!" Muttering, she sought refuge in French, images of her beloved, cultured, sane Paris flashing past her inner eye. Cafés, bridges spanning the sparkling River Seine, elegant women not dressed in men's clothes...

But at least it had only been an order from Lady Ambrose. She might indulge in...strange proclivities, but at least, she was a bona fide lady, descended from a long line of landed gentry. Not like...like...

Ding-dong!

"Oy dere! Is da ragstitcher at 'ome?"

A cold shiver went through her poor soul. Swallowing, she forced herself to stand and move out from where she was hiding—ehem, standing between the shelves.

"Good afternoon, Lady Wetherston." She gave a deep bow. "How may I help y—oomph!"

Thump!

"Dere ye are, my favorite fake little froggy!"

A heavy hand hand slapped down on her back, just before an arm snuck around her shoulder, securing her in a vice grip. A smirk spread over the face of the person Miss Temperance Penelope Pendelton was hesitant to call a "lady".

"Come get yer scissors and needles! Ye've got some tailorin' ta do!"

"Um, I'm afraid that my appointment book is rather full these days, and—"

"No problem! I'll give ye a new book. 'ere!"

And, an instant later, a book emerged from the pocket of the "lady" and appeared under Miss Pendelton's nose. The modiste felt her stomach flip. She was not an expert on appointment book design, but she was pretty certain they did not have paintings of scantily dressed men and women on the cover, under the words Fanny Hill—Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.