Read Online Callander Square by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

see the dresses himself; although he had, as yet, no idea what excuse he might use for his interest.
    He found the lady’s maid brushing a riding habit and sponging the skirt where the autumn mud had splashed it. She dropped it in some alarm when she saw him.
    “Don’t disturb yourself, ma’am” he said as he walked over and picked it up, feeling it between his fingers appreciatively, not yet passing it back to her. “An excellent piece of stuff.” He flipped it over so that the waist was in his grasp. “And well-tailored, too.” He felt quickly at the seams. Nothing. He glanced at the waistband where Charlotte had told him to look. He found it immediately, an extension to the band, a piece let in. He gave it back to the maid, quite casually, smiling at her. “I like to see a well-dressed lady. Gives everyone pleasure.”
    “Oh, this is last year’s,” she said quickly. “Quite old, in fact. Lady Euphemia has far better than this!”
    “Indeed? I should like to see better than this,” he let a note of polite disbelief fall into his voice. “It’s a very fine cloth.”
    She went over to an enormous wardrobe and threw it open. There was a gleam of light on the purples and fuschias and lambent greens of silk.
    “How very beautiful,” he said quite genuinely. He went over and touched the soft, shining stuff with his fingers, for a moment forgetting his purpose. There was an amber gown, almost corn gold where the light fell on it, and deep fire russet in the shadows. It must have looked magnificent on Euphemia Carlton, but he saw it on Charlotte. He felt a sharp stab of pain because he could not buy such things for her. He forgot the maid, and Callander Square, and his mind whirled wildly for some idea, some other occupation where he might be able to earn that sort of money.
    “Lovely things, aren’t they?” There was a note of wistfulness in the woman’s voice too. He was jerked back to reality. He looked at her pinched figure in its dark stuff dress and white apron.
    “Yes,” he agreed, “yes, very.” Rapidly he searched for the waist seams, the sides where letting out would be done. “I expect they take a lot of looking after.” He found nothing yet. “You must be very skilled with a needle.”
    She smiled at the compliment.
    “Not many men as thinks of that. Yes, I does a lot of work, but she looks a rare sight when I send ’er out of ’ere, if I say that as shouldn’t. I’ve never sent ’er out less than perfect.”
    Pitt seized his chance and looked openly at the minute stitching. The waist had definitely been let out, a couple of inches or more.
    “You’re quite an artist,” he said, and meant at least part of it. What must it be like for a woman to put all her labor and her love into making another woman beautiful? Then to sit at home and watch her leave for parties and balls, to dance all night and be admired while she stayed upstairs, waiting to receive the clothes back again, press them, mend them for the next time?
    “You have every right to be proud,” he said. He let the silk fall and closed the wardrobe doors.
    She blushed with pleasure.
    “Thank you, I’m sure,” she stammered.
    He must ask her something, lest she think afterward and become suspicious. His mind searched for some likely question.
    “Does your mistress ever give away any of her old clothes, to deserving servant girls, or the like?” He knew the answer—no mistress wishes to see a servant wearing the style and quality of garment she herself wore, no matter how old, or how deserving the girl.
    “Oh no, sir! Lady Euphemia sends them all to the country, to some cousin or other, who don’t know what’s fashionable and what’s not, and very glad of them she is.”
    “I see. Thank you,” he smiled reassuringly at her and took his departure to the kitchen.
    Neither the cook nor the kitchen maids yielded anything conclusive, but it seemed Euphemia had indulged in sudden bouts of eating every so often, put