had not yet been concluded, Miss Carr was as paralyzed as Miss Stimson. She watched in horrified fascination as the youngest countess reeled in the girl like a fish until they were virtually eye-to-eye. Suddenly, the blond woman let out a horrified cry and threw the girl away from her. The girl landed in a heap of white silk on the floor. The countess pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the mannequin’s neck.
“What is that?” she cried.
Miss Carr went to help Miss Stimson up and investigate the problem. About the girl’s neck was a tiny chain. Miss Carr hadn’t thought a thing about it except that it accessorized the neckline of her gown and drew attention tastefully to the bare shoulders. Hanging from the fine chain was a minute gold cross, a small personal item that belonged to Miss Stimson herself. The mannequins were permitted to wear such jewelry as long as they were handsome and in good taste. The tiny cross was real gold, classic in shape and irreproachably modest. Miss Carr hadn’t thought that the countesses might not be Christians and would find the symbol offensive. They didn’t look Jewish. Perhaps there was another faith they followed in the Balkans that went along with polygamy.
“I am so sorry,” Miss Carr said, lamely, searching for words to repair the damage.
“I can see that we are not welcome here,” the blonde said, rising to her feet with flashing eyes.
“Don’t be silly,” Countess Magda exclaimed, tugging on her sister-wife’s sleeve. “
“Ladies, please,” Miss Carr appealed to them, seeing hundreds of pounds fly out the window on night-borne wings. “If the bauble offends you, I shall remove it.”
“Please do,” said the eldest countess, swiftly. “That will suffice.” There was a muffled outburst from her co- wife, but it was quickly quelled by a fierce glance.
“I am so sorry, Miss Carr,” Miss Stimson whispered, her fair cheeks crimson. “I thought it would be all right. Please don’t sack me.”
“It is not your fault,” Miss Carr said, unfastening the tiny clasp and gathering the chain in her palm. “I will put this in the dressing room on the table. In future let us choose a different jewel for you to wear.”
The girl’s gratitude shone in her eyes. “Thank you, madam.” She gave an uneasy glance over Miss Carr’s shoulder at the visitors. “I… I do wish you would not leave me alone with them.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Carr said briskly. “They will do you no harm. They merely wish to look more closely at the dress. Allow them to examine it as they wish.”
“Yes, madam,” the girl whispered.
“Refreshments, Countesses!” Miss Carr announced, as the page boy entered, pushing the laden tea cart. She was grateful for the distraction. It also gave the mannequin time to recover herself and resume her station near the wall. The visitors waited as the page poured tea and offered sandwiches all around.
“That is very nice,” the eldest countess said, accepting a cup with a slice of lemon floating on the amber tea in one of Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs’s heirloom cups. “Very nice. All is most satisfactory.”
“Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will go and prepare the papers for your approval,” Miss Carr said.
“Yes, yes,” said the Countess Magda. “Everyone go away. We wish to talk among ourselves. Not you, my dear,” she said, taking the girl’s hand as Miss Stimson attempted to follow. “We wish you to stay with us.”
The last thing Miss Carr saw as she closed the door on the salon was the girl’s frightened eyes.
The invoice took little time to prepare. Miss Carr had but to transfer to it the name and price of the gowns ordered, note the name of the buyers and their impressive-sounding address. Carfax Abbey, Sussex. The owner would be pleased with everything from this night’s work.
She returned to the salon in time to see the mannequin staggering back to lean against the wall, pale as a ghost, with a few drops of blood on her neck. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, and the silk ball gown was on hooks against the wall. No doubt one of the countesses had wanted to try it on, but the blood was a puzzle. Perhaps Miss Stimson had been injured by the pins holding the incomplete stays together, which had to come off over the head. Miss Carr checked the gown for spots. The girl seemed to have had the presence of mind not to bleed on the dress. Miss Stimson stood looking at her employer with the dazed expression of a sheep.
“Are you all right?” Miss Carr asked.
“Yes, madam,” the girl said, rather stupidly. She blinked at the lamp, her pupils shrunk to pinpoint size. Miss Carr saw how pallid she was, red rings around her eyes very much in relief to the parchment color of her skin, and put it off to the lateness of the hour. No wonder she had scratched her neck. “It’s a trifle bright in here, madam.”
“Perhaps,” Miss Carr said. “You have done well, Miss Stimson. I will tell Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs so. You may retire and take tomorrow off. But I expect to see you here bright and early Thursday morning.”
“Yes, madam.” The girl tripped clumsily out of the room. Miss Carr was tired too, but she didn’t dare to give in to the sensation. Thankfully, the visitors read over the invoice with little interest. The eldest countess signed her name at the bottom beside the sum total, a colossal number that made Miss Carr want to dance, if only she wasn’t so tired.
“Our bankers are Coutts
Miss Carr dropped her half-bow, half-curtsy gratefully. It was after one in the morning. She’d be lucky if her bespoke cab would still be outside.
“Very well, Countesses. May I say, on behalf of the House of Feldon, that it has been a great pleasure to serve you? Is there anything else at all with which I may assist you?”
“No, thank you,” said the youngest, rising from her grand chair and licking her lips. Miss Carr noticed again how very, very red they were. Was that a drop of rouge on her chin? “We have got everything that we came for.”
Long-Term Investment
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
The coffins bothered him, no doubt about it. Ever since the foreign gentleman had hired him to supervise his warehouse, the coffins had bothered him—that, and working late, although he was not completely alone at any hour, for even at night the London docks bustled; ships tugged restlessly at their moorings out in the Thames and those secured to the vast wooden piers strained at the lines holding them. Lamps gave off a fuzzy glow, tingeing the docks with gold and lighting the busy efforts of all who labored here. Activity was everywhere: longshoremen worked steadily, loading or removing cargo from the waiting holds; sailors from a hundred foreign ports polished brightwork, swabbed decks, inspected rigging, bucked cargo, hauled lines, all as if it were midday. Many of the office windows in the warehouses were lit, testimony to the industry of the owners of the vessels as well as the men they hired. The brackish smell of bilgewater and the odor of tar hung on the air, stronger than the clean scent off the distant sea, although there was a tang of salt in the fog.
Edward Hitchin sat in the dusty office above the warehouse floor and tried to keep himself busy. The foreign gentleman— calling himself Carfax—was paying him well: ten shillings for a day’s work, and twelve when he had to remain past nine at night, handsome wages for a young man from Stepney who was little more than a watchman. He was determined to keep the job as long as possible, for he liked the jingle of coins in his pocket and the respectful nod from the patrolling constables.
A ship was due in from Varna, and Mister Carfax had told Edward to expect another load of coffins. “Not that
