The faces of the girls, though lowered, looked little more than children.
‘This way,’ commanded the dressmaker, ushering Ashby into a tiny side room decorated with an elaborate collage in the shape of dragonfly wings splayed across the wall. Madame Martineau had partitioned this place off from her workforce to create a kind of boudoir.
‘Please, monsieur. I shall count the money, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I have plans to spend this tomorrow. Perhaps I can offer you some coffee?’
Ashby hid his astonishment at her inappropriate politeness but he obeyed and sat down on a chair. It was midnight. He was tired. He wanted the letters, not coffee. He could feel a wave of irritation rising in his gut. Press on, woman, press on.
But when not in the servitude of others, Madame Martineau took her time, and she sat down opposite him with a smile, placing her scissors down on a table. Although not one normally to notice such things, Ashby was struck by her beauty.
‘You have honoured our agreement, which is good, because I place great sway by it.’ She sat back, rubbing her flank. ‘I have been ill this past week, as women often are, but unlike the ladies we stitch for, there’s no lounging on cushions for working girls. Even now in such a state of nerves, I must work through the night for my customers. They make such demands, but miss an order? Never.’ She poured a whisky, creasing her eyes in pain. ‘At least sixteen gowns to be delivered by dawn. These ladies know no bounds. The flimflam of the fashion world, monsieur.’
She leant forward and poured herself a coffee, then passed another one to Ashby. Neither tasting the drink nor rejecting it, he pleaded, ‘You know it’s not coffee I’ve come for. The letters please, Madame, which you say are so very delicate. I must make haste. It’s already midnight and I must rise early tomorrow.’
Madame Martineau stood up, flattening her dress as she did, and reaching up high to a shelf, took down a neat bundle of letters which were tied with a bright-blue ribbon. The paper was flesh-coloured, flocked, and with a highly distinctive monogram shot through with gold, like a crest. The monogram said simply, ‘M’, but the pattern it made on the paper wasn’t simple at all. The monogram was voluptuous in its curves, almost Romanesque in its ambitions. Ashby paled because he recognised the paper at once. It was the Duke’s personal notepaper, of that there was no doubt.
‘You know, monsieur, I run a number of other services which many of the parliamentarians are only too pleased to use. Perhaps you, too, sir, have needs? You only have to say the word.’ Her pause was complacent as she sat down again. Ashby watched the letters still clutched to her bosom. She leant over and took a little nub of sealing wax she kept on a table, along with stamps and string, and rolled it between her finger and thumb, as if a lady of leisure.
‘Despite our best endeavours, it’s strange how little things can unsettle a man, and it’s these unsettling things that I, or for that matter any of my girls, can soothe away, and I offer variety.’ She attempted a smile, but it was barely that.
Ashby thrust out his hand. ‘The letters are all that’s required, madam, I can assure you.’
‘No matter, old man. Calm yourself, for you have grown quite pale. As I said, I never let a customer down.’ She laughed and held out the little bundle for the old man to take, and as he leant forward, she snatched it back.
‘Not so fast, monsieur, pretty please and you shall have them. Indeed, you are a clerk, n’est ce pas ? A little bow would be nice.’
Ashby stood up, slammed the coffee cup down, which went crashing off the tray, and wrenched the letters from her.
‘Why, monsieur.’ Madame Martineau tilted her head to the side with a pout. ‘Why so rough? You had only to ask, et voilà !’
That does it, impudent, insufferable wretch, he thought. Leaping
‘This way,’ commanded the dressmaker, ushering Ashby into a tiny side room decorated with an elaborate collage in the shape of dragonfly wings splayed across the wall. Madame Martineau had partitioned this place off from her workforce to create a kind of boudoir.
‘Please, monsieur. I shall count the money, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I have plans to spend this tomorrow. Perhaps I can offer you some coffee?’
Ashby hid his astonishment at her inappropriate politeness but he obeyed and sat down on a chair. It was midnight. He was tired. He wanted the letters, not coffee. He could feel a wave of irritation rising in his gut. Press on, woman, press on.
But when not in the servitude of others, Madame Martineau took her time, and she sat down opposite him with a smile, placing her scissors down on a table. Although not one normally to notice such things, Ashby was struck by her beauty.
‘You have honoured our agreement, which is good, because I place great sway by it.’ She sat back, rubbing her flank. ‘I have been ill this past week, as women often are, but unlike the ladies we stitch for, there’s no lounging on cushions for working girls. Even now in such a state of nerves, I must work through the night for my customers. They make such demands, but miss an order? Never.’ She poured a whisky, creasing her eyes in pain. ‘At least sixteen gowns to be delivered by dawn. These ladies know no bounds. The flimflam of the fashion world, monsieur.’
She leant forward and poured herself a coffee, then passed another one to Ashby. Neither tasting the drink nor rejecting it, he pleaded, ‘You know it’s not coffee I’ve come for. The letters please, Madame, which you say are so very delicate. I must make haste. It’s already midnight and I must rise early tomorrow.’
Madame Martineau stood up, flattening her dress as she did, and reaching up high to a shelf, took down a neat bundle of letters which were tied with a bright-blue ribbon. The paper was flesh-coloured, flocked, and with a highly distinctive monogram shot through with gold, like a crest. The monogram said simply, ‘M’, but the pattern it made on the paper wasn’t simple at all. The monogram was voluptuous in its curves, almost Romanesque in its ambitions. Ashby paled because he recognised the paper at once. It was the Duke’s personal notepaper, of that there was no doubt.
‘You know, monsieur, I run a number of other services which many of the parliamentarians are only too pleased to use. Perhaps you, too, sir, have needs? You only have to say the word.’ Her pause was complacent as she sat down again. Ashby watched the letters still clutched to her bosom. She leant over and took a little nub of sealing wax she kept on a table, along with stamps and string, and rolled it between her finger and thumb, as if a lady of leisure.
‘Despite our best endeavours, it’s strange how little things can unsettle a man, and it’s these unsettling things that I, or for that matter any of my girls, can soothe away, and I offer variety.’ She attempted a smile, but it was barely that.
Ashby thrust out his hand. ‘The letters are all that’s required, madam, I can assure you.’
‘No matter, old man. Calm yourself, for you have grown quite pale. As I said, I never let a customer down.’ She laughed and held out the little bundle for the old man to take, and as he leant forward, she snatched it back.
‘Not so fast, monsieur, pretty please and you shall have them. Indeed, you are a clerk, n’est ce pas ? A little bow would be nice.’
Ashby stood up, slammed the coffee cup down, which went crashing off the tray, and wrenched the letters from her.
‘Why, monsieur.’ Madame Martineau tilted her head to the side with a pout. ‘Why so rough? You had only to ask, et voilà !’
That does it, impudent, insufferable wretch, he thought. Leaping
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