“Stockings.” He sounded bitter. “Can you imagine? They work these children to death to make lace stockings with fancy embroidered clocks on the ankles in the French style for silly ladies.”
Isabel’s chest felt tight with sudden dread. She set down her teacup. “Have you seen the stockings?”
“Not until last night,” he replied. “They left a box of finished clocks behind to be sewn on the lace stockings later.”
They were alone in the breakfast room. Isabel got up and rounded the table to Winter’s side. He looked at her quizzically until she placed her foot on the chair next to his and lifted her skirts.
“Did the clocks look like this?” she asked quietly.
He’d frozen, staring at the dainty pink, gold, and blue embroidery on her ankle. It was oversewn onto a stocking that was white lace from the sole of her foot to over her knee. Delicate, enormously expensive lace, sold for a fraction of what it would cost elsewhere. She’d been a fool.
Then his eyes rose to hers. “Where did you get those?”
She let her skirts fall and lowered her foot to the floor. “My lady’s maid, Pinkney, got them. I’m not sure where, but I know she was thrilled by the price.”
His mouth tightened grimly. “Could you call her here, please?”
“Of course,” she said, keeping her tone calm as she crossed to the door and gave the order to the footman outside.
Winter was terribly angry, she could see. Silly ladies. Did he think she was one of those silly ladies he’d spoken of? The ones who never cared who made their stockings as long as the style was the latest? Well, she was one of those ladies, wasn’t she?
She sank into her chair, waiting for Pinkney.
He didn’t say anything else, instead staring at the table between his hands, a line incised between his brows.
The door opened to the breakfast room and Pinkney came in. “You wanted to see me, my lady?”
“Yes.” Isabel folded her hands in her lap. “I want to know about the lace stockings you have been buying for me.”
Pinkney’s pretty forehead wrinkled. “Stockings, my lady?”
“Where did you get them?” Winter asked, his voice dark.
Pinkney’s blue eyes opened wide, a mixture of confusion and fear in them. Winter looked quite daunting at the moment. “I… I… that is, there’s a little shop on Baker’s Street, my lady. The shopkeeper has the lace stockings in back. One has to know to ask for them.”
“And how did you know?” Isabel asked.
Pinkney shrugged helplessly. “One hears rumors of such things, my lady. Where to find the latest kid gloves, what cobbler makes the finest heeled slippers, and who has lace stockings made in the best French fashion at half the price. It’s my job, my lady.”
Pinkney looked at them with an odd sort of dignity, for she was quite right—it was her job and she did it well.
“Thank you, Pinkney, that will be all,” Isabel said quietly.
The lady’s maid curtsied. “Yes, my lady.” She turned to leave the room.
“Wait.” Isabel swiftly lifted her skirts again and rolled down both stockings, removing them. She held out the limp bits of silk lace to the lady’s maid. “Burn these along with the others, please.”
Pinkney’s mouth had dropped open when Isabel lifted her skirt in front of Winter. Now she snapped it shut. “Of course, my lady.”
She took the stockings and fled.
“Why did you dismiss her?” Winter asked abruptly. “She might have known more if we’d questioned her.”
“I doubt it.” Isabel shook her head. “She’s a superb lady’s maid, but I think all the minutia of her position—the things she just enumerated—take up every available bit of her mind.” Isabel shrugged apologetically. “She’s not that interested in anything outside of fashion.”
Winter shoved back from the table. “Then I shall go and visit this shop on Baker’s Street. Perhaps the shopkeeper can give me more information.”
“But what about Christopher?” Isabel asked. “Don’t you have lessons for him today?”
Winter turned and glanced at her from the door. “Indeed I do, but his mother, it seems, had other plans. I was told that she took him away on some errand very early this morning.”
“What—” Isabel began, but he was already gone.
That was odd. Louise visited Christopher only once a month—if that—and usually only for an afternoon. She rarely woke before noon, let alone rose from bed.
Sighing, Isabel ate her luncheon. Should she have vetted all the clothes that Pinkney brought to her? Made sure they were made in legitimate workshops? Or should she simply give up fancy lace stockings, heeled slippers made of gold cloth, gowns that took months to embroider?
She could dress like a female monk, ban all color from her life… and go quietly mad within the week. She liked extravagant gowns, pretty underthings, clocked stockings, and all the other fripperies that Winter no doubt frowned terribly upon. She could no more stop wearing them than a peacock could divest himself of his feathers.
Well, then this was yet another reason that they couldn’t marry. Even if Winter truly did love her, he couldn’t help but be disgusted by her delight in clothing and jewels. It was yet another nail in the coffin of their affair. They simply were not matched in any way.
Isabel wrinkled her nose and mashed what remained of the cheese under her fork tines. She should be glad to find one more reason to give him of why they should not, could not, would not marry, and yet all she felt was a dismal roiling in her tummy. Her brain was convinced, but her heart rebelled.
The door opened and Isabel turned, glad of a diversion from her gloomy musings.
Louise swept in, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling, her golden hair highlighted by a pink ribbon rosette, and—if Isabel weren’t mistaken—she wore a new dress. “Oh, Isabel, the most marvelous thing has happened! I’ve found a protector and he’s given me a house. I can take Christopher to live with me by the end of the week.”
Isabel’s mouth opened, but no words emerged. Louise continued to chatter about her new protector, and the house she would soon have, but it was as if her voice were muffled.
Isabel had accepted the responsibility of Christopher only reluctantly and because really there hadn’t been anyone else to look after him. He’d been a burden, an innocent reminder of Edmund’s infidelity and her own barrenness. She should be glad that Louise had finally found a way to take care of him herself. A child needed his mother, and Louise, no matter how flawed, was Christopher’s mother.