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coverings for her sick child.
    Considering the circumstances of many in her profession, Alexandra believed the report. Yet she was so anxious for work, as most were, that she guiltily hoped such stories would not affect her livelihood. Especially now that she would be on her own. It was likely they would not. Hiring out was an excellent way to garner big profits and was by no means exclusive to Madame Fobart’s. Skirts could be made without fitting and were easy to sew, with primarily straight seams. Production was the key to success, after all, and spring, the busiest of all seasons, was well on its way.
    Alexandra knew better than to call at the front door. She hefted the heavy skirts to her other shoulder and headed to the servants’ entrance in back, but today it took several knocks to rouse anyone from inside.
    Finally the door opened and a willowy servant stuck her head out. “Yes?”
    “I’ve come to make a delivery,” Alexandra said, her voice sounding abnormally loud in the quiet of the afternoon. No doubt Willy would be eager to collect such a large amount once she’d delivered the skirts.
    She only hoped she would be well on her way by then. “I hope I’m not too late.”
    The girl dried dripping hands on her apron. She appeared to be one of the kitchen help, possibly a scullery maid.
    “Time doesn’t matter much today,” she replied. “Almost everybody’s at a picnic in the country with Madame ‘erself. Even most of the servants, except those of us who ‘ad to stay an’ prepare the evenin’ meal.”
    “Oh.” Alexandra’s spirits fell as she realized that her plans to meet Aunt Pauline might be foiled from the onset. “Is there no one here to receive the order, then? I’ve come all this way.”
    The girl looked doubtful. “Mr. Calvert is ‘ere, but I don’t think ‘e’ll see you. Busy with a client, ‘e is.”
    “But he told me to come today,” she said, keeping her voice level. She dared not complain too loudly. Madame Fobart’s manager was difficult to deal with on a good day.
    “I’m sorry—”
    “I’ll come tomorrow.” Alexandra could hardly stifle her disappointment as she started back through the yard. She would never have enough for the train to London now.
    “Wait.” Eyeing her heavy load again, the servant called her back. “I could ask ‘im, but if ‘e sends me packin’ for interruptin’ ‘im, I guess we’ll both know it wasn’t such a good idea.” She flashed an impish smile before retreating into the house.
    Alexandra waited on the step for several minutes, tapping her foot. What could be taking so long? The train to London departed at three o’clock, and she knew, time constraints being what they were, she should be on it.
    Just when she was about to knock again, the door opened, but it wasn’t the willowy maid who poked a head out. It was Mr. Calvert, wearing his usual tight-fitting broadcloth waistcoat and dark, tapered trousers. Surprisingly, his face creased into a smile. “Miss Cobwell, isn’t it? Please, do come inside.”
    He held the door as she passed into a large room just off the kitchen where pegs, normally draped with shawls, lined the walls.
    “It’s Cogsworth. Alexandra Cogsworth,” she corrected, dipping into a brief curtsey.
    “Of course.” He lifted the skirts from her aching arms and set them on a table.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you today, Mr. Calvert—”
    “Don’t apologize.” He waved her words away, baffling her with his uncharacteristic kindness. Madame’s manager was always curt, and frugal beyond belief. Alexandra didn’t like him. He cared not at all that his hammer-tough negotiations resulted in human beings slaving all day for next to nothing.
    “Actually, my dear, your visit is timely,” he exclaimed, dabbing at the perspiration on his hairless brow. “Would you believe the daughter of the Duke of Greystone is standing in the drawing room this very minute with a nasty tear in her skirts? And alas! I have