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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 no seamstresses. They have all taken
the day off. I’d almost forgotten