“Lady Dover was not a mouse, cowering in the corner. She was a lion; she knew her power.”
Kendra regarded the dressmaker. “If she was trying to get Weston to leave his wife and marry her, why would she risk becoming involved with another man?”
The Frenchwoman’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Jealousy can be an effective tool, oui? If it is used correctly, your lover will do anything to be in your arms. But if you miscalculate . . .”
“So she might have taken another lover to make Weston jealous, and . . . what? It didn’t go according to plan?”
“She is dead, is she not?”
Kendra couldn’t argue with that.
They turned together to walk back through the curtain, but something new occurred to Kendra. She reached out to stop the other woman, noting, “You don’t seem surprised that Lord Weston or someone from the Beau Monde may be responsible for Lady Dover’s murder.”
“Non,” the Frenchwoman replied, and was quiet for so long that Kendra thought that was all she was going to say. But then she continued, her voice a dry whisper.
“I was a young woman in Vendée during the Revolution, you understand. I witnessed greater atrocity than one woman’s murder. Educated men, peasants, clergy, women, children—their blood ran down the street gutters. There was no mercy on either side. It was madness; I had never thought to see such a thing. Never thought to see people—friends, neighbors—behave with such . . . such barbarism.”
She gave a small shrug, and her eyes darkened with past horrors. “But once you do, you realize madness can seize anyone. So, non, I am not surprised. I know what people—all people—are capable of.”
25
By the time they left the shop two hours later, the haunted look in Madame Gaudet’s eyes had been replaced by the happy glow of commerce, thanks to the small fortune Lady Atwood had dropped for Kendra’s new wardrobe. The Countess and Lady Rebecca hadn’t been immune to the siren call of satin and silks, buying several new gowns for themselves in addition to the new wardrobe they’d ordered for Kendra. Kendra could only shake her head, a little baffled by their fascination with shopping.
Most of the orders would be stitched together in increments and delivered over the next few weeks, but they hadn’t left the store empty-handed. They carried boxes filled with hair accessories, beaded and embroidered evening reticules, ivory and feathered fans, three shawls, and a beautiful velvet hooded cloak of midnight blue with a silver satin lining. Madame Gaudet had said an unfortunate merchant’s daughter had changed her mind about purchasing this last piece, but Kendra had to wonder if the woman had changed her mind or simply run out of funds.
“Now I can give you back your cloak,” Kendra said as she and Rebecca walked into her bedchamber with their packages. She’d almost forgotten that more than a month ago, Rebecca had been the one to loan her the green cloak for a funeral. She’d never returned it.
“Do not concern yourself, Miss Donovan.” Rebecca deposited the packages she was carrying on the bed. “Why don’t you give it to your lady’s maid? That is what is usually done, you know. I often give my old dresses to my maid. Of course, Mary has to alter them considerably since she is shorter than I, but she’s a skillful seamstress.”
Miss Cooper wouldn’t even have to alter the cloak, Kendra realized when the lady’s maid arrived a short time later to help unpack the boxes. They were pretty much the same height. But Kendra was taken aback at Miss Cooper’s reaction when she offered her the cloak.
The habitually stern lines of her face fell away in an onslaught of surprised pleasure. “Thank you, Miss Donovan,” Miss Cooper breathed, reaching out to take the garment and stroke the soft material with reverent fingers. “’Tis lovely. I shall treasure it.”
The maid’s gratefulness made Kendra feel awkward, and once again she was reminded of the vast gulf that existed in this era between the classes. She—or, rather, Lady Atwood—had just spent the afternoon ordering dresses that could probably fill up three rooms, and yet a castoff cloak was precious in the eyes of Miss Cooper.
Kendra was relieved when she and Rebecca left the bedchamber for the study.
“Does making someone else happy always give you a sour stomach, Miss Donovan?” Rebecca asked her lightly. “Miss Cooper was grateful for the gift of the cloak. Why do you look as though you just ate some bad fish?”
“I don’t want her gratitude.”
“You’d rather have her annoyed with you?”
“No, of course, not.” How could she explain the guilt that she was feeling? “Doesn’t it bother you how reliant a servant is on the people who employ them?”
Rebecca frowned. “The role of a lady’s maid is a coveted one, and Miss Cooper appears to enjoy her status.”
“Who can enjoy that?” Spending her life in servitude, Kendra thought. Thrilled to receive any hand-me-downs.
“My maid is quite content. And Miss Cooper appears an educated woman. If she’s unhappy, she can hire herself out as a governess. Or she can marry.”
Kendra sighed heavily. “Those shouldn’t be her only choices. And even if Miss Cooper married, what then? She’d be indebted to a husband. And what happens if her husband dies? She’s forced back into servitude, like Mrs. Danbury.”
Rebecca regarded her with surprise. “Who told you Mrs. Danbury was married?”
“No one. I assumed—well, she is Mrs. Danbury. She’s never been married?”
“No. ’Tis an honorary title—a sign of respect for her position as housekeeper.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—this is what I’m talking about. Why would being married make her more respectable, give her more honor?”
“Why do you think?” Rebecca shot her an exasperated look. “What do you think I have been railing against, Miss Donovan? Women hold little value in this society unless they are attached to a man, even a fictitious husband. I have come to believe that our sex must be given the parliamentary right to vote if we ever hope to achieve anything of significance with our lives.”
It struck Kendra that she wasn’t the only one in the wrong time. Rebecca may have been born in this era, but she was an outlier. The women’s suffragist movement wouldn’t be formed for another half a century. And even then, it would be decades before a woman was given the right to cast a ballot. Rebecca would never live to see it.
The thought chilled her, and she determinedly pushed it away as they entered the study.
The Duke, Alec, and Sam Kelly were already there, sitting around a table that held platters and plates filled with cold cuts, chunks of cheese, and brown bread. The men rose at their entrance.
“How was the shopping expedition?” Aldridge asked.
“Successful.” Rebecca gave him an impish smile. “Your purse is considerably lighter now, Your Grace.”