“Did you mend this?” the duchess asked.
“I did, Yer Grace. The other bits weren’t my work.” She pointed to the patches that Mellie had seen. “It’s not my dress, you see. But I had time to mend the tear here.”
“Good work,” she said as she tilted the sleeve toward Tabitha. The blonde woman adjusted her spectacles then peered closer.
“But she’s a thief.”
“No, miss. I just had some hard times, is all.” Then she swallowed. “Please, Your Grace. Without this work, I will have to turn to… To become…”
She clearly couldn’t say the word, but Bernard could. “It’s this or the workhouse. But she’s got a weak chest. She’d have a better chance as a whore. Or an excellent chance as a seamstress.” Bernard’s voice was hard, but his eyes stayed kind and sad. At least until his gaze settled on Tabitha, who naturally bristled in anger.
“We can’t have a thief or whore here! It’ll dry up the orders quicker than snip.” She clipped her two fingers together like a pair of scissors cutting.
Meanwhile, Lady Redhill was looking about the workroom and shaking her head. “They’ll dry up anyway if we don’t get help. We’re behind on every order.”
Tabitha grimaced. “Then hire some girls. Just not fromhisplace. There are plenty of good girls out there looking for work.”
“But they still need to be trained,” the duchess said. “And she does have a fine hand.”
“Every thief does.”
Eleanor clearly agreed as she said, “Listen to the girl. You’re running a business, not a charity house.” She spoke in an undertone, the words obviously meant for Melinda and no one else. But Eleanor’s voice had a way of carrying, and everyone turned to look at them—Eleanor and Melinda—where they stood witness to what was clearly a private debate.
“I-I beg your pardon,” stammered Melinda. “Perhaps Eleanor and I should look at the pattern books in the front parlor.”
“Unless you enjoy blood sport,” returned Bernard in a dry voice.
“Bernard!” the duchess cried. “Stop being crude! And don’t threaten Tabitha. She’s worth her weight in gold, and I’d be loathe to lose her.”
“Thank you, Your Grace—”
“And I would be sad to see you go over something this trivial. This woman sets a fine stitch. If she cuts as well as she sews, then—”
“Er, that’s my job,” said the man who’d said he wasn’t a whore. “I cut, she sews. We’ll make a fine team.”
“No!” cried Tabitha.
Beside her, Eleanor heartily agreed as she whispered, “Don’t. Just…don’t.” Again, Eleanor’s words were overheard. Lady Redhill shot them a glare over her shoulder, emphasizing to Melinda that they should not be here. So she took Eleanor’s arm and began backing away.
Fortunately, Eleanor did not fight her. But once out of the room, she wasted no time in expressing her opinion. “Good God, how could Wendy be so stupid?”
“To hire a woman who needs the work? And who would be good at it?”
Eleanor huffed out a breath. “I thought you were beginning to understand, but apparently, I was wrong.”
Melinda didn’t bother to respond. She knew that Eleanor would enlighten her soon enough. It took only a few more seconds for the woman to speak.
“Society is about appearances. It is all for show. That’s why we’re making you into the Cricket Princess.”
“Yes, I know, but what does that have to do with them?”
“People flock to this shop because they can then say that a countess and a duchess stitched their gowns. It makes them feel special and allows this shop to charge exorbitant prices.”
Melinda frowned. “Perhaps they come because Lady Redhill designs beautiful clothing.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Of course she does, as do a hundred other designers throughout London. They come here because she is a countess, and Wendy is a duchess. People want them, not a whore.”
“But it is clothing.”