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The trouble was, she’d never spent much time conversing with children. She would figure it out; she’d once successfully orchestrated a dinner with both the Prince Regent and the Duke of Wellington while convincing each that he was the guest of honor, after all.
“We’ve arrived, Mrs. Pershing,” Roger’s voice came from above them in the driver’s seat. “The dressmaker’s. And the tailor is just down the street.”
Emmie leaned over and unlatched the door. “Very well. The coach will circle back around for us, yes?”
Her husband nodded. “George and I will manage a hack.”
“Rose and I will meet you at Pershing House at two o’clock, then, shall we?”
“Wait,” George said, sliding forward on the seat. “We ain’t going together?”
“I’ll be taking you to a tailor, my boy,” Mr. Pershing said. “Trousers, breeches, waistcoats, shirts, and coats. Not very exciting, and nothing in pink or yellow, but we’ll make do. And then shaved ices.”
“I’m supposed to look after Rosie,” the boy countered, scowling. “She’s just a baby.”
“I’m not a baby, Georgie. I’m five years old. And I want a pink gown.”
Reaching out, Emmie touched the back of George’s clenched fist. “I give you my word that I will look after your sister. And that you will be returned to her company by two o’clock this afternoon.”
He gazed at her, green eyes serious and unblinking, before he spit on his palm and held it out for her to shake. Oh. Generally, she would have refused to touch anyone who spit on his hand, but this was, she sensed, an important moment. Emmie pulled off her glove, dry-spit into her own hand, and shook the little boy’s.
Before she could decide what to do with her unsavory damp palm, Mr. Pershing pushed open the coach door and stepped down, holding out his own hand to help her to the street. “Well done,” he whispered, and slipped her his handkerchief.
Emmie nodded as Mr. Pershing rejoined George in the carriage. He’d complimented her before, of course, but this felt more… personal. That made the boy’s spit she surreptitiously wiped from her hand more tolerable, though she had no idea why children seemed determined to drool on her.
As the coach continued down the street to its next destination, she pulled open the door of Mrs. Palorum’s Gowns for Ladies. She’d never visited the Knightsbridge shop before, as it was firmly in the center of a community of bankers and merchants and solicitors—a clientele who simply didn’t move within her social circle. And that was precisely the point. There would be no one to gossip about running across Emmeline Pershing with a young girl dressed in rags.
“Oh, welcome, welcome!” a plump, impossibly red-haired woman said, swishing out from behind the counter of the shop and wearing what, if she’d been feeling uncharitable, Emmie would have described as a harlequin’s tent. “I am Mrs. Palorum.”
“Hello,” Emmie returned, while Rose scooted behind her skirts, her small hands grabbing into the light blue material. How odd, to have gone from being a complete stranger to a trusted protector in twenty minutes’ time. “We have need of several gowns for my daughter here. Demure, tasteful, and at least one of them must be pink with yellow stripes.” She twisted around to view the girl behind her. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”
Rose, her face still buried in skirts, nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice muffled. “And a matching bonnet.”
“Ah. I understand perfectly. Do you have specific occasions in mind? That does help with the decisions on style and material.”
Hmm. “At least one gown fit for al fresco dining, two for formal dinners, three—no, four walking gowns, and four for mornings at home. And nightwear, of course.”
The hands detached from her derriere. “That’s so many gowns!” the little voice said. “How many is it?”
“Eleven, plus a night rail.” Emmie recalled the spit she’d just acquired from Rose’s brother. “Two night rails.”
“That’s diamond! I’ll be all the crack!” Rose exclaimed, jumping up and down on her toes. “Can they all be pink?”
“No, they cannot,” Emmeline returned, smiling and deciding to ignore the street-sounding slang. Thus far being a parent wasn’t so difficult. Clearly, she’d spent too much time worrying about her ability to manage young ones, and for no good reason.
“I may close the shop early today,” Mrs. Palorum chortled, swirling back behind the counter for paper and a measuring string. “There are biscuits on the table there, dears. Do help yourselves.”
“Oh, biscuits.” Rose lifted one off the tray and had it halfway to her mouth before she froze, casting a glance up at Emmeline. “I want a biscuit, but I want a shaved ice, too. I never had one of those.”
“Then you may have one biscuit.”
The five-year-old favored her with a broad smile. “Thank you, Mama.”
Oh, goodness. That alone made Emmie want to give her an entire bakery of biscuits. Still smiling, she turned to see Mrs. Palorum looking from her to Rose, a quizzical look on her face. Rose was dressed in rags, after all, and she… well, she was dressed like the mistress of one of the finer homes in Mayfair.
“I should explain,” she said aloud. “I am Mary Jones. My husband and I just adopted Rose, here.”
“How wonderful,” the seamstress exclaimed, clapping her hands together.