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Rose, though, tilted her head up to look at Emmeline. “I’m Rose Jones now?”
Emmie chuckled. “Yes, dear. Rose Jones.” For the next hour or two, anyway.
“This is very complicated,” the little girl observed, and wandered off in the direction of a selection of bonnets and hair ribbons, still muttering “Jones” to herself.
That might have gone more smoothly, but, Emmie reminded herself, this was new to both of them. The strategy she and Mr. Pershing had concocted on the way to London had been about gaining the children. What to do with them afterward had been a much smaller portion of the discussion.
As Mrs. Palorum measured the waif and jotted down her dimensions, Emmeline divided her attention between the little girl and the collection of small-sized hats and bonnets the shop boasted. To think, she’d never really spent time noticing such things before, though until now she hadn’t had any reason to do so.
The already-made muslin dress that fit Rose was a pale green rather than pink, but at least the girl wouldn’t have to go about London wearing the shapeless, worn gray smock given her by St. Stephen’s. The way the little one twirled about in front of the dressing mirror pinched her heart a little, and she turned around to find the dressmaker watching her.
“We’ll need a few things sent to us early tomorrow morning,” she said, as Mrs. Palorum abruptly began digging through bolts of fabric. “The rest can be sent on to Winnover Hall in Gloucestershire.”
“I’ll send for two of my girls,” the dressmaker said, nodding and turning again to make further notations. Despite her girth, the woman was a whirligig. “We’ll have a day dress or two and something for a nice evening all ready for you first thing. I have a night rail that will fit, I think, and I’ll order another. Where should I send the items in the morning?”
“We’re staying at Pershing House on Leicester Street just now,” Emmie answered. “With some dear friends.”
“How nice that they’re here to welcome you, even with the Season well over,” the large woman commented.
“Yes, it is. Especially with young Rose joining the family.”
The price quoted, eleven pounds fifty, was exorbitant. It seemed Mrs. Palorum suspected their tale to be not entirely true. As it wasn’t, Emmeline gritted her teeth in a smile, and handed over the money. “And an extra pound,” she said quietly, handing over a coin, “if you see to it that the pink and yellow dress is the first one finished.”
“It will be indeed, Mrs. Jones.”
That was that, then. One task, finished. “Come along, Rose,” Emmie said, offering a hand to the little girl and accepting the bundle of night rail, hair ribbons, old shoes, and gray smock in the other. “We’re off to Pershing House.”
As she passed the counter, she noted that the plate of cookies sat empty. No wonder Mrs. Palorum had such a round figure; the dressmaker must have eaten twenty of the treats, since young Rose had only taken one of them.
CHAPTER FIVE
Will sat in the small Pershing House foyer, young George Fletcher on the bench beside him with as much space between them as the lad could manage without tipping onto the floor. “Are you certain you don’t wish to see where you’ll be sleeping tonight?” he suggested for the second time.
“I’m waiting for Rose,” the boy returned again, shifting a little and flexing his fingers around the mouth of the cloth sack holding his possessions, held on his lap. “I look after her. Why is that fart-catcher staring at me?”
Landon, standing stiffly at his post by the front door, stirred, cheek twitching and jaw clenched. “I am not… one of those,” the servant said crisply. “I am the butler. And while the master remains in the foyer, so do I. As for the staring, I was not informed the house would be entertaining… guests.”
That pause had a great many questions attached to it, but the house was Emmeline’s realm, and he would leave her to decide what the servants needed to know, and what they should say if questioned by the neighbors—or more likely, given the time of year, the neighbors’ reduced, off-Season staff. “It’s only one more night, Landon. We don’t expect perfection.”
“Mrs. Pershing does. And I do. We have only opened the two main bedchambers. Will more be required?” The butler sent another pointed look at George.
“Yes. Please air out the two southerly rooms,” Will decided.
“Of course, sir.” With a nod the butler stirred again, glancing at the front door as if he expected it to fall off its hinges if he stepped away.
“I’ll remain here until Mrs. Pershing’s arrival,” Will said. “She will not have to open the door herself.”
“Very well, then.” With an audible sigh Landon vanished in the direction of the kitchen and the servants’ quarters.
Will cleared his throat. “Are you hungry? I could send to the kitchen for a bite.”
“Rosie and I eat together. Is it two o’clock?”
Will pulled out his pocket watch. “Four minutes till.”
“If that frigate sold my sister to gypsies, I’ll go find J—”
“No one is selling anyone, George. I promise you that.”