The Sleeping Beauty

She made a sound alarmingly like a snort. “There is no modiste, Mr. Mannion. You confuse us with posh London. There is a dressmaker.”

Helena saw a woman walking on the side of the road stop in her tracks and gape at the passing carriage. Jaw slack, eyes wide, she dropped the basket of baked bread she was carrying. The golden brown loaves rolled in the dust. The woman she had been walking with noticed Helena at about the same time. Her reaction was just as dramatic. She stumbled and stared without any care for manners.

Helena wished she could look away with a haughty lift of her chin, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from them. Miserably, she watched helplessly as the two women ducked their heads together and commenced whispering vigorously.

“Ah, I see the sign,” Adam said, oblivious to the little dramas taking place all around them.

Across the street, the butcher had rushed out of his shop. The thin, fussy tobacconist hurried over to confer with him. Their gazes seemed to blaze clear into Helena’s forehead.

Adam continued, “I’ll bring you inside, but I won’t wait. Can’t stand that sort of thing. Can barely manage to keep my own wardrobe up. What do you say we meet at the tea shop at…oh, say, twelve? We’ll lunch there. If you are too busy and can’t make it, send word and I’ll go ahead without you…Helena?”

She sat motionless. Adam took her hands, his own warm and strong. She fought a sudden desire to fling herself into the protection of his arms.

What would make her have such a thought? Her terror had her too confused to think properly.

“Something is wrong.” Adam’s voice was demanding. “Don’t play the martyr now, for God’s sake. Tell me.”

“The people…” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eye. “They are looking at me, talking about me. They frighten me.”

“Nonsense. They are merely looking at you because you are so lovely today.” She did glance up then, incredulous and painfully suspicious that he was mocking her.

There was kindness in his eyes. True kindness, not a false show or, worse, pity. His well-formed mouth was slightly curved in a smile that was soft and seemed to be genuine.

Her hands felt warmer already. “This is why I never come out,” she said in an emotion-roughened voice. “The gossip. The dreadful staring. I cannot stand it.”

“Well, you see, that’s the trouble.” His tone was low and reasonable, yet without a trace of patronization. “They never see you, and since you live so close, they no doubt find this odd. Now that you appear, they understandably take notice. It is a temporary condition. It will surely pass as soon as they become used to you being about. Come now. Let us go into the dressmaker’s—which, thank you for correcting my error, is not to be confused with a modiste.”

He leaped down and put the box up against the side. With a flourish, he handed her down. Once her feet touched the floor, he held her a moment longer—long enough to bestow a quick kiss on the gloved knuckles. He raised his head and said, “If it’s gossip they desire, that morsel should do nicely to keep them busy for a while.”

She wanted to weep with gratitude. She might have if she weren’t still so afraid. But, somehow, he made it easy for her to ignore curious faces as they walked down the street to the dressmaker’s shop.

The word had apparently spread. Shopkeepers were coming out of their shops, mothers rushing outside with squalling babies, tradesmen pausing—all to stare at her. She could feel their gazes crawl over her like a swarm of slugs.

“Did you arrange to make an appointment?” Adam said. She latched on to his voice, so sensible among the madness growing inside her. She wanted more than anything to flee. It took all her concentration to put one foot in front of the other. Keep your eyes fixed straight ahead. Steady on.

At the door of the dressmaker’s, he paused. “If you don’t have an appointment, then I will wait to see if she will see you. You don’t mind if I do? I know I said I have an aversion to dressmakers and such, but in this instance I shall make an exception, as I’d hate to see you lose the morning to waiting.” They entered, setting the little bell tied over the door tinkling furiously. “I come by it honestly. My aversion, I mean. You see, my mother used to drag me about as a boy when she did her shopping. It was horrible torture for a rambunctious lad.”

His voice was like a touchstone. Helena forced herself to listen, to concentrate on what he was saying. She suspected he was talking to distract her from the churning apprehensions burning in her belly.

How odd that he should come to her rescue. He had been her enemy from the moment he had stepped foot on the doorstep of her house. Now he was her unexpected ally.

A pang of guilt grabbed her. He didn’t even know why it was she feared the village folk, or going out among them. He didn’t know the answers to any of her secrets—all those questions he had admitted plagued him. And still he had been kind to her.

If he knew, it would change things. It would change everything. He would no longer be solicitous, and he surely wouldn’t be cajoling her so effectively out of her terror.

No. One was never kind to a murderess.

Chapter Eight

Adam stayed at the dressmaker’s shop the entire time Helena was being fitted. Lounging in one of the chairs Mrs. Stiles, the proprietor, had dragged in for his use, he accepted tea and selected sweets from an array of biscuits. Helena smothered a smile as she watched him so suavely handle the fuss and bother being made over him with only the vaguest suggestion of how uncomfortable all of this must make him.

Mrs. Stiles and her assistants, Betty and Hannah, were efficient and possessed an astonishing degree of skill. Helena had entered the shop with the intentions of purchasing only a few gowns. When she saw the many sketches and materials to be had, she found she was overcome by a rush of frivolous pleasure that had her ordering far more than she ever intended.

There was luscious silks embroidered with sweet florets, one in a fabulous royal blue that would bring out the color of her eyes vividly. Soft muslins in buttercup yellow, lime and the most extraordinary shade of shimmering peach were perfect for everyday dresses. She had never been allowed to select her own garments, and most of what she had was done up in stuffs and styles not to her taste. She indulged herself in a fabulous binge.

Whether motivated by the heavy amount of Helena’s spending or true kindness, Mrs. Stiles pulled out all the stops and showered Helena with her attention, turning away at least three persons who came in while Helena was there. And she did it all cheerfully, trotting out drawings and quickly sketching up the alterations that Hannah, who seemed to have an impeccable eye for what Helena liked, would suggest.

“This one would look wonderful on you, my lady,” Mrs. Stiles pointed out. “With your height, you would carry off the straight lines most elegantly.”

“In that pale pink crepe!” declared Hannah with a flash of her dark eyes. “No, no. It is too light, too ethereal for such a powdery shade. Try this. See how the weave leaves it loose, so it will drape softly. And the deep rose color would be superb.”

“Yes, I like that,” Helena agreed.

A dour-faced Betty frowned. “Dark burgundy ribbon. Just a touch. You can’t do too much, you’ll ruin the lines. You’re long and need classical styling.” She spoke it without an ounce of inflection. Rather than take it as a sign of her disapproval, Helena gathered that this stoic countenance was Betty’s usual fare. “And no ridiculous bonnets, which are the fashion for reasons I cannot understand. A cap, there, just on the crown. I’ll get the milliner to put a feather in it if you like, but that is all.”

The haberdasher was called in as a favor to Mrs. Stiles, and Helena selected undergarments right from the dressmaker’s shop. Then there were accessories to be ordered. Gloves, reticules and every other manner of feminine decoration were paraded before her. She made her selections sparingly, feeling guilty about the expense, although she knew it to be much less than when her mother would order her wardrobe under the auspices of a French designer named Monsieur Tangrimonde. To Helena’s mind, the man had possessed atrocious taste and been exorbitantly overpriced. And she’d had the most sneaking suspicion that he hadn’t been French at all.

When they were through and the orders had all been written up, she went out to the front of the shop. Adam rose. She felt badly for him having to wait about, especially when he had told her it was such a nuisance to him, but he didn’t look at all annoyed. In fact, he was smiling quite warmly at her, one of those smiles of his that took over every muscle in his face.

Flushed already with the exhilaration of her purchases, she felt the glow inside her burn brighter under this affectionate regard. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked as she fitted her hands into her old gloves.

“I did, but I’m afraid you didn’t. It must have been horribly boring sitting about all morning.”

He shrugged. “It was not the most excitement I’ve ever enjoyed, but it was nowhere near the most boring. One of my friends was invited to see Brummel make his toilette, and insisted I go along. I swear, it took ponderous hours, and we were supposed to act as if each glimpse of his fine cravat-tying was a deep and abiding honor. I almost grabbed the man’s jeweled razor and put it to my wrists, just for some blessed relief from the dullness.”

She laughed and they exited the shop onto the street. Immediately, her good humor wilted. She had almost forgotten where she was. Furtively, she slid her gaze left to right, scanning for onlookers.

Helena went stiff as she walked alongside him, her hand on his arm nearly clawing until she remembered to relax it. He pretended not to notice, but she knew little escaped him.

He said, “I am as stuffed as a Christmas goose from all that they fed me, but you must be hungry.”

“No. I’m too nervous to eat.” A group of women was standing on the corner, trying to appear casual and failing miserably as they sneaked glances at the two of them.

“Nonsense.” Adam noticed nothing. “We’ll stop for luncheon.”

“Really, I couldn’t eat, I—”

“Don’t let’s have a row in public, Helena. You will feel much better with something in your stomach.”

If she couldn’t win this argument with him in the privacy of her own home, she wasn’t even going to attempt it on the streets of Strathmere. Pressing her lips together, she allowed him to take her across the street to a pretty inn with a white door.

They sat at a table by the window. Adam chose it, and she could guess why. If everyone wanted a look at her, they would get their chance. He wouldn’t allow her to cower in front of their rude curiosity.

With him seated beside her, making easy conversation, she found she was actually able to relax. And to her surprise, she did feel better once she had eaten. He ordered for her—a hearty lunch she never would have selected and she ate a good portion of the cold sliced roast beef and potatoes. His appetite returned and he ordered the same platter as she. It was served and devoured by the time it took for her to push her plate away, pronouncing herself able to eat no more.

He picked up his fork and sampled what she had left while they chatted aimlessly. The proprietor served them coffee. Adam ordered a tart for his dessert.

Helena regarded him with a blend of amazement and amusement. Dimly aware that he had done it again—made her forget her self-consciousness, her fear—she smoothed the napkin lying on her lap. “I see why you are always after me to eat. I have never seen one person consume so much food.”