Chapter 14

"Your father's given you the money. He wants you to look pretty for Lord Peter at the ball," Anne's mother said, handing Anne a purse.

Anne looked at it in surprise. Her father was not usually so generous, though knew Anne it was more to do with impressions than kindness. Her father wanted her to marry Lord Peter, even as she had given him a decidedly unfriendly welcome when he had come to visit her.

"But I don't want a new dress. I've got plenty of dresses," Anne replied, looking up from the snug in which she was sitting – her favourite place to read in the corner of the drawing room.

To her great disappointment, the baron had not received quite the comeuppance she had hoped for in the novel she had just finished reading. After the struggle above the waterfall, he and the hero had fallen into the pool below, and the hero had been too busy struggling out of the water in search of the heroine to both much about the baron. Anne had resolved to write a far more satisfactory novel herself. One in which the baron-like character would be suitably punished. A villain should always be punished – that was how these things worked, or so she told herself.

"But it's the Charlton Lodge ball, Anne. You've got to have a new dress. You can't wear just anything," her mother replied, in tone suggestive of an obvious conclusion.

Anne sighed. She knew there was no point in arguing. Her mother was only conveying what her father had obviously told him to, and taking the purse, she rose to her feet reluctantly.

"Do I really get to choose, Mother? Or will you come with me and choose for me?" she asked.

The countess smiled.

"No, Anne. You can choose your own dress. I won't stand in the way of that," she replied.

This was a small mercy, and Anne was at least glad to think she had some choices in her life – if only in terms of haberdashery. It was not long before she and Helen were riding in a carriage towards Mayfair, to pay a visit to Anne's favoured modiste.

"What colour dress might you choose, my Lady?" Helen asked, as they pulled up outside Zagrebe's – a fashionable emporium, frequented by society ladies.

"Purple, I think. I've not had a purple dress before," Anne replied, thinking of the associations the colour had with magic and charm – purple was often the colour worn by the heroines in her penny novels.

She was not thinking about Lord Peter. His impression of her made no difference. But instead, she was thinking of William, and had noticed him pull out a purple handkerchief on their first encounter in the marketplace. It was a small detail, but it gave her pleasure to think on it, and now she stepped down from the carriage, intending to use her father's money to buy the dress she wanted, and not that of anyone else's desire.

"Good morning, Lady Miller, is it for the Charlton Lodge ball?" Miss Zagrebe, the proprietress asked, as Anne and Helen entered the shop.

Miss Zagrebe was a voluptuous woman, dressed in a flowing red silk gown, with a large fascinator on her head, made of peacock feathers. She had provided many dresses for Anne over the years, and now she ushered her into the inner sanctum of the shop, where dozens of different dresses were hung, waiting to be tried.

"That's right, Miss Zagrebe – I'm sure I'm not the first lady to come on such an errand," Anne replied, and the modiste smiled.

"No, my Lady, you're certainly not. And what colour might you seek?" she asked.

The dresses around the room were arranged by colour and shade, so that red gave way to orange, then to yellow and green, into blue, indigo, and violet – the colours of the rainbow. It was a pleasing arrangement, and Anne pointed to the end of the spectrum, keen to try anything with a purple hue.

"Indigo, I think – or violet, perhaps," she said, as Miss Zagrebe pulled several of the dresses from the racks.

These were merely samples, and the modiste boasted an impressive number of assistants who stitched and sewed long into the night to satisfy the demands of her demanding customers. Anne would choose the colour and style, and Miss Zagrebe would do the rest.

"Yes, I think those colors would work on you, and your measurements haven't changed since last time," the modiste said, looking Anne up and down.

This was a compliment – Miss Zagrebe could tell a lady's measurements just by looking at her. She knew the measurements of every aristocratic young lady in town – knowledge she prided herself on possessing. Anne smiled. She did not particularly enjoy choosing dresses. In the pages of her novels, the women were always effortless in their fashion, perhaps because the books were written by men who knew nothing of such things. A heroine was always impeccably dressed, and without any effort or difficulty on her part. Real life was different, and Anne knew well enough the struggle to look her best.

"What do you suggest, Miss Zagrebe?" Anne asked, for she knew the modiste liked to be asked her opinion on matters of fashion.

Miss Zagrebe held up several offerings, narrowing her eyes and tutting.

"No, no, these won't do. They're not right, let me see…" she said, talking as much to herself as to Anne, who glanced at Helen, hoping her maid would reassure her as to the choice she would make.

"I rather like…purple, the different shades," Anne said, thinking again of William's handkerchief.

"I do like the purple, my Lady – it certainly suits you," she said, and Anne nodded.

"I like it, too. I like this one," she said, just as Miss Zagrebe, tossed a particularly pretty dress aside.

The modiste looked at her in surprise.

"You like this one, my Lady?" she asked, with a tone of scepticism, as she retrieved the dress from the pile.

Anne did like the dress. It was modest, with lace trim at the sleeves, and a high neckline. The colour was a deep purple, quite like William's handkerchief, and Anne could picture herself wearing it at the Charlton Lodge ball, the skirts loose enough for dancing, though not long enough so as to be trampled on.

"I do, yes. I'd like to try it on, if I may," Anne replied.

The modiste nodded, and Anne and Helen were ushered into the changing area, where a large plush curtain in red velvet was drawn across, and Miss Zagrebe returned to the front of the shop.

"She's such a snob, my Lady," Helen whispered, for it was well known Miss Zagrebe liked to be the one to make the final decision over what the women who came to her wore – even if they themselves did not realize it.

"I want to wear something I like – not something meant to impress the likes of Lord Peter," Anne replied, though it was not Lord Peter she wanted to impress.

She had noticed William's purple handkerchief and had wanted to choose a dress he would notice – if he was even there. She feared he might simply disappear, for she had heard nothing from him – or of him – in the days since their encounter outside the inn. Anne was curious about William – an apparent gentleman with prestigious connections, and yet he was known to no one in Society, as far as she could gather.

"It'll need a little alteration, my Lady. But it looks very fine on you," Helen said, as Anne admired herself in the mirror of the changing area, twirling the skirts back and forth and nodding in agreement.

"Then we'll take it," she said, as Helen drew back the curtain.

Miss Zagrebe was waiting at the front of the shop, whilst an assistant was hurrying back and forth with the discarded dresses, hanging them back onto the rainbow shaded racks. She looked Anne up and down, nodding curtly.

"Are you certain about this, Lady Miller?" she asked, as though the matter was one of life and death.

Anne nodded.

"I am, Miss Zagrebe. I'll take it, thank you. Will you make the necessary alterations and have it sent to my father's townhouse," she said.

Miss Zagrebe nodded.

"As you wish, my Lady," she replied, and Anne nodded.

"She's so pompous. You'd think she was doing us a favour by deigning to sell one of her precious dresses," Anne said, as she and Helen left the modiste a few moments later.

"She's always been like that, my Lady," Helen replied, shaking her head.

"Well…at least I've chosen my dress. Do you think it'll meet with approval?" Anne asked.

She knew it was a leading question, and Helen looked at her in surprise.

"The approval of whom, my Lady? Your mother and father? Lord Peter Ulverston? Or someone else?" she asked, and Anne blushed.

"I think you know," she said, for she did not want to embarrass herself, even as she could not stop thinking about William and her hope of seeing him again.

Her thoughts about him had become more pronounced in recent days – he represented an alternative, and more than that, a choice. It was William, not Lord Maximilian Oakley, or Lord Peter Ulverston, or any of her mother and father's preferences, she wanted, and she hoped he would want her, too. William represented possibility – the possibility of making her own decisions, and it was a possibility Anne was determined to seize.

"Don't put all your eggs in one basket, my Lady. You've only met him twice," Helen replied, as they climbed into their waiting carriage.

"Don't put a dampener on things, Helen," Anne replied.

"I'm only thinking practically, my Lady. I'd hate to see you upset. It's those penny novels you read – they give such a false sense of what's true," the maid said, shaking her head.

Anne sighed. Helen was right. In the pages of the books she read, it was always so easy. The man and woman met, they fell in love, and that was that. There was never any foil to the proposal, and no question of a happy outcome. But real life was different, and Anne wondered if she would ever see William again – let alone in her purple dress.

"Well…we can only hope. But come now, I need some new gloves – the elbow length sort. I couldn't bear another moment with Miss Zagrebe. I want to choose my own. Let's go to the Bewdale Arcade," Anne said.

The Bewdale Arcade was a fashionable set of shops, built between two streets in what had once been an alleyway. Now, it was transformed with marble and lights, and covered by a glass roof, reminiscent of the Parisian arcades, with their endless rows of shops and fashionable outlets.

"We could visit Puton's, my Lady. There's not a finer glover in all the city," Helen said, and the matter was settled.

Their carriage pulled up outside the entrance to the arcade, where a liveried steward stood to ensure only the right sort of person was admitted to the hallowed precincts. As they passed, he gave a curt bow and tipped his hat, smiling at them as they stepped into the marbled interior beneath the glass walkway. All manner of exquisite goods could be purchased in the arcade – shoes and confectionary, millinery and lace, dainty cakes and biscuits, dresses and ball gowns. The window displays were a feast for the eyes, and Anne and Helen marvelled at everything they saw.

"Look at these fascinators, Helen. I've never seen such exotic plumage," Anne said, as they looked into one of the windows, where brightly coloured feathers festooned the display.

"And look there, my Lady – the hats," Helen said, pointing across the marbled floor to another window beyond, where dozens of hats – some with brims wider than any doorway – were displayed.

But as Anne turned, she was startled – and delighted – by the sight of none other than William Baker himself. He was standing alone in front of a gentleman's outfitters, inspecting a display of silk waistcoats in the window.

"Look, it's Mr. Baker," Anne exclaimed, a shiver of expectant delight running through her.

It seemed strange to find him alone – where was his companion? The man – Digby Kirkpatrick – had introduced himself as some sort of mentor, and Anne was curious as to why William should be alone – surely, he had a valet or manservant to accompany him under such circumstances. For a moment, she watched him, uncertain of what to do. The sight of him made her heart beat fast, and she was all of a flutter at the thought of speaking to him.

"Shall we approach him, my Lady?" Helen asked.

Anne detested being chaperoned, even as she knew it was an unavoidable burden. In her penny novels, the heroines so often did precisely what they pleased, with no regard for social convention. But social convention mattered – certainly to Anne's mother – and she had already taken a considerable risk in visiting the market alone to buy the loaf of bread.

"I want to, yes," Anne whispered, even as she was uncertain what to say.

"Don't startle the poor man, my Lady," Helen said, even as Anne was lost in thought as to how to approach him.

"Good morning, Mr. Baker – William. No…that sounds too formal, but then…it should be. Mr. Baker, I… I'm glad to see you again. No, I'm happy to see you again. Delighted? We were just passing…but we weren't, were we? Are you shopping? Why else would you be gazing into a shop window? I see you've chosen something to wear for the ball. But gentlemen don't need to choose. They wear the same things, albeit in slightly different permutations. Mr. Baker, how nice to see you…" Anne thought to herself, trying to decide what to say, even as she knew she could not stand gawping at William indefinitely.

If William turned around, he would see her watching him, and as much as it delighted her to do so, Anne knew he would think her rather odd to be doing so. Taking a deep breath, she approached, not wishing to startle him, as he continued to gaze at the display of waistcoats.

"How am I to choose between the cuts, I've never worn a…oh, my goodness," William exclaimed, as Anne touched him gently on the elbow.

He turned to her in surprise, and she smiled at him, blushing at having interrupted his musings.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. We were just shopping for a pair of gloves – for the Charlton Lodge ball, our invitations arrived yesterday," Anne said, and William smiled.

"Ah…yes, I was just doing the same," he said, glancing back at the window display.

Anne was surprised. Whilst women were expected to wear a different dress for just about any occasion – and woe betide them if they did not – a gentleman would dress in precisely the same way, whatever the occasion. A frock coat and tails, purchased when a young man entered society could – with the care of a good valet – last a lifetime. Did William not possess such items himself?

"Something new to wear?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Ah…yes, there's not much call for waistcoats and finery in Lancashire. And we're far more provincial up there. One comes to London, and…well, the choice…" he said.

Anne felt embarrassed. She had made an assumption about him. In London society, there was no question of new dresses, gloves, hats – anything desired – but in the provinces, things were surely different, and now she pointed to a purple waistcoat with red trim.

"I like that one. My own dress is the same colour. We've just come from Miss Zagrebe's," Anne replied.

The purple waistcoat was the most expensive in the window, but cost was not something Anne ever had to consider. She had little concept of money – her father would pay for anything she needed, and whilst her tastes were modest, extravagance was well within her grasp. William looked at the waistcoat and nodded.

"Yes…it's…very nice," he said, and Anne smiled.

"Oh, do buy it then – we'll match if you do. Wouldn't that be marvellous?" she said, imagining the look on Lord Peter's face at the sight of them together.

In this, Anne knew she was playing a dangerous game. The possibility of scandal was always present. The matchmaking between her and Lord Peter would already be known of in society, and she would be expected to appear on his arm at the Charlton Lodge ball, the happy and expectant bride to be. To be seen with William would be a talking point – scandalous, even – though Anne did not care. She wanted to be seen with William, if he wanted to be seen with her…

"I…well, yes, if you like it," he said, glancing at the waistcoat, with its expensive price tag hanging from the lapel.

"I adore it," she exclaimed.

"I must say… I do like the colour purple," William said, and Anne felt pleased to have remembered this small detail about him.

"I like it, too. I saw your handkerchief the other day – that's why I chose the dress, you see," she said, hoping he would not think her too forward.

But William only smiled.

"What a wonderful memory you've got," he said, and for a moment, they stood looking at one another, their gaze locked, each of them caught up in the happiness of their chance encounter.

"We mustn't keep Mr. Baker for too long, my Lady. I'm sure he's got important matters to attend to," Helen said, and Anne was brought back to her senses with a startle.

"Oh…yes, forgive me. Are you meeting your friend?" she asked, but Willian shook his head.

"No…he's rather busy today. I'll see him tonight at the inn. I'd better get on with my shopping, but I'm so looking forward to seeing you again at Charlton Lodge," he said, and Anne blushed.

"As am I, and…well, you might hear things about me – my connection to a certain Lord Peter Ulverston, but you mustn't think…well, it's not what others might say," she said.

He looked at her curiously, even as Helen took Anne by the arm.

"Come along, my Lady – the gloves," she whispered.

William gave a curt bow, smiling at Anne, as she and Helen hurried off across the marble floor. Anne kept glancing back, finding William watching her go, his expression one of rapture, or so it seemed. Anne's mind was filled with thoughts of her encounter – had she said the right things? He had been charming, even as she had caught him by surprise. The way he looked at her…

He's quite charming, isn't he? But…oh, I don't know. It's all very odd, isn't it? No valet, living at an inn with…that man, he's rather curious, too. And yet…he's so different from the others. You don't know though, do you? You hardly know him. He's like a character in one of my novels – one only knows what the writer wants to tell. That's the problem, I suppose. I wish there weren't so many rules – I wish I wasn't caught up with Lord Peter, Anne thought to herself, still glancing over her shoulder, as Helen pulled her away.

"Why did you drag me away like that, Helen?" Anne hissed, as they rounded a corner in the arcade.

"Because you were being looked at, my Lady – a gaggle of women to one side were whispering behind their fans, and Lady Allcroft was amongst them. She knows your mother well," Helen whispered, as they turned to look in the window of a confectioner.

Anne sighed. She knew she had taken a risk in speaking to William as she had done. The ability of such women to disseminate gossip was unparalleled, and Anne knew her maid had only been trying to help by pulling her away. She herself had not noticed the women watching her, so caught up had she been in William's gaze, and now she imagined what it would be like to dance together at the ball, even as the spectacle was certain to cause a scandal amongst those same women who had just been watching them.

"Am I forever to be prevented from finding happiness?" Anne asked, as they entered the glove shop a few moments later.

"I hope not, my Lady – but it wouldn't do to seize on the first opportunity presented," Helen replied.

But despite her maid's wise words, Anne could not rid herself of thoughts of William, and what was now their third chance encounter. What would happen when they found themselves together at the ball, and would it be an encounter to serve for something more?