“Here you are,” she said, holding out the slip. “I do hope this little misunderstanding will not affect our future friendship.”
“My dear lady, I cannot conceive of a single thing you could do that would ever make me want to lay eyes on you again.”
Lady Hollingwood paled, watching all her social aspirations go up in flames.
Robert looked at the London address on the paper in his hand, then left the room without even so much as a nod toward his hostess.
Victoria had come looking for a job, the woman at the employment agency told him with an unsympathetic shrug, but she'd sent her away. It was impossible to place a governess without a character reference. Robert's hands began to shake. Never had he felt so damned impotent. Where the hell was she?
Several weeks later Victoria hummed cheerfully as she carried her load of sewing to work. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so happy. Oh, there was still the lingering heartache over Robert, but she'd come to accept that it would always be a part of her. But she was content. There had been a moment of wrenching panic when the lady at the employment agency had declared her unemployable, but then Victoria had remembered the sewing she had done while growing up. If there was one thing she could do, it was stitch a perfect seam, and she soon found employment in a dressmaker's shop.
She was paid by the piece, and she found the work immensely satisfying. If she did a good job, she did a good job, and no one could say otherwise. There were no Lady Hollingwoods leaning over her shoulder complaining that their children couldn't recite the alphabet fast enough and then blaming Victoria when they stumbled over M, N, and O. Victoria rather liked the non-subjective aspect of her new job. If she sewed a seam straight, no one could say it was crooked.
So unlike being a governess. Victoria couldn't have been more pleased.
It had been a dreadful blow when Lady Hollingwood dismissed her. That rat Eversleigh had grown spiteful and spread tales, and of course Lady H. would never take the word of a governess over that of a peer of the realm.
And Robert was gone, so he couldn't defend her. Not that she wanted him to, or expected him to. She expected nothing from him after he'd insulted her so terribly by asking her to be his mistress.
Victoria shook her head. She tried not to think about that awful encounter. Her hopes had been raised so high and then dashed so low. She would never, ever forgive him for that.
Ha! As if he would ever beg her forgiveness, the lout.
Victoria found it made her feel much better to think of him as Robert-the-lout. She wished she'd thought of it seven years earlier.
Victoria balanced her load of sewing on her hip as she pushed open the rear door to Madame Lambert's Dress Shop. “Good day, Katie!” she called out, greeting the other seamstress.
The blond girl looked up with relief in her eyes. “Victoria, I'm so glad you're finally 'ere.”
Victoria set her bundle down. “Is something amiss?”
“Madame is…” Katie paused, looked over her shoulder, and then continued in a whisper, “Madame is frantic. Four customers in the front, and she—”
“Is Victoria here?” Madame Lambert burst into the back room, not bothering to adopt the French accent she used with customers. She spied Victoria, who was sorting through the sewing she'd brought home with her the previous night. “Thank the heavens. I need you in front.”
Victoria quickly put down the sleeve she was holding and hurried out. Madame Lambert liked to use Victoria in the front of the shop because she spoke with a cultured accent.
Madame led Victoria over to a girl of about sixteen years who was doing her best to ignore the stout woman—most probably her mother—standing next her.
“Veectoria,” Madame said, suddenly French, “zees eez Miss Harriet Brightbill. Her mother”—she motioned to the other lady—would like some assistance een outfitting zee young lady.”
“I know exactly what I want,” Mrs. Brightbill said.
“And I know exactly what I want,” Harriet added, hands planted firmly on hips.
Victoria bit back a smile. “Perhaps we might be able to find something that you both admire.”
Mrs. Brightbill let out a loud harrumph, which caused Harriet to turn to her with a beleaguered expression and say, “Mother!”
For the next hour, Victoria displayed bolt upon bolt of fabric. Silks, satins, and muslins—they were all brought out for inspection. It was soon apparent that Harriet had much better taste than her mother, and Victoria found herself spending a great deal of time convincing Mrs. Brightbill that flounces were not necessary for social success.