“It’s my business to know.”
“Yes, but how did you learn it?”
He speared another pin through her unfinished hem.
“I suppose you were born with the talent,” she said. “You must have been, to be so gifted.”
“Sadly, no. I had to be taught like anyone else. Apprenticed to someone who rapped my knuckles and boxed my ears. In the beginning, I was a hopeless case.”
“You were apprenticed to a habit-maker?”
“An old tailor in Delhi.” He drew back to examine his work. Brow furrowing, he adjusted one of the pins.
“You are from India, then?”
He glanced up at her. “Hadn’t you realized?”
“I suspected, but . . . I confess, it was hard to be sure. You don’t look like the other Indian gentlemen I’ve seen since I came to London.”
A smile edged his mouth. The same smile he’d given her when they’d parted at Hatchards. As if he was amused by her. “Have you seen so many?”
“A few,” she said, on her dignity.
“Servants?”
She regretted bringing up the subject. It seemed he was teasing her. No doubt he thought her the veriest country bumpkin. “A footman,” she answered at last. “He was dressed in crimson livery, following after his mistress in Bond Street.”
“That would be Mrs. Perkins. A soldier’s wife, lately returned from Calcutta.” Mr. Malik resumed his work. “Some of the memsahibs like to bring back souvenirs.”
Evelyn stilled. “Do you mean people?”
“You sound appalled.”
“I am appalled. A person isn’t a souvenir. You can’t simply pluck someone out of their life and bring them to another country.”
“No? How do you suppose I came to be here?”
She stared at him, shocked at the very idea of it. “That didn’t happen to you, surely?”
The look of amusement faded from Mr. Malik’s face. “No. It wasn’t quite the same.” He slowly folded the edge of her skirt before pinning it. “My cousin’s father was a British soldier. When her mother died, he brought her to England. She was frail and sickly, little more than eight years old. He knew nothing about how to care for her. So . . . I came with them.”
“To look after her?”
“As much as I could. I was but a child myself at the time.”
Warmth curled in Evelyn’s belly. She hadn’t thought it possible to admire him more. “Is this the same cousin you bought the novel for at Hatchards?”
“The very same. She’s enjoying it tremendously, by the way. She was grateful to you for the recommendation.”
“You’ve told her about me?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And it was, Evelyn supposed. Indeed, it was quite a small thing, really. And yet, it felt significant somehow. His cousin was a part of his life. The same cousin he’d accompanied from India. The one he’d looked after for all of these years. “What about your own parents?” she asked. “They can’t have approved of your leaving home so young.”
He stopped pinning. “I had no parents.”
“Do you mean to say that you were orphaned?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He looked up at her. “My father was a British soldier, too. I never knew him. As for my mother . . .” A shadow darkened his face. “She died shortly after I was born.”
Her heart swelled with sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost my parents, too.”
He gave her a dry smile, as fleeting as it was brittle. “It was a long time ago. But thank you.”
She sensed she’d hit a nerve. That her questions had probed into something he never spoke of—never thought about. Something dark and painful. It hadn’t been her intention. “I expect your tailor was grieved to lose you,” she said lightly.
Her words had the desired effect.
Mr. Malik uttered a short laugh. “I’d wager not. I hadn’t as much interest in stitching men’s waistcoats as I had in designing ladies’ gowns. Mr. Khan was glad to be rid of me.”
“Is that when you learned to be a habit-maker? When you came to England?”
“Yes, though not formally.” He seemed little inclined to elaborate.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I know it’s none of my business.”
He shrugged one broad shoulder. “It’s no great secret.” He pinned another section of her habit skirt. “When I arrived here, there was little employment to be had, save the kind that required brute strength. I was only fifteen, but already quite tall and strong. A woman encountered me as I sought work on the docks and offered me a position at a house she ran in the East End. She allowed me to bring my cousin with me—to share room and board. It was the only opportunity of its kind.”
“She wanted you to sew?”
“No. She wanted me for the same reason the men at the docks did. For my size and strength. It was my job to throw out the men who misbehaved and to see that no one gained admittance who wasn’t welcome.” He was quiet again for several seconds. “A bullyboy, they call it. A chucker-out.”
She’d never heard either phrase before. “I don’t understand. What kind of place—”
“It was a house of ill repute, Miss Maltravers.”
Her mouth nearly fell open. She dropped her voice. “A house for courtesans, do you mean?”
“Nothing so exalted as that. But yes. They were working women.”
It was all she could do to keep her countenance. Great goodness. He’d worked in a brothel. And not only worked there. He’d lived there, too.
If he was embarrassed by the fact, he didn’t show it. He merely continued pinning her skirt.
“They served as models for my early designs,” he said. “If a hem tore, or a bodice needed taking in—or letting out—I’d see to it for them. Sometimes I’d make alterations. Little adjustments to improve the appearance of their gowns. In time, I could make their gowns over completely.”
“You taught yourself all of this?”
He sank back on his haunches. “I had the basics from Mr. Khan, but as for the rest . . . yes. I suppose I did. Fortunately, there were enough women about at Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment who didn’t mind my practicing on them.”