He felt it, too, she could tell. He stilled at her touch, his expression transforming into something like a scowl.
It wasn’t very encouraging.
Dropping her hand, she made one last attempt. “I’m stronger than you think.”
He briefly averted his face. “Strength has nothing to do with it.”
“But it does,” she insisted. “I would endure anything for someone I cared about.”
He glanced back at her, his eyes dark with frustrated longing. “I know you would,” he said. “But I’d never ask you to.”
Twenty-Seven
For the purchase of fake flowers, foliage, and fruits, there was no better warehouse in London than Messrs. Valmar and Richardson in Cripplegate. It was a small establishment by most standards, but one packed full of lavishly exhibited stock.
Hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, Ahmad strolled alongside Mira as she passed from one glass-fronted case to another. Inside were blossoms of every imaginable shade and size. Roses in all their forms—from humble dog roses to the most exquisite of French hybrids—kept company with orange blossoms, jasmine, and lush pink and white camellias.
“May I see this one, please?” Mira asked. “The pale pink?”
The warehouse clerk withdrew the tray of camellias from the case and set it down on the counter. “Is this for a hat, ma’am?”
“A lady’s toilette.” Tugging off her glove, Mira picked up one of the camellias with her bare fingers. The flower petals were nearly translucent.
“It’s made of rice paper,” the clerk explained. “With a flexible stem.”
Mira glanced at Ahmad, her expectant face framed by a stylish little bonnet with an uptilted brim. The wide ribbons were knotted in a large bow beneath her chin. “What do you think?”
He shook his head.
Her lips thinned. She placed the rice-paper camellia back on the tray.
Ahmad wandered to the next case. He stopped to examine a garland of roses through the glass. It was exquisitely made, and uncannily lifelike, all the way down to the touch of brown on some of the leaves.
Mira caught up with him. “Is that more to your taste? It could do nicely for the skirts.”
“No.”
“You mentioned a garland.”
“Of real flowers,” he said. “Not fake ones.” He walked to the next case. It contained a profusion of ivy interspersed with pieces of fruit.
“You haven’t liked anything we’ve seen today,” Mira said, following after him.
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
“Yes, because if you had your way, every gown you design would have the same amount of embellishment as on that black ball gown you made for Lady Anne. In other words, no embellishment at all.” She exhaled a huff of breath. “What is your aversion to trimmings?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like fuss.”
“Fuss is in fashion. Mr. Worth’s gowns—”
“I don’t want to hear about Worth.” Ahmad moved on to the next case.
Mira marched behind him. The swish of her skirts was beginning to take on an air of irritation. “I don’t know why you agreed to come.”
“I needed some fresh air. I thought I may as well accompany you as not.”
“What you need is a good scolding.” She drew him to a display case that stood unattended. Her voice lowered to a fierce whisper. “You’re gloomy all the time now. And you’re working too much. You don’t even take five minutes to eat.”
This was neither the time nor the place for such a conversation. It didn’t stop Ahmad from responding in kind. “Me? What about you?”
She stiffened. “What about me?”
“You’re as miserable as I am.” He caught her bare right hand in his, turning it palm up between them. Her fingertips were discolored. “Ink stains,” he said. “You’ve been writing a great many letters.”
Mira jerked her hand away. “What of it?” She quickly slipped her glove back on. “Letter writing isn’t a crime.”
“Who are you writing to?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Who?” Ahmad demanded. He didn’t like to play the tyrant. But Mira hadn’t been herself lately. Even Finchley had remarked on it. She’d been preoccupied. Distracted by some private anxiety.
Adrift, she’d called it. Uncertain of her place in the world.
Ahmad had tried to anchor her. He’d offered her books to read in her leisure hours. And he’d offered her work. Work that she loved—sewing dresses and busying herself with embroidery designs and trimmings. It had filled her days, seeming to give her purpose.
But nothing, no matter how time-consuming, had yet served to take the cloud of worry from her brow.
She glowered at him. “Must you know all of my business?”
He didn’t hesitate. “If it’s something that’s upsetting you, yes.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m not the one who’s pining. Who’s losing weight from not eating.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You’re beginning to look like a feral wolf. It’s scaring the customers.”
He inwardly grimaced. “They can’t be that scared. They’re still coming, aren’t they?” He’d taken on four new customers in the last week alone.
“Oh yes, the ladies keep coming to you,” Mira said. “No doubt it gives them a thrill, just like it did the girls at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”
“You put our customers in the same class?”
“Why not? You do. You never saw any difference between those women and all the rest of them. They’re one and the same to you. Each just another figure for your designs.” She folded her arms. “Until you met her.”
Ahmad gave his cousin a bleak look.
“Why don’t you go to her?” she asked.
His spirits sank even further. He hadn’t thought it possible. He already felt as low as a man could get.
It had been two weeks since the day Evelyn had last come to Doyle and Heppenstall’s. An entire fortnight since she’d stood in front of him, clothed in the basted pieces of the figured green grenadine barege day dress he’d made for her. Flutings of dark green ribbon had trimmed the bodice and skirt, and there had been a dark green ribbon belt at her narrow waist. She’d looked beautiful. Vibrant as the spring.