Gather the anarchists, p.1
Gather the Anarchists, page 1
Gather the Anarchists
GRACE DESIGNS MYSTERIES
BOOK THREE
TILLY WALLACE
Copyright © 2023 by Tilly Wallace
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ePub ISBN: 978-1-7385845-6-7
v16102023
Cover design by Melody Simmons
Editing by Kat's Literary Services
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Contents
Synopsis
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Historical notes
Also by Tilly Wallace
About the Author
This royal visit is going to end with a bang…
Edward, the Prince of Wales, is about to step foot on Kiwi soil, and Grace is frantically finishing gowns for her wealthy clients to wear at the balls thrown in his honour. But then a horrible accident and a dying man’s last moments draw her into a conspiracy to harm the prince.
As Grace follows the strands of a last memory, she discovers there is a patchwork of conspirators all with grudges against England and the royal family. This plot has unravelled beyond her group of friends, and if she’s going to hem in the anarchists and save the prince, she needs help. There’s only one person she can turn to…Detective Archer.
Can Grace discard her differences to confide in the policeman with their common goal of saving the prince, or will there be an explosive end to the royal visit?
This book uses British English, a dollop of Downunder slang, and a scattering Kiwi idioms
Chapter One
Thursday, 15 April, 1920
My heart pounded so rapidly in my chest that I worried it might explode and ruin the delicate aqua silk in my hands. I closed my eyes and drew a breath.
Everything will be fine, I reassured myself.
Every minute of the evening had been planned and gone over for potential flaws more times than any military campaign. Nothing would go wrong. Mrs Cooper, my formidable mentor and general of the event, would never allow it. If Mrs Cooper had been put in charge of the Gallipoli landing, our troops might have fared better.
“It’s perfect, Mrs Devine. You can leave it alone now,” Etty’s voice came from my side.
“Are you sure?” I got off my knees and narrowed my gaze at the ensemble. I thought it was perfect, but would our guests? Did I need to move the sash just a fraction more to the left? Or perhaps we should have chosen a different shoe in a darker hue of navy.
“I’m sure. Let her go and wait with the others.” Etty waved the model to the door. The promotion to my second in command, or workroom manager, had brought out a new confidence in Etty. She fussed over the models like a broody hen and had no problems with giving me a peck to move along!
The evening of my little showing to celebrate the opening of the new space had finally arrived. After hiring two more seamstresses full-time, and enlisting Mrs Mac, who usually designed the costumes at the Cricket, the five of us had managed to produce twelve complete outfits to unveil to a select audience. The gowns were intended to delight my clients and, I hoped, give flight to their imaginations as to what we could create together. I also hoped the wealthy women would gossip like fishwives and spread the word that Grace Designs was a force to be reckoned with in the world of fashion in New Zealand.
We had laboured for two full days to transform the workroom. The cutting table had been pushed to one side of the room and it now held drinks and nibbles and a gorgeous central display of flowers. Mrs Cooper’s staff circulated among the guests, carrying silver trays holding champagne and teeny mouthfuls of food. Curvaceous chairs with plush velvet padded seats were arrayed in a semi-circle. We used the new fitting rooms to get the models ready, then they would walk into the workroom and parade in front of the guests before returning to change outfits.
We had four girls of similar build, all drawn from Etty’s friend circle. Mrs Cooper had drilled them in how to walk and turn, and they now glided across the floor like French models. Each model had a dedicated fitting room with her three outfits for the evening, and Etty and I would swoop as soon as the girl had finished her circuit of the room.
Sam stood in the lobby, leaning on the curved reception desk. Dressed in a navy suit that bordered on black and with a silver watch chain draped from waistcoat buttonhole to pocket, she was the image of suave elegance. “Ready to start? That lot have finished their first drinks and are onto their second.”
I drew a deep breath. The time had come to affix the bayonet to my rifle and go over the top, as our lads did during the war. If they could charge across the battlefield in the face of hostile fire, I could face thirty sets of critical eyes on the home ground of my atelier.
I nodded. “Ready.”
Sam took hold of my hand and squeezed. “It’s going to be an incredible night. I am so proud of you.”
Love for my friend overrode the panic building inside me. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Or without everyone who has supported me.” From Mrs Cooper with her unwavering belief and not-so-gentle prodding along, to Dad, who turned the old boarding house into an atelier. Sam, who always had my back. Etty, the most amazing assistant who now blossomed as my right-hand woman.
The four models lined up, ready to sashay into the workroom. We had hired a quartet of musicians who sat beside the cutting table and played soft jazz music. The lullaby drifted through the building and soothed my nerves as I hummed along to the tune.
The door at the end of the hall cracked open and Harry appeared, wearing a tweed suit offset with a deep cerise tie and a matching pocket square. He had healed from the horrible beating he sustained in a dark alley, and the experience made us closer friends. He looked dapper and a tad nervous, clutching a wad of cardboard cards. When the librarian heard about the planned fashion showing, he volunteered to narrate the evening. I had written out details of each outfit for him that he would read as the girl displayed the clothing.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
I nodded, too nervous to talk. Sam thrust a glass of champagne at me, and I took a quick sip. But not too much. It wouldn’t pay to get drunk when I might need to fix a hem quickly or offer intelligent conversation to a potential client.
Harry kissed my cheek and walked back to the open door.
“Ladies,” he called their attention to him. “You are in for a divine treat this evening. We start with this bold daywear look in vertical navy blue and white stripes. The business-like collar is alleviated by the playful lace around the edge.”
The first model walked into the room. Harry’s voice carried over the gasps and murmurs. I couldn’t look. We had to ensure as soon as the model finished, we were ready to hustle her into the fitting room, peel the clothes off her back, and dress her in the next outfit.
The daywear looks all incorporated outerwear with a selection of coats and capes. Harry kept up his steady commentary as the display moved into the late afternoon and then evening wear—both informal and formal. These delicious creations were what the guests had really come to see. I thought we had outdone ourselves, pushing to the very edge of fashion. One gown revealed knees. Knees! I hoped no one would faint at the sight.
The evening passed in a blur of fabrics. When one girl finished her slow circuit, she came back to a fitting room where Etty and I pounced like tigers waiting in long grass. I couldn’t stop myself tweaking the hang of chiffon here, or the placement of a drape there. Etty had to almost haul me backwards and gesture for her friend to go.
Soon, it was time for the ultimate piece. My flight of fancy and one of pure extravagance—the fantail evening gown. The tail feathers spread out behind the model like a peacock’s tail dragging on the ground, but a cunning arrangement underneath allowed them to be swept up when dancing and held to one side. We had spent hours embroidering each fabric feather with metallic thread to create the effect of the rachis down the middle and the vane. We used muted colours like the little bird, but they still conveyed warmth and richness. Feathers in a rich bronze covered the bodice, and they ruffled gently up to the collarbone. The model looked like a fantail turned human by magic.
“Oh,” I whispered when I stood back. Unable to say more, I held my hands to my face. For me, this gown was a true labour of love. The inspiration was the chatty little bird who flitted past me as I walked in the Botanic Garden. How I wished I was the one wearing it. What a dream it would be to dance the night away with a handsome partner while wearing my special evening dress.
“She’s beautiful,” Etty said as her friend straightened her back and took slow and measured steps through the doorway.
I couldn’t look as she made her way into the workro
Gasps rippled back along the hall. Then came the applause. Pure joy flooded through every part of me, and I threw my arms around Etty.
“We did it,” I said.
Harry shot out into the hall and held out his hand to me. “Come on, your turn now.”
Oh…no. I didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention. Before I could decline his request, Sam grabbed hold of my other hand and the two of them hauled me towards the door. It seems I would face my clients and guests after all.
“Ladies, may I present the extremely talented woman behind tonight’s showing…Mrs Grace Devine,” Harry said. Then, with a sweep of his arm, he stood to one side to reveal me. Sam let go and gave me a friendly nudge to propel me into the room.
The guests clapped, and some called out bravo. Mrs Cooper beamed like a Cheshire cat. Not knowing what to do, I dropped a curtsey. Tears misted my eyes. I couldn’t remember being this overwhelmed and happy since the midwife laid a newborn Theo in my arms.
Mrs Cooper’s staff circulated with trays of macaroons and other sweet treats as the guests rose for a closer look at the designs. The models held poses. My staff wheeled the other gowns in on their headless forms and positioned them around the room.
“Well done, my girl.” Mrs Cooper took my hand and kissed my cheek. “You are a triumph. They shall talk of nothing else this week.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Mrs Cooper. You did a marvellous job on the models, and I am ever so grateful for your staff working this evening.” I gestured to the two maids carrying trays.
“I consider it an investment. I rather fancy the idea of eventually letting this entire building to you, but you need to grow large enough to afford the rent.” She grinned and toasted me with her glass.
The cunning woman. All those years mentoring and encouraging me just to ensure she had a tenant for one of her properties! How many seamstresses would I need beavering away to occupy the entire building? I laughed at the idea, certain that she had joked with me. Hadn’t she?
“Now, go and take new commissions from these ladies while they are all giddy from champagne and your glorious designs.” Mrs Cooper nudged me in the direction of a group of four well-heeled ladies.
One lady, a slender blonde, was Miss Fleur Belmont. A shining light on the Wellington social scene. She was a dream to dress. Although her taste was more conservative than Mrs Taylor, one of my favourite clients, who chatted loudly in another corner. The other three women were potential clients, invited to the evening by Mrs Cooper, and they all appeared acquaintances of Miss Belmont.
“I hope you enjoyed the evening, ladies,” I murmured as I approached.
“Fabulous, Mrs Devine. I have my eye on the striped daywear, in my signature colours, of course,” Miss Belmont said.
Her signature colours were a range of dreamy pinks through to lush fuchsia. “I think I have just the fabric. Would you care to make an appointment with Miss Doyle to discuss the details?”
I indicated Etty, who carried the appointment book ready to round up as many keen customers as we could handle.
“Absolutely, Mrs D. My friend Violet is frightfully keen on a dress or two, as well.” Using the hand clutching a glass of champagne, Miss Belmont tapped her knuckles against the arm of the woman beside her.
“Which gowns caught your eye, Miss Steadman?” I had memorised names and Mrs Cooper’s descriptions of the potential new clients, so I could address them directly. Miss Steadman had a similar pale colouring to Miss Belmont but lacked the few extra inches of height her friend possessed.
“I rather liked the skirt and blouse combinations, and there was an evening dress with lemon beading that was stunning,” she said, with a bright sparkle in her eyes.
The third of Miss Belmont’s friends was a curvy brunette with a dour look, as though she found the entire evening boring and not to her taste. From what Mrs Cooper had told me, she was a Russian emigree, and her family were fabulously rich. Wealthy or not, I refused to let one grumpy person diminish my excitement for the evening and concentrated on those who wanted to discuss fabrics, embellishments and possible alterations. My mind swam with a kaleidoscope of colours and combinations, and I was sure that tomorrow would bring a terrible headache from the overindulgence of all the wonderful things. Rather like when Theo ate a whole stick of candy floss.
Etty scribbled notes in the appointment book and had a feverish grin whenever I caught her eye. I could burst. Everything had turned out so marvellous.
The evening neared its end as I approached Mrs Taylor, who stood by the window staring at the lane below. She beamed as I neared. “Brilliant showing, Mrs Devine. An absolutely lovely collection. But perhaps a little too conservative for my taste.”
I laughed. “You are a rarity, Mrs Taylor. Your clothing is at least two seasons ahead of the trend. Most women are nervous forging the path and much prefer to follow.” I adored designing for the close friend of Mrs Cooper. While not a conventional shape and over fifty, she had a zest for life that embodied every piece of fabric draped on her form.
“Do say you have something special tucked away for me?” She winked.
“I may have a bold, geometric print in burnt orange and rust that will make a stunning autumn day outfit.” I often bought fabrics with clients in mind, then crossed my fingers that they fell in love with them. While we were late to consider autumn clothing when that season was already upon us, Mrs Taylor could wear such an outfit on any chilly day.
“I already have an appointment for next week. We shall discuss it then.” She patted my arm.
The guests took their leave, and Mrs Cooper’s maids tidied away the glasses, plates, and trays. We packed everything into boxes to load into Mrs Cooper’s travelling vehicle for the trip back to her home.
In the fitting room, I helped the last model from her gown.
“Thank you for your hard work this evening,” I said as I undid the row of shell buttons. “We might not be in London, but I think we can hold our own here in New Zealand.”
“I think we are better, Mrs Devine. You work hard here, and you can get ahead. Over there, the aristocracy keeps everyone down.” Bridget held her hair out of the way as I found the last button at her nape.
Mrs Cooper often regaled me with tales of her life in England as a minor noble. It all sounded horribly complicated with who had to curtsey to whom, or who could walk into dinner first. The pecking order was set in stone, but at least with chickens, you could rise in the ranks.
As I helped Bridget out of her dress, my hand grazed her shoulder. In the excitement of the evening, I had grown careless about touching exposed skin. The memory leapt from her torso and burrowed into my mind.
A man with shining eyes took my hand. “You wait and see. We’ll show the world. Never again will England keep honest men down and stomp on our heads. We will break free of her chains.”
The vitriol in the man’s voice was a dose of cold water on my mood. Luckily, my silence was easy to mask as I placed the dress back over the naked form in the corner and the model stepped into her own clothes.
Chapter Two
Friday, the next day, was a subdued one in our workspace. The excitement of the previous night had left a weary silence in its wake. I decided to take advantage of the rare lull and popped out for some fresh air and to run some errands. First, I visited the Kostas Bakery and purchased a well-deserved afternoon tea for my employees. Then I set out to find someone in particular.
A man in his early thirties and of a slight build stood on the corner. Stubble clung to his jawline. Hatless, he instead had a beaten tin crown pressed onto his unruly light brown locks. “I am your true prince! Celebrate my arrival in Wellington!” he yelled at the passersby.
