The good news was I didn’t end up with Karim sitting on top of me. The bad news was I ended up with Mr Ambrose sitting next to me. Very close next to me. I didn’t want to think about how close. His lean body was nearly squashing me against the wall, and there was something hard pressing into my leg which I very much hoped was the end of his walking stick.
Through the window that connected the inside of the coach with the driver’s box, Mr Ambrose threw the cabbie a look. ‘Drive fast.’
The man’s eyes widened. Apparently, he knew who was talking to him. The whip cracked, and we started to move with astonishing speed for a vehicle carrying three times the intended load.
‘Take us to Flemming's,’ Mr Ambrose shouted over the whirl and clatter of the wheels. I had no idea who or what Flemming’s was - hopefully a place where one could get either dresses or onions. I didn’t know if this crazy plan of mine was going to work, but if it was to succeed, I definitely needed all the right equipment.
After a ten-minute drive, the cab stopped in front of a large building with grimy windows and a lot of merchandise crammed together, displayed there. Over the door, large, ornamental letters proudly spelled out ‘Flemming’s’.
I took a close look at the department store. I didn’t know much about fashion, but I knew enough. The frilly, cheap things displayed in the shop window were not exactly what I was after. I looked at Mr Ambrose.
‘I said I needed a beautiful dress.’
‘What’s wrong with those? They’re cheap.’
‘That’s exactly what’s wrong with them.’
I knocked against the roof of the cab. ‘Take us to the best dressmaker in town.’
*~*~**~*~*
The little dressmaker was a hunched figure with a long, hooked nose, remnants of grey hair over both ears and a resplendent waistcoat in blue and gold. He was intent on examining a few rolls of brocade and didn’t look up when he heard the doorbell ring. Only when footsteps approached and the annoying presence of a customer drew him from the contemplation of the masterpiece he was no doubt thinking about creating, did he look up. A frown spread over his wrinkled face and he eyed the slight man in baggy trousers who was standing in front of him - yours truly - with obvious doubt in his eyes.
‘Is there something I can do for you, Sir?’ he asked. ‘Or did you perhaps want to come in through the servant’s entrance?’
‘No.’ I, shook my head. ‘I’m here to pick out a dress for my sister. It’s going to be a birthday present.’
Methodically, the dressmaker took a pair of pince-nez out of his waistcoat pocket, polished them on his sleeve, and clamped them on his nose. Then he studied me like he would a piece of his cloth. Apparently, he found that I was second-hand, with quite a lot of moth-holes, too.
‘And you’re going to pay for it?’ he asked, disbelief dripping from his voice.
‘Oh no. He is.’ Stepping aside, I pointed behind me. A lean black figure appeared from between the shelves and mannequins and strode towards the two of us. In theory Mr Ambrose was dressed quite as simply as I. Nothing about his black tailcoat, black waistcoat or black trousers indicated wealth.
But the arrogance of his dark eyes did.
‘Oh. I see.’ The dressmaker swallowed. ‘And the gentlemen’s names are…?’
‘I’m Mister Linton,’ I answered. ‘And this is Mr Ambrose.’
The pince-nez fell off the man’s nose and his eyes widened. ‘Mr Ambrose? Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded, curtly.
‘Oh dear Sir, please forgive me for not recognizing you on sight. Please forgive me for not properly welcoming you to my humble establishment. You honour me with your presence here!’
‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded curtly again.
‘Once more I beg a thousand pardons. Everything I have, everything I am is at your disposal. What do you wish to see? I have some very fine waistcoats, just came in yesterday from France. Very expensive, but the best, the very best. Please, let me show you…’
‘I’m not here to buy waistcoats,’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘I am here…’ He paused for a moment - gathering his strength, I would imagine. ‘I am here to pay for a dress for this man’s sister. One dress. As pretty and inexpensive as possible.’
The dressmaker blinked, surprised. I would have wagered that not one of his clients had ever before placed an order for a dress they wanted to be cheap. He dealt comparatively well with the new circumstances though, springing up from his stool and bowing deeply.
‘Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Please follow me, Mr Linton. What should the dress be made of? Muslin? Brocade? Silk?’
‘Silk would be perfect. With plenty of lace at the sleeves and the cleavage, and gold embroidery, and little diamonds everywhere.’ I smiled at him. ‘Don’t pay attention to what Mr Ambrose said. The dress needs to be spectacular. Make it demure but… alluring.’
The little dressmaker winked at me and nodded like an overexcited woodpecker, determined to make a new home for himself. ‘I completely understand, Sir. I think I know just the thing. Do you have your sister’s measurements,