Page 125 of The Siren of Sussex

Beamish and Pennyfeather paused at their work, looking up at Doyle and Ahmad with twin expressions of anxiety.

“And you wish to house them here?” Doyle asked.

“Naturally.”

“What about Beamish and Pennyfeather? What’s to become of them?”

“That depends,” Ahmad said, “on whether or not they’re willing to learn to make my designs.”

Beamish was immediately on his feet. “Mr. Doyle, I heartily object. I won’t be taught my trade by a . . . by a . . .” His face took on a ruddy hue. “By a foreigner.”

“I object, too, sir.” Pennyfeather rose in solidarity with his fellow cutter. “Since Mr. Heppenstall’s death, the tone of this establishment has lowered to such a degree I can no longer—”

“Then go,” Ahmad said quietly. “You’re not obliged to stay.”

“I don’t take my orders from you,” Pennyfeather retorted, his voice wobbling. “I work for Mr. Doyle.”

Doyle sighed. “You disappoint me, lads.” Walking to Ahmad’s worktable, the old tailor picked up a section of the now cut and basted grenadine barege. His gnarled thumb moved over the gauzy weave of the fabric, his expression contemplative. “Did neither of you ever ponder why so many of our customers request that Mr. Malik make their suits? Or why ladies call, demanding he design their riding habits?”

Beamish and Pennyfeather stood mute.

“Our customers recognize his talent,” Doyle said. “And so would the two of you if you had an ounce of talent of your own.” He dropped the fabric back on the table. “It’s why I’ve agreed that he’ll take over on my retirement.”

“Mr. Doyle, no!” Beamish exclaimed.

Pennyfeather surged forward. “You’re not really giving him Doyle and Heppenstall’s?”

Doyle held up a hand. “Mr. Malik has said you can stay. I advise you to consider it. You might learn something of value. But if you can’t bring yourself to work for him, I’ll pay out your wages for the week and bid you good fortune.”

Ahmad had no illusions about which path the two young cutters would choose. They’d never looked at him except with suspicion. Never shown any interest at all in his work. When they stiffly exited the room, he watched them go, unmoved.

“It’s for the best,” Doyle said wearily. “Suit orders have dried up. Perhaps if you—”

Ahmad slowly shook his head. “I have no interest in making gentlemen’s suits anymore.”

“No. Why would you when you can work with fabrics like that?” Doyle’s rheumy gaze rested briefly on the folded grenadine. “Muslins and velvets and sheer silk weaves. It’s a pleasant change from black and gray superfine.”

Ahmad gave him a long look. He recalled all the times he’d caught Doyle examining his work. “Do you really believe that? What you said about my talent?”

Doyle’s face was set in the same bleak lines as it always was. He showed not a glimmer of warmth. “I suppose I do,” he admitted. “Why else would I have agreed to let you have my shop?”

Twenty-Six

A letter for you, miss,” Mrs. Quick said, entering the breakfast room.

Evelyn looked up from the morning paper. She was alone at the table, the remnants of her breakfast arrayed in front of her—cold tea and a half-eaten serving of eggs, toast, and jam. “The post doesn’t come this early, does it?”

“It didn’t come with the post.” Mrs. Quick gave Evelyn the letter. It was little more than a carelessly folded note, sealed with a crude blob of red wax. “A boy brought it round.”

Evelyn was instantly alert. Setting aside the newspaper, she broke the seal of the letter, casting a grateful glance at the housekeeper as she did so. “Thank you, Mrs. Quick.”

Mrs. Quick inclined her head. “I’ll send in a fresh pot of tea,” she said before withdrawing.

Evelyn scarcely heard her. The letter was from Fenny. A hastily written missive in her characteristic scrawl.

Dear Evie,

I should chastise you for interfering, but find I cannot. We were on the brink of despair when your note arrived. How in heaven did you manage to persuade our uncle to part with his money? However you did it, I thank you and Anthony thanks you.