Free Mulligan's Yard by Ruth Hamilton Page B

them.’ She allowed a small sigh to escape. ‘One of my daughters, perhaps.’
    He nodded.
    ‘The designs will be couturier-based, exclusive and very expensive. There will be no direct plagiarism, naturally, but once new Worths and Chanels hit the fashion press, I shall improvise
and produce items for those who would like to pay rather less than they might in London and Paris. Clients will be interviewed and entertained. Ladies, you see.’
    Again, he inclined his head for a moment.
    ‘This will not be for the general public, you understand.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Each item will be unique. For this sort of thing, the right woman will pay handsomely.’
    ‘I’m sure,’ he said softly.
    He was criticizing her inwardly, she felt certain. It was as if he might even be laughing at her, after all. Women’s fashions were probably not worth considering. ‘There is money to
be made, Mr Mulligan.’ Why could she not stop chattering? He was staring at the wall, was sitting as immobile as a garden ornament. Louisa bit her tongue to prevent any more mindless prattle
escaping from her mouth.
    At last he moved, turning his head slightly and awarding her a half-smile. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That seems an excellent idea. You have skills, as do your daughters.
Women like good clothes and, I suppose, for some functions – weddings and so forth – a lady likes to feel that she can wear a dress in the sure knowledge that no-one else will have the
same. Good, good.’
    Louisa exhaled. She felt as if a teacher had just awarded her the full ten points after a spelling test.
    ‘Mrs Burton-Massey?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Remember I am here whenever you or your daughters might need any kind of help.’
    He had the knack, Louisa decided now, of turning a person’s insides to water. First, there was his very disturbing tendency to say almost nothing. A mind such as his – and, whatever
his beginnings, he had educated himself – was likely to be occupied all the time. Like an assessor of some kind, he would stare at someone, or in the general vicinity of a person, as if he
were calculating value and potential. Then, when he did speak, those honeyed tones seemed to caress and hypnotize his target. ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘You are very kind.’
Was he? Why was she thanking him? Why was she justifying herself? ‘I think it’s time for us to leave,’ she said, in a near-whisper.
    He excused himself and went to the music room. Eliza was completely absorbed in her occupation, and James stood in the doorway for a while, allowing the sound to trickle over him. She made no
mistakes, or so it seemed to him. Like a perfect doll, an automaton, she sat correctly, played precisely, seemed totally occupied by the activity. Eliza was a creature of tremendous beauty, but she
seemed docile, almost without character. This was possibly most men’s idea of a desirable companion, biddable, exquisite, accepting. He cleared his throat.
    Eliza turned, giving her companion the full benefit of a serene face and a neck of palest cream. The complexion was flawless, the eyes were huge, mouth and nose delectable. By no means
impervious to a woman’s charms, James stood still for several seconds. ‘Your mother is ready to leave, Miss Burton-Massey.’
    She blinked several times, as if processing and filing this small amount of information. Then a smile erupted, making the face into the countenance of an angel, beyond beauty, beyond words.
‘Mr Mulligan,’ she said softly, ‘would it be a terrible cheek if I asked to come occasionally to play this instrument?’
    He saw her then, saw what she really was. How many had misjudged this girl so far? he wondered. There was damped-down intelligence behind those eyes. Eliza had moulded herself, he guessed, to
fit with her mother’s pattern, to be the sort of lady Louisa would want to have as a daughter. ‘Of course you may play here,’ he replied. ‘As long as your mother has no