coming-out wardrobe.”
“Let us just say that for certain friends, I am willing to extend my design services. No doubt, Cecilia sent you my way because of your coloring and your height. Most of the modistes around here are set up for clients such as Cecilia’s daughter. The ton tends to be partial to tall, slender blondes. You, on the other hand, are dark-haired and quite short.”
“I am petite,” Millie countered with some bite.
Unfazed, Madame Sasha replied, “Yes, but not dumpy. You have a long neck and your bosom is ample but not enough to be considered large.” Aimee and Jennelle looked at each other, wide-eyed as they listened to the woman continue.
“You have a natural grace to you and seem to have a commanding presence despite your size. Your dark hair and the unusual color of your eyes create a remarkable contrast. And even with your obvious athletic ways, you have managed to keep your skin from the sun.” She took another sip of tea. “Yes, there is much we can do here. Is there some young man’s attention you intend to capture this Season? For once I am finished, you will be able to secure any gentleman of your choosing.”
Millie bit her bottom lip and caved in to the compulsion. “Are you serious? Is it truly possible that a dress can make me look tall?”
“Hmm, maybe not tall, but I can make all the other women wish they were short.” She offered a conspiratorial smile to the group. “Now, Evette, my bag.”
For the next two hours, Millie was prodded, measured, poked, and stabbed, but did not mind at all. Madame Sasha turned out to be an adventurer, or at least had been one in her youth. She related story after story of her life before she had come to England. Tales of Russian nobility, interactions with the German Hessians, and late-night romantic escapades in Paris. The only tale Madame Sasha would not disclose was how Aimee’s mother had aided her in becoming a London seamstress with a very particular clientele.
When they left, Millie had no idea exactly what creations to expect, only that they would start arriving within a few days. “Well, that was an experience.”
“Indeed,” replied Aimee. “A most delightful one. I wonder how my mother and she met. Madame Sasha seemed most determined not to say, despite Millie’s clever forays into her past.”
“Jennelle, it is time for you to enjoy the pain of a visit to the modiste,” Millie said, stretching her back to ease her aching muscles.
Jennelle followed them into the carriage. “I do not suppose I can encourage any of you to delay this until tomorrow.”
Millie shook her head. “Certainly not after what I just endured, and I hate such tedious activity. No, it is only fair you suffer as we have.”
“Millie’s right. And the sooner we leave, the faster it will be done and over with. Address, please, Jennelle.” Aimee leaned over to procure Jennelle’s card from her hand and gave it to the footman.
What seemed to be just minutes later, the carriage stopped again in front of another town house. Millie hopped onto the cobblestones in front of a small but much older home.
“Seems your mother has another friend she has helped during a pinch,” Millie murmured aloud as her friends joined her.
Aimee agreed excitedly. “I wonder what type of gem this modiste is. What’s the name, Jennelle? It might give us a clue.”
“Hmm. Melinda Brinson. There is no title.”
Millie raised her skirts and ascended the cracked stone staircase. She clicked an old brass knocker several times. “I hear the crying of a small child. Are you positive we are at the correct address?”
The question was still lingering in the air when a pretty woman in her twenties opened the door. Tendrils of strawberry-gold hair were loose from her braid, and she appeared to be quite harried. “Yes, may I help you?”
Aimee stepped up. “We were sent to meet a woman. Are you by chance Mrs. Melinda Brinson?”
“Yes, I’m Melinda Brinson.”
“Let us just say that for certain friends, I am willing to extend my design services. No doubt, Cecilia sent you my way because of your coloring and your height. Most of the modistes around here are set up for clients such as Cecilia’s daughter. The ton tends to be partial to tall, slender blondes. You, on the other hand, are dark-haired and quite short.”
“I am petite,” Millie countered with some bite.
Unfazed, Madame Sasha replied, “Yes, but not dumpy. You have a long neck and your bosom is ample but not enough to be considered large.” Aimee and Jennelle looked at each other, wide-eyed as they listened to the woman continue.
“You have a natural grace to you and seem to have a commanding presence despite your size. Your dark hair and the unusual color of your eyes create a remarkable contrast. And even with your obvious athletic ways, you have managed to keep your skin from the sun.” She took another sip of tea. “Yes, there is much we can do here. Is there some young man’s attention you intend to capture this Season? For once I am finished, you will be able to secure any gentleman of your choosing.”
Millie bit her bottom lip and caved in to the compulsion. “Are you serious? Is it truly possible that a dress can make me look tall?”
“Hmm, maybe not tall, but I can make all the other women wish they were short.” She offered a conspiratorial smile to the group. “Now, Evette, my bag.”
For the next two hours, Millie was prodded, measured, poked, and stabbed, but did not mind at all. Madame Sasha turned out to be an adventurer, or at least had been one in her youth. She related story after story of her life before she had come to England. Tales of Russian nobility, interactions with the German Hessians, and late-night romantic escapades in Paris. The only tale Madame Sasha would not disclose was how Aimee’s mother had aided her in becoming a London seamstress with a very particular clientele.
When they left, Millie had no idea exactly what creations to expect, only that they would start arriving within a few days. “Well, that was an experience.”
“Indeed,” replied Aimee. “A most delightful one. I wonder how my mother and she met. Madame Sasha seemed most determined not to say, despite Millie’s clever forays into her past.”
“Jennelle, it is time for you to enjoy the pain of a visit to the modiste,” Millie said, stretching her back to ease her aching muscles.
Jennelle followed them into the carriage. “I do not suppose I can encourage any of you to delay this until tomorrow.”
Millie shook her head. “Certainly not after what I just endured, and I hate such tedious activity. No, it is only fair you suffer as we have.”
“Millie’s right. And the sooner we leave, the faster it will be done and over with. Address, please, Jennelle.” Aimee leaned over to procure Jennelle’s card from her hand and gave it to the footman.
What seemed to be just minutes later, the carriage stopped again in front of another town house. Millie hopped onto the cobblestones in front of a small but much older home.
“Seems your mother has another friend she has helped during a pinch,” Millie murmured aloud as her friends joined her.
Aimee agreed excitedly. “I wonder what type of gem this modiste is. What’s the name, Jennelle? It might give us a clue.”
“Hmm. Melinda Brinson. There is no title.”
Millie raised her skirts and ascended the cracked stone staircase. She clicked an old brass knocker several times. “I hear the crying of a small child. Are you positive we are at the correct address?”
The question was still lingering in the air when a pretty woman in her twenties opened the door. Tendrils of strawberry-gold hair were loose from her braid, and she appeared to be quite harried. “Yes, may I help you?”
Aimee stepped up. “We were sent to meet a woman. Are you by chance Mrs. Melinda Brinson?”
“Yes, I’m Melinda Brinson.”
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