Six
Milliners were also very much on the minds of Lady Davenham and her cousin. Sir Malcolm Calveley, who stood outside the shop of one such artist, located in busy Oxford Street. “You need not come in with me, Malcolm, truly!” insisted Lady Davenham, giving her escort a little shove. “It will not take me long, I assure you. I know exactly what I want.”
Sir Malcolm cast a knowledgeable eye over Thea’s walking dress of white cambric muslin, worn with a chip straw bonnet and a green sarcenet pelisse. “I know you do, and that is why I intend to accompany you. I am obliging you by attending this rout you have planned—”
“Wretch! It is in your honor,” interrupted Lady Davenham. “If you are thinking someone will recall that old tittle-tattle about why you left England, I wish you would not; a thousand other scandals have come and gone since then.”
“—and in return you must oblige me by attending to my good advice in the matter of your dress,” continued Sir Malcolm, ignoring her protest. “Allow me to give you the benefit of my vast experience in this, Cousin, and I shall cease to feel guilty that I have uprooted you from your bucolic setting.” She did not appear convinced. Craftily, he added: “Unless you wish to display yourself to all of fashionable London looking like a dowd.”
A dowd? Lady Davenham frowned at her reflection in the shop’s plateglass window. Certainly she did not wish to look a dowd. Nor did she wish, as was all too easy with her generous figure, to look like Haymarket-ware. This desire, she explained to her cousin. “Fiddle!” he retorted, and whisked her through the door.
Inside the elegantly appointed showroom, Sir Malcolm paused to take stock. Several stylish ladies were engaged in inspection of a swansdown muff divided into compartments by bands of white satin, and comparing its attractions with those of a muff of Barbary goatskin. Mediating the discussion was a sharp-faced, middle-aged female wearing a gown of lilac merino with a scalloped hem, half-boots of plum-colored kid buttoned on one side, and a cornette of colored satin trimmed with blonde. Sir Malcolm had not exaggerated his knowledge of feminine fashion. Immediately, he recognized a milliner. Inexorably drawing his cousin with him, he approached Madame le Best.
Madame was not without experience of her own. “Pardon!” she said to the chattering ladies, as she detached herself. Monsieur was no stranger to such establishments as hers, she thought, and inquired what service she might provide.
“We are come on behalf of my cousin, Lady Davenham,” Sir Malcolm responded; since Madame le Best was no pretty lass, he was merely polite. Feeling a trifle giddy, Madame gazed upon Monsieur’s alleged cousin, whose expression was at once rebellious and chagrined. “Lady Davenham is in need of a gown for a rout. I have a special sort of gown in mind for the occasion. You were recommended as one who could provide a garment such as I require.”
“As you require?” interjected Lady Davenham, who was not of a mind to stand meekly by while arrangements were made on her behalf. “What of my requirements, pray?”
Sir Malcolm turned on her ladyship the full impact of his smile. “Do you not want to be all the crack, my Thea? Certainly you do, if only to please me!”
Too well did Lady Davenham recall her cousin’s habit of having his own way. “It doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she responded skeptically.
“Comfort! Voyons!” interjected Madame le Best. Monsieur’s cousin, was this lady? Madame thought not. But it was not her habit to inquire into the relationships between her customers and their gentleman friends. Lady Davenham’s costume, she dismissed as provincial. The figure within that costume was less easily overlooked. “Milady is very near perfection,” the milliner murmured. “Très magnifique!”
Sir Malcolm also gazed upon his cousin, who did not appear to appreciate the
Milliners were also very much on the minds of Lady Davenham and her cousin. Sir Malcolm Calveley, who stood outside the shop of one such artist, located in busy Oxford Street. “You need not come in with me, Malcolm, truly!” insisted Lady Davenham, giving her escort a little shove. “It will not take me long, I assure you. I know exactly what I want.”
Sir Malcolm cast a knowledgeable eye over Thea’s walking dress of white cambric muslin, worn with a chip straw bonnet and a green sarcenet pelisse. “I know you do, and that is why I intend to accompany you. I am obliging you by attending this rout you have planned—”
“Wretch! It is in your honor,” interrupted Lady Davenham. “If you are thinking someone will recall that old tittle-tattle about why you left England, I wish you would not; a thousand other scandals have come and gone since then.”
“—and in return you must oblige me by attending to my good advice in the matter of your dress,” continued Sir Malcolm, ignoring her protest. “Allow me to give you the benefit of my vast experience in this, Cousin, and I shall cease to feel guilty that I have uprooted you from your bucolic setting.” She did not appear convinced. Craftily, he added: “Unless you wish to display yourself to all of fashionable London looking like a dowd.”
A dowd? Lady Davenham frowned at her reflection in the shop’s plateglass window. Certainly she did not wish to look a dowd. Nor did she wish, as was all too easy with her generous figure, to look like Haymarket-ware. This desire, she explained to her cousin. “Fiddle!” he retorted, and whisked her through the door.
Inside the elegantly appointed showroom, Sir Malcolm paused to take stock. Several stylish ladies were engaged in inspection of a swansdown muff divided into compartments by bands of white satin, and comparing its attractions with those of a muff of Barbary goatskin. Mediating the discussion was a sharp-faced, middle-aged female wearing a gown of lilac merino with a scalloped hem, half-boots of plum-colored kid buttoned on one side, and a cornette of colored satin trimmed with blonde. Sir Malcolm had not exaggerated his knowledge of feminine fashion. Immediately, he recognized a milliner. Inexorably drawing his cousin with him, he approached Madame le Best.
Madame was not without experience of her own. “Pardon!” she said to the chattering ladies, as she detached herself. Monsieur was no stranger to such establishments as hers, she thought, and inquired what service she might provide.
“We are come on behalf of my cousin, Lady Davenham,” Sir Malcolm responded; since Madame le Best was no pretty lass, he was merely polite. Feeling a trifle giddy, Madame gazed upon Monsieur’s alleged cousin, whose expression was at once rebellious and chagrined. “Lady Davenham is in need of a gown for a rout. I have a special sort of gown in mind for the occasion. You were recommended as one who could provide a garment such as I require.”
“As you require?” interjected Lady Davenham, who was not of a mind to stand meekly by while arrangements were made on her behalf. “What of my requirements, pray?”
Sir Malcolm turned on her ladyship the full impact of his smile. “Do you not want to be all the crack, my Thea? Certainly you do, if only to please me!”
Too well did Lady Davenham recall her cousin’s habit of having his own way. “It doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she responded skeptically.
“Comfort! Voyons!” interjected Madame le Best. Monsieur’s cousin, was this lady? Madame thought not. But it was not her habit to inquire into the relationships between her customers and their gentleman friends. Lady Davenham’s costume, she dismissed as provincial. The figure within that costume was less easily overlooked. “Milady is very near perfection,” the milliner murmured. “Très magnifique!”
Sir Malcolm also gazed upon his cousin, who did not appear to appreciate the
Similar Books
