Reynard said. “I believe we must have a private word, madame. Excuse me, Miss Becker, gentlemen.”
He took the modiste by the elbow and guided her past the full-length mirrors and books of the latest fashion plates. Once they had gained some distance, he bent and whispered in her ear. Whatever he said made Madame Lamond cover her mouth with her hand and laugh as though he had suggested something improper. Clara strained to make out what they were saying, but the two were speaking too softly.
Another exchange, then Madame Lamond nodded and they returned to where Clara waited with her brother and Mr. Dubois.
The modiste studied Clara for a long moment, tapped at her cheek with one finger, then gave a decisive nod.
“Yes,” she said. “We can take in the waist and lengthen the hem. And the blue of the silk will complement her eyes.”
“Not blue silk like you are using for my dress, I should hope,” Lady Barlow said, clearly unashamed to admit to eavesdropping.
“Of course not,” Master Reynard said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “It will not be silk like your dress at all.”
Mr. Dubois cleared his throat, covering what sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter.
“You see, maestro,” he said, “your presence is invaluable.”
“Out, gentlemen!” Madame Lamond made a shooing motion. “Before you cause a riot in my store.”
Master Reynard bowed. “We shall not encumber your genius any longer, but expect us to return within an hour and a quarter. Our journey to Brighton cannot be further delayed.”
He, Nicholas, and Mr. Dubois made for the door. The shop quieted as the ladies, led by Lady Barlow, followed the gentlemen out. Clara watched them go, hoping Nicholas could hold his own in such company.
“Come, Miss Becker,” Madame Lamond said. “We have not a moment to waste.”
The modiste immediately set her seamstresses to altering a beautiful blue silk gown that looked ready to hang in someone else’s wardrobe. Lady Barlow’s, if Clara did not miss her guess. She was gratified, in a hot and unkind sort of way.
Madame Lamond produced new undergarments for Clara, then measured her and turned her about. Clara stood in nothing but her stockings and new silken chemise as partially made dresses went on and off her again with such smooth velocity she could scarcely keep count. The next hour was a blur of gorgeous fabrics, bloused sleeves, and necklines trimmed with lace. The modiste and two of her assistants were never still. One of the girls furiously ripped out seams while the other sewed new ones. Their scissors and needles darted, flashing like nimble fish in shimmering seas of fabric.
“Let us see how the fit is,” Madame Lamond said at last, holding the blue silk dress for Clara to step into. The assistants buttoned her and adjusted the skirts while the modiste stood back to view their handiwork.
Another of her girls hurried over. “Madame, Master Reynard and his companions have returned.”
“They may wait,” Madame Lamond said. She turned her full attention back to Clara, and gave a satisfied nod. “Lovely. The dress suits you to perfection—as if it had been made for you from the first. Now, a touch of rouge, a little color for the lips. Hold still, yes, like that. And voila! Come, slip your dreadful boots on. Dear, dear, those need replacing as well. There is a mirror in the corner.”
Clara followed, doing her best to manage the fuller skirts and sleeves. Madame Lamond positioned her before the full-length mirror in an ornate gilded frame.
“Look,” the modiste said.
Clara did—and blinked at what she saw.
Someone she hardly recognized blinked back. Her reflection’s eyes were wide and luminous, the hue of the dress a perfect complement to her fair coloring.
“I…” She set a hand to her cheek, and the elegant woman in the mirror mimicked the action. “Heavens.”
It had never occurred to her that she could look so fashionable, as though she were ready to
He took the modiste by the elbow and guided her past the full-length mirrors and books of the latest fashion plates. Once they had gained some distance, he bent and whispered in her ear. Whatever he said made Madame Lamond cover her mouth with her hand and laugh as though he had suggested something improper. Clara strained to make out what they were saying, but the two were speaking too softly.
Another exchange, then Madame Lamond nodded and they returned to where Clara waited with her brother and Mr. Dubois.
The modiste studied Clara for a long moment, tapped at her cheek with one finger, then gave a decisive nod.
“Yes,” she said. “We can take in the waist and lengthen the hem. And the blue of the silk will complement her eyes.”
“Not blue silk like you are using for my dress, I should hope,” Lady Barlow said, clearly unashamed to admit to eavesdropping.
“Of course not,” Master Reynard said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “It will not be silk like your dress at all.”
Mr. Dubois cleared his throat, covering what sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter.
“You see, maestro,” he said, “your presence is invaluable.”
“Out, gentlemen!” Madame Lamond made a shooing motion. “Before you cause a riot in my store.”
Master Reynard bowed. “We shall not encumber your genius any longer, but expect us to return within an hour and a quarter. Our journey to Brighton cannot be further delayed.”
He, Nicholas, and Mr. Dubois made for the door. The shop quieted as the ladies, led by Lady Barlow, followed the gentlemen out. Clara watched them go, hoping Nicholas could hold his own in such company.
“Come, Miss Becker,” Madame Lamond said. “We have not a moment to waste.”
The modiste immediately set her seamstresses to altering a beautiful blue silk gown that looked ready to hang in someone else’s wardrobe. Lady Barlow’s, if Clara did not miss her guess. She was gratified, in a hot and unkind sort of way.
Madame Lamond produced new undergarments for Clara, then measured her and turned her about. Clara stood in nothing but her stockings and new silken chemise as partially made dresses went on and off her again with such smooth velocity she could scarcely keep count. The next hour was a blur of gorgeous fabrics, bloused sleeves, and necklines trimmed with lace. The modiste and two of her assistants were never still. One of the girls furiously ripped out seams while the other sewed new ones. Their scissors and needles darted, flashing like nimble fish in shimmering seas of fabric.
“Let us see how the fit is,” Madame Lamond said at last, holding the blue silk dress for Clara to step into. The assistants buttoned her and adjusted the skirts while the modiste stood back to view their handiwork.
Another of her girls hurried over. “Madame, Master Reynard and his companions have returned.”
“They may wait,” Madame Lamond said. She turned her full attention back to Clara, and gave a satisfied nod. “Lovely. The dress suits you to perfection—as if it had been made for you from the first. Now, a touch of rouge, a little color for the lips. Hold still, yes, like that. And voila! Come, slip your dreadful boots on. Dear, dear, those need replacing as well. There is a mirror in the corner.”
Clara followed, doing her best to manage the fuller skirts and sleeves. Madame Lamond positioned her before the full-length mirror in an ornate gilded frame.
“Look,” the modiste said.
Clara did—and blinked at what she saw.
Someone she hardly recognized blinked back. Her reflection’s eyes were wide and luminous, the hue of the dress a perfect complement to her fair coloring.
“I…” She set a hand to her cheek, and the elegant woman in the mirror mimicked the action. “Heavens.”
It had never occurred to her that she could look so fashionable, as though she were ready to
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