green
silk slippers, and, of course, a shawl and fan and a beaded reticule.’ She
paused to look carefully at her niece as all this finery was added to the pile
being boxed up for delivery. ‘Though what we can do about your hair I cannot
think. I will send for Michel just as soon as we return to the house.’
If Georgie
thought that meant her shopping was done and they were returning to Holles
Street, she was to be disappointed. They did not arrive there until well after
noon, by which time they had been to the Pantheon Bazaar and several other
establishments and her purchases included two or three gowns for morning calls,
a dimity undress gown for wearing on the rare occasions when she would be at
home, a carriage dress and jacket for excursions in her aunt’s barouche and -
if she was lucky enough to be invited - rides in the phaetons and curricles of
those gentlemen whose attention she had engaged, a new riding habit in ruby red,
for her aunt declared the one she had was worn to a thread, shoes, boots,
petticoats, shawls, a pelisse and a domino of green velvet with a satin-lined
hood. These, together with Felicity’s earlier purchases, which had been even
more extravagant, had taken every penny she had from the sale of Paget’s
Pegasus and Bright Star. While she was left wondering how soon she could expect
another transaction quite as good, her aunt was sending out for the hairdresser
Mrs Melford had recommended to her.
Monsieur Michel
arrived soon after they had taken a light luncheon and his reaction to being
instructed to do something about Miss Paget’s hair was to throw up his hands in
horror and declare, ‘C’est impossible! It eez...’ow you say?... a bush.’
‘Then she must
wear a wig,’ Mrs Bertram said.
‘A wig!’
shrieked Felicity. ‘Oh, Aunt, wigs went out years ago. Georgie will look a veritable
antidote.’
‘A leetle one,
like ‘er own ‘air, perhaps,’ Monsieur suggested. ‘I show you.’ And he delved
into his bag of brushes, combs and powders, and brought out a switch of hair,
which he fastened under Georgie’s own hair with a comb and let it fall on
either side of her face in loose ringlets. The result was striking; it made her
face seem wider and softer, though the false hair was much darker than her own.
‘It doesn’t
match,’ she said, unwilling to admit that it was an improvement.
‘No,’ he agreed,
looking at her shorn locks; one minute they seemed a rich brown chestnut, the
next, auburn, and, when caught by the light, a real ruby-red. Never had he seen
such colouring; if only there had been more of it to work with...’ He sighed.
‘You must dye your ‘air, mam’selle.’
‘No, I will
not. Find a match.’
He sighed. ‘It
will be difficile, mam’selle. The couleur, it is not ordinary.’
She laughed.
‘Then I shall start a new fashion for short hair.’
She did not
know how he did it, but on the evening of the ball, when she was being helped
into the green gown by Fanny, Monsieur Michel arrived with a hairpiece which
was as near a match as made no difference and she sat with a powder cloak about
her shoulders and watched in the mirror as he transformed her.
She hardly knew
herself when he had finished. With a topknot of her own hair hiding the ends of
the false ringlets so that they blended perfectly, a touch of pearl powder on
her cheeks and with the garnets which had belonged to her mother about her
throat, she had to own that the boyish look had gone and in its place was a
lady of fashion, as feminine as anyone could wish, except for her height.
Nothing could be done about that but she carried it well and it made her look
stately, almost regal. Fanny laid a gossamer shawl about her shoulders and
handed her the cotton gloves which would hide her hands and told her fervently
that she would be the belle of the ball and if someone did not offer for her,
then they needed their cocklofts looking into. Georgie, slipping her feet into
the delicate satin
silk slippers, and, of course, a shawl and fan and a beaded reticule.’ She
paused to look carefully at her niece as all this finery was added to the pile
being boxed up for delivery. ‘Though what we can do about your hair I cannot
think. I will send for Michel just as soon as we return to the house.’
If Georgie
thought that meant her shopping was done and they were returning to Holles
Street, she was to be disappointed. They did not arrive there until well after
noon, by which time they had been to the Pantheon Bazaar and several other
establishments and her purchases included two or three gowns for morning calls,
a dimity undress gown for wearing on the rare occasions when she would be at
home, a carriage dress and jacket for excursions in her aunt’s barouche and -
if she was lucky enough to be invited - rides in the phaetons and curricles of
those gentlemen whose attention she had engaged, a new riding habit in ruby red,
for her aunt declared the one she had was worn to a thread, shoes, boots,
petticoats, shawls, a pelisse and a domino of green velvet with a satin-lined
hood. These, together with Felicity’s earlier purchases, which had been even
more extravagant, had taken every penny she had from the sale of Paget’s
Pegasus and Bright Star. While she was left wondering how soon she could expect
another transaction quite as good, her aunt was sending out for the hairdresser
Mrs Melford had recommended to her.
Monsieur Michel
arrived soon after they had taken a light luncheon and his reaction to being
instructed to do something about Miss Paget’s hair was to throw up his hands in
horror and declare, ‘C’est impossible! It eez...’ow you say?... a bush.’
‘Then she must
wear a wig,’ Mrs Bertram said.
‘A wig!’
shrieked Felicity. ‘Oh, Aunt, wigs went out years ago. Georgie will look a veritable
antidote.’
‘A leetle one,
like ‘er own ‘air, perhaps,’ Monsieur suggested. ‘I show you.’ And he delved
into his bag of brushes, combs and powders, and brought out a switch of hair,
which he fastened under Georgie’s own hair with a comb and let it fall on
either side of her face in loose ringlets. The result was striking; it made her
face seem wider and softer, though the false hair was much darker than her own.
‘It doesn’t
match,’ she said, unwilling to admit that it was an improvement.
‘No,’ he agreed,
looking at her shorn locks; one minute they seemed a rich brown chestnut, the
next, auburn, and, when caught by the light, a real ruby-red. Never had he seen
such colouring; if only there had been more of it to work with...’ He sighed.
‘You must dye your ‘air, mam’selle.’
‘No, I will
not. Find a match.’
He sighed. ‘It
will be difficile, mam’selle. The couleur, it is not ordinary.’
She laughed.
‘Then I shall start a new fashion for short hair.’
She did not
know how he did it, but on the evening of the ball, when she was being helped
into the green gown by Fanny, Monsieur Michel arrived with a hairpiece which
was as near a match as made no difference and she sat with a powder cloak about
her shoulders and watched in the mirror as he transformed her.
She hardly knew
herself when he had finished. With a topknot of her own hair hiding the ends of
the false ringlets so that they blended perfectly, a touch of pearl powder on
her cheeks and with the garnets which had belonged to her mother about her
throat, she had to own that the boyish look had gone and in its place was a
lady of fashion, as feminine as anyone could wish, except for her height.
Nothing could be done about that but she carried it well and it made her look
stately, almost regal. Fanny laid a gossamer shawl about her shoulders and
handed her the cotton gloves which would hide her hands and told her fervently
that she would be the belle of the ball and if someone did not offer for her,
then they needed their cocklofts looking into. Georgie, slipping her feet into
the delicate satin
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