Then again, Lady Vanewright had acted as though they’d been enemies since birth. Perhaps they’d been raised to be.
“Of course, the viscountess more than repaid Lady Carmichael for stealing the earl.” Mlle. LaChapelle wiggled her brows and lowered her voice to a whisper. “She borrowed him back for a night or two, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean an affair?” Sybil whispered.
“I mean a love child. Lord Vanewright only begat sons, whilst Lord Carmichael only sires daughters. And then suddenly, Lady Vanewright was expecting a daughter of her own. Voilà, c’est Heloise!”
“That’s horrible gossip,” Sybil said in shock.
“I heard it from the viscountess’s mouth herself. She was boasting about having trumped her sister. The daughter is well aware of her parentage. She didn’t blink an eye during the entirety of the fitting.”
“Are they now your clients?” Sybil asked in confusion. “I thought they’d always been patrons of Mme. Blanchet.”
“I was one of her seamstresses once,” Mlle. LaChapelle explained without hiding her bitterness. “I wanted to design frocks, not just sew them, but Madame Blanchet would not hear of it. She never let me make any creative decisions or even cut a single piece of fabric.” Her lip curled at the memory. “No doubt she worried I would take her clients away.”
“Well, wouldn’t you have?”
“Probably,” Mademoiselle agreed with a chuckle. “And then I learnt what peers of the realm were like. Not all of them are horrid, mind. But the wealthier they are, the less compassion they possess.”
“But isn’t it your aim, to be the next Madame Blanchet?”
“To be as successful,” Mlle. LaChapelle corrected her. “We each must define success in our own way.”
Sybil nodded. That was true. It was why Sybil’s dream was a dance at the ball, and not the title of duchess. She didn’t want to give up her current life. She just wanted it to be…a little more.
Ironically, the changes were coming more quickly than expected.
“I’ve been invited to a soirée tomorrow,” she ventured. Invited was perhaps putting it a bit strong, but Lady Vanewright wouldn’t rescind her permission now.
Mlle. LaChapelle glanced up at Sybil with interest. “Is this the gown you intend to wear? It should be ready in time.”
As much as Sybil adored this fluttery robin’s-egg-blue confection, she needed to save it for Vauxhall. The ton were the sort of people to notice if a woman wore the same dress twice in the same Season, much less two weeks in a row.
“I know it’s short notice,” Sybil began. “But is there any chance you—”
“Ah, ma petite puce. I cannot fit in another dress for weeks. I have a waiting list, if you’d like to add your name? It’s free of charge.”
Sybil was more than tempted. The only thing she loved more than lists was the thought of owning two new dresses.
She sighed. “The truth is, even if you had free time, I cannot afford the additional services.”
Mademoiselle gave her a conspiratorial wink. “You may soon be able to afford more than you think.”
Would she? Why? Because Sybil would become the toast of the ton at this year’s Vauxhall ball and soon be mistress of a wealthy lord’s bottomless purse? An improbable turn of events, though Sybil appreciated the vote of confidence.
“What about a dress I could borrow?” she asked with sudden inspiration. “It doesn’t even have to fit right, so long as it looks more expensive than…” She gestured at the neatly folded blue-gray muslin atop a wooden chair. The one that indeed resembled the uniform of the Vanewrights’ maids.
Mademoiselle brightened. “I could have something like that next week, if you’d like to come by on Thursday, perhaps?”
Thursday was reading circle day, and more importantly, well after the Vanewright soirée. Sybil shook her head. She would simply have to make do with what she had.
Mlle. LaChapelle unpinned Sybil from her gorgeous new gown. “This will be ready tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you so much.” Sybil’s old muslin dress somehow seemed even drabber as she tugged it on over her worn shift.
“I know what you can do,” Mademoiselle said suddenly. “Wait here.”
She slipped out of the fitting room and into the reception area. Behind her, Sybil faintly heard a key jiggle in a lock, followed by the creak of stair steps. After a moment, the door clicked closed, and Mlle. LaChapelle swept back into the room with a long strip of intricate, off-white lace in one hand, and a red satin ribbon in the other.
