Eleanor set her utensils down slowly. “What did you have in mind?”
Frances lifted a brow. “Why not visit the Royal Menagerie?”
Eleanor blinked. “The menagerie?”
“Yes,” Frances said brightly. “Have you been?”
Eleanor shook her head. “No. I once wished to take my younger sister, Arabella, but it– proved… impossible.” She stoppedherself short of alluding to the memory of her father’s wrath that morning.
Instead, the memory rose unbidden – quick as lightning – Charlotte’s sharp voice, her father’s fury, Arabella’s tears, the quiet punishment that followed for daring to suggest freedom.
It passed in the span of a heartbeat, but she felt the warmth on her cheek as her body recalled the searing pain of her father’s hand whipping across her face.
Frances’s hands pressed to the table softly, breaking the short reverie. “Then it is settled! We must away, my dear. Before we miss the crowd.”
Eleanor’s head tilted slightly, “Crowd?”
The two women rose and separated to dress for the day. They were in the carriage and on the way to Langford House within the hour.
The modiste’s shop stood on a Bond street in a storefront that glittered with glass windows and careful promises. Eleanor had passed it before, years ago, in a carriage that did not slow and under a title that did not grant entry.
Now the most sought after modiste in thetonmet her at Langford House,herhouse, atherrequest. The door to the duchess’s rooms were opened by a young assistant who curtsied so deeply that Eleanor almost reached out to steady her.
“Your Grace,” the woman breathed, eyes shining. “Welco– err I mean, good morning, Your Grace.”
The room smelled faintly of starch and lavender, with a sweetness beneath it that suggested new silk and the quiet indulgence of wealth. Bolts of hand-picked fabric lined the walls in soft, gleaming rows.
A woman with carefully pinned hair and a tape measure draped around her neck hurried forward, her expression alight with professional delight. “Your Grace,” she said warmly. “It is an honor.”
Eleanor dipped her head slightly. “Thank you, Madame Celeste. You may begin.”
The modiste laughed and gestured Eleanor toward a raised fitting dais. “We have prepared several selections, but I confess there is one bolt I am most eager to show you.”
An assistant hurried off, searching the wall for a particular bolt of fabric.
Frances hovered nearby, her eyes dancing as she took in the room. “Oh, the modiste is my favorite to spend money on. I mean who does not love a new frock?” she murmured cheerfully.
The assistant returned moments later with a length of fabric draped carefully over her arms.
The cloth was deep navy blue, the color of evening skies before the first stars appear. Lace lay over it in a delicate pattern that caught the light, pale against the dark satin beneath.
Eleanor inhaled softly. “It is beautiful.”
“It arrived only days ago,” the modiste said, beaming. “You would be the first – and only – to wear it, Your Grace.”
Frances leaned closer her eyes alight with wonder and admiration. “How lovely, Madame Celeste! You have truly outdone yourself with this order. Do take it, my dear. It already looks like it belongs to you.”
Eleanor smiled faintly and nodded. “Yes, you are right,” she said, draping the fabric softly over one of her arms. “I will take one. Evening gown, with matching gloves.”
The modiste clapped her hands in delight, already calling instructions to her assistants.
As the preparations were made, Eleanor eyed the other bolts around the room. “Madame?” she asked softly, and the woman hurried back over to her.
Eleanor steeled herself, assuming the airs of a duchess, and not a baron’s most-hated daughter. Her shoulder rolled back as the modiste stepped in front of her eager to please.
“I find your recent work quite to my taste. I intend to place my entire seasonal order with you. We shall begin with the dinner gowns; I have a preference for the new French silks in lavender and blue. Pray, set a time with my steward for you to bring your sketches and fabric swatches, and we shall map out the rest of my requirements,” she said with a formal tone but polite grace.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” the woman agreed with a conspiratorial smile. “You are my priority, as will all of your fittings be this Season. The Duke of Langford instructed us to ensure you were provided with whatever you desired. It will be an honor to do so.”
