Rolling her eyes at her mother’s persistence, Beatrice heard Mr. Carson cough distractedly. Despite explaining to her mother and Charlotte, they’d agreed to tell no one else how they would use one another to find spouses. Although her mother wasn’t entirely approving of the somewhat unsavory plan, she was thrilled her middle daughter had finally agreed to attend a Season of balls, dinner parties, boating events, concerts, and the like. Moreover, her excitement was contagious.
“If not for your inheritance issue, Mr. Carson, I would advise you against going after a lady of title. I haven’t been impressed with those whom I’ve met.”
“Mother!” Beatrice called out. “You cannot base your opinion on the few encounters we’ve had in the shop.” Besides, she would think nothing of pushing her or Charlotte into the arms of some young lord, as long as he professed to be rich enough to support a wife.
“That color is lovely on you,” said the seamstress, turning Beatrice toward the full-length mirror so she could fasten the small satin-covered buttons down her back. “This gown was for a marquis’s wife, but she changed her mind when she found out his mistress wore this exact shade of blue.”
Taking in her reflection, she had to agree with the woman. She looked good in blue. And it wasn’t the palest, namby-pamby blue of the youngest debutantes. It had a bit of depth to it without looking gaudy.
“Are you coming out to show us?” came her mother’s voice.
Beatrice’s gaze caught in the mirror with that of the seamstress.
“You should show your gentleman friend,” the woman urged as she pinned along the side seam, taking the dress in by an inch. “Besides, Madame Solit will want to see you in it. She is a very good modiste. She will never sell you a gown that doesn’t do you justice in style and color.”
In another moment, Beatrice stepped through the curtain. Mr. Carson rose to his feet, a strange look upon his face. It might have been admiration, and a wave of self-consciousness shuddered through her. Unused to being the center either of attention or praise, she found herself staring at the floor rather than the rapt faces of her mother and Madame Solit.
“You have a beautiful daughter,” said the modiste.
“I have three actually,” Felicity said. “But my Beatrice is unique.”
Startled, she wondered what her mother meant by that but couldn’t ask while they were in mixed company. Mr. Carson still said nothing, and she dared for the briefest of moments to make eye contact.
Even though she didn’t know him, nor should she value his opinion, his warm gaze gave her the greatest encouragement. After all, if one man thought she looked appealing, then possibly others would, too. Possibly a husband — titled or not — was within reach. And unlike Amity, Beatrice wouldn’t go through the torturous handwringing, wondering whether she could continue to make toffee after marriage. While she liked her confectionery skill, it wasn’t her passion as was her older sister’s chocolate-making. Of course, she would continue to make toffee, but she wouldn’t turn down a man she loved if there was a choice to be made.
“That blue suits her well, don’t you think, Mr. Carson?” her mother asked.
The American nodded, seemingly tongue-tied for the first time, another good sign.
“Why ask a man?” scoffed Madame Solit, yanking fabric swatches off the low table. “No offense, monsieur, but if you like a woman, she could walk out here in a sackcloth and you would think her beautiful. Isn’t that so?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know,” he said, and Beatrice nearly giggled at his confused tone.
“On the other hand, if she had come out in the wrong shade of blue, maybe a turquoise green with too much yellow undertone, we women would have known immediately it didn’t suit her.”
Her mother nodded, and Beatrice caught Mr. Carson’s gaze while the other ladies’ backs were turned looking at the fabrics. He crossed his eyes and pursed his lips in jest, and any odd tension between them disappeared.
Beatrice laughed, until she felt one of the seamstress’s pins jab her in the side. She gasped and vowed to comport herself with more decorum, at least until away from the pins.
“This gown is a must,” said her mother to Madame Solit. “What other colors do you think compliment her brown hair and eyes?”
“How about red?” asked Mr. Carson unexpectedly.
Both her mother and Madame Solit gasped while the seamstress shook her head. Even the shopgirl charged with keeping their wine glasses filled giggled from her discreet place on the other side of the room.
“Red!” Madame Solit exclaimed. “Do you wish your lovely lady to be branded a lightskirt? After marriage, yes, you may dress her in a vivid hue, but not before.”
Beatrice didn’t bother to correct the modiste. The women were blinded by the notion of romance. Moreover, her mother would assume Mr. Carson had a personal interest in her middle daughter until such time as they each pledged their troth to another person.
“I was thinking how pretty her hair would look against red,” he said, sounding not the least put off and fully ignoring the inference they would marry.
“In any case,” Madame Solit said, “I know she would look splendid in a dusky pink, not too pale, not too pastel. Also, a cool green, not too vivid, nor too dark.” She held a bolt of each up to Beatrice.
“Yes,” her mother agreed. “Both.”
“Surely that’s enough,” Beatrice protested, not wanting to take advantage of Mr. Carson’s generosity, only too aware he would, with any luck, have a wife to clothe in the not-too-distant future.
“You must have enough for an entire Season,” Felicity insisted. “Neither of you can expect to find a suitable partner during the first ball, for goodness sake, if that is truly your aim.”
