Any moment now…
“The duke?” The modiste slunk out from behind the counter. “This is a duke’s daughter? Which duke?”
Frances smiled, her spirits buoyed up with triumph. “The Duke of Alderwick, who is also the cousin of the Duke of Ravenvale, and both would be terribly dismayed to hear that no appropriate gowns could be made for Lady Harriet’s debut.” She expelled a punctuating sigh. “A real pity, for Lady Harriet was so keen towear local gowns, to prove to those haughty London elites that Bath isnottoo provincial. So keen that her father insisted that money was no object.”
In an instant, the modiste changed. Before, the trio of women had been an obvious annoyance to her, the modiste muttering under her breath as they pulled out the reams of fabrics in order to judge them better, but now there was a smile on her face and a light in her eyes.
“I have the best fabrics in the back room,” the thin woman whispered. “They are only for the most special customers. You can’t be too careful, for there are thieves who come in here and steal cloth straight from the reel.”
“And you thought we were thieves?” Harriet asked, an eyebrow raised.
The modiste reddened again, quickly dropping her chin to her chest. “I have never seen you here before and, as I mentioned, one can’t be too careful.” She puffed out a breath, her voice wavering. “I apologize profusely for any offense, but I have had so much fabric stolen these past couple of years. I even considered employing a man to just stand outside, but I could not afford it.”
Guilt prickled the backs of Frances’ ears as she observed the dressmaker. She had misjudged the woman. Indeed, it was just as she had warned Harriet earlier: there was rot everywhere, and one had to learn to spot it quickly. Even in this beautiful city of Bath, bad deeds and bad people could not be avoided.
“Would you show us these fabrics?” Frances asked, her tone gentler. “And, if we should like any, do you think you could make some gowns within a fortnight? I realize it is rather short notice, but Lady Harriet here reallywouldlike to debut while representing local talents. It may even be of benefit to you, if she tells others where she purchased such gowns.”
Briefly, the modiste looked like she might cry. “Of course. Please, please, come this way,” she urged. “I have everything a debutante could ever desire; I just keep it where it will be safe. As for short notice, do not worry about that. I might appear withered, but my hands are quick and capable, and I have beenwaitingfor the opportunity to dress a vibrant young lady from our part of the country.”
With the mood much lighter, an undercurrent of excitement rippling through the gathered women, everyone retreated to the ‘back room’ which turned out to be a large, well-kept workshop, generously stocked with some of the most beautiful fabric that Frances had ever seen.
Indeed, as she gingerly traced her fingertips across a bolt of the most airy, exquisite muslin, in the most remarkable shade of sea green and so fine it looked as if it had been woven by fairies, she felt a sudden pang of envy.
Oh, to have had a gown made of this when I debuted…
“Reminiscing?” Catherine asked quietly, as she pretended to inspect a bolt of lurid, mustard yellow satin.
Frances smiled sadly. “If one can reminisce about a daydream, then yes.” She sighed. “I went alone to the modiste when I was about to debut. I ordered three sensible gowns and two plain day dresses. Inexpensive, yet my father still chided me about the cost. He asked why I had not just taken my mother’s dresses to be altered, when I would not be leaving the family anytime soon, so it did not matter what I wore. I never bought anything for myself after that.”
“Is that why?” Catherine’s face fell in sympathy, her hand coming to rest on Frances’ shoulder. “I just thought you were frugal.”
“I was, but not by choice,” Frances replied with a tight laugh. “All of my pin money went toward Juliet and Lucinda. I saved it for them, so they would not be scolded when they wanted new dresses. Although, now that it is Juliet’s turn, my father is no longer concerned about cost. He is just desperate for her to succeed in snaring a husband, even if it means diverting some of his fortune to the London modistes.”
Catherine reached for the muslin and made an admiring noise. “The finest muslin. Dhaka muslin.Veryexpensive and very beautiful. If you were to debut again, it would be perfect on you. Heavenly.” She let go of the fabric, and it almost fluttered as the tongue of the roll fell back against the shelf. “You should buy yourself a small square of it as a rebellion.”
“I could not afford it.” Frances laughed, the sound a little fuller. “And we are not here for me. We are here to?—”
She floundered as she caught sight of the figure leaning in the doorway, presumably so his head would not knock into the lintel. When had Dominic entered? She had not heard the bell above the door in the main room, nor had she heard his footfalls on the floor. Yet, there he was, those enchanting gray-blue eyes observing her with quiet fascination.
Or, perhaps, he was looking at her with impatience? Wondering what on earth was taking so long? She could not tell, for she still had not learned to read the subtle language of Dominic’s face.
“I thought I would come and see how you are progressing,” he said, his gaze suddenly elsewhere, his words directed toward Harriet.
His daughter rolled her eyes, as the modiste fussed around her, draping three different fabrics over her shoulders: a daring and delightful claret silk, a rich bluish-green satin, and an elegant lavender muslin. “It is fashion, Father. It takes as long as it takes. Iwouldhave told you not to come along because you would be bored senseless, but you said I could not protest.”
“The purple one,” he said decisively. “No reds, no garish colors, nothing too outlandish.”
Harriet groaned. “Papa, please. I have Frances and Catherine to aid me in this; I do not need you muddling things.”
Dominic narrowed his eyes. “Very well, I shall withdraw, but Iwillask for details when I make the purchases. If I do not like thesound of any of your choices, they will not be made.” He cast a particularly pointed look at the modiste. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the modiste replied, dipping into an awkward curtsy.
With a sigh, Harriet nodded. “Yes, Father.”
A moment later, he was gone again, the faint sound of the bell heralding his departure. Yet, it was a few moments more before Frances could catch her breath again, as if his very presence had taken all of the air out of the room.
“You should ask him to pay you with a dress,” Catherine whispered with a sly grin, as she elbowed Frances playfully in the ribs. “That muslin, expensive as it is, wouldn’t be nearly enough to repay you if you manage to make Lady Harriet the diamond of the Season.”
