Cilla stood and gestured to the garden door, which was further along the terrace. Livy nodded. It was for the best. She did not regret listening, though. What they had said about Mr. Bane Sanderson was intriguing. Her heart went out to the small boy who had been brought, ill and possibly dying, to a house where his father’s legal wife ruled, and where he was hated.
How fortunate that he’d had his brother’s love. Was that why old Mr. Sanderson had allowed him to stay? Where would he have gone if Mr. Drake had not stood up for him? And where did he come from? His mother’s home? Was she still alive, the mistress? Had she not wanted her son?
Livy’s mind was teeming with questions.
So, apparently was Cilla’s, but not about Bane Sanderson. When it was time to leave for the modiste appointment, Cilla peppered Aunt Ginny and the cousins with questions about fabrics, styles, colors, until Livy was certain that her brain was going to dissolve and leak out of her ears.
She expected it to be worse at the modiste’s, but Aunt Ginny held her back for a moment before they went in the door. “Livy, my dear, here is a list of what you absolutely must have. I want no argument from you, my dear, about quantities. But for fabrics, styles and colors, I will trust you and Madame Beauvillier to work things out. You are twenty-five, my dear, and do not need to stick to the fashions suitable for your sister and cousins.”
Livy could hardly believe her ears. “I can decide for myself?”
“I will have final approval,” Aunt Ginny said. “At least until you have more experience in walking the fine line between what is appropriate for an unmarried lady and for a matron of the same age. But I trust your common sense, my dear. You will not dress in a way that reflects badly on your sister and cousins. If in doubt, ask Madame Beauvillier, or refer the question to me. But yes. You can decide for yourself.”
This might be fun after all. But probably not. She would still have to suffer through hours of being measured, of looking at fashion magazines, of trying to seem as if she understood or cared about the difference between two shades of powder blue.
Aunt Ginny introduced her to the modiste, and took herself and the girls off to another room with Madame Beauvillier’s assistant.
“Well, Miss Wintergreen, Lady Marple did not tell me about your extraordinary eyes,” Madame said. “I think I must revise my thoughts about the colors to suggest. What say you to silver?”
Extraordinary eyes? Livy only just prevented herself from sneaking a peek in the mirror. She followed Madame into yeta third room with an internal sigh. Extraordinary or not, her eyes were about to be overwhelmed until they dropped out with boredom.
But it was not that way at all.
Madame Beauvillier at no point treated her as if she was nothing more than a doll to be dressed and undressed. She had already made a number of choices, based on Aunt Ginny’s description of Livy, “But if you have other preferences, Miss Wintergreen, name them,” she said.
“I can only tell you what does not suit me, Madame,” Livy explained. “For I have been wearing it. Everything selected for me by my last year’s sponsor and the sponsor from the year before was too frilly for me, and too pale.”
“The walking dress you are wearing is becoming,” Madame commented. “Though a stronger shade would better suit your coloring. I take it you selected it yourself?”
“I chose the color.” Livy smiled down at her peach-tinted skirts. She had wanted a poppy-like shade, but Barker had been horrified, and even Cilla had hesitated, so she had changed her mind.
But she was pleased with the outfit. Cilla said she looked wonderful, Aunt Ginny had given a nod of approval, and even Papa had said, “Pleased to see you taking care of your appearance, Olivia.”
“My sister sketched a cut that she thought would suit me, and I liked it, so we had it made up by a local dressmaker. What color would you recommend?”
“Perhaps this?” The modiste held up a swatch that was the shade of poppy Livy had wanted to choose, or near to it. “Ponceau, it is called. I would not suggest using it in the evening—it might be thought fast. But for day wear, it is quite acceptable, particularly teamed with trims or other garments in a more subdued shade. Or we could make a jacket in ponceauwith a skirt in, let us say, a gray brocade with narrow ponceau stripes. Yes, that could work very well.”
She looked intently at Livy, mostly focusing on her face but also scanning the rest of her frame. “You have a queenly form, Miss Wintergreen. A small lady like your sister can dress in frills, though I do not recommend it, and with fair skin, dark hair, and eyes of such an intense blue, the pastels that wash you out will be a perfect setting for her kind of beauty. Your beauty is of a different type. Your gray eyes are most unusual, and your hair…”
She paused to consider her words. Livy answered for her. “Is brown, as is my skin, if I am not careful to wear a hat at all times.”
“Your hair is a light brown, with hints of gold and copper, and your complexion is excellent. Some shades will make your skin look sallow and your hair look dull, but if we choose the right colors, you will glow, that I can promise you.”
Glow. Livy had never considered that she might be able to glow.
“My clothing will be your setting,” said Madame Beauvillier. “Let me show you what I mean. Colors first. Come and stand in front of the mirror.”
There followed a magical half hour, as the modiste laid lengths of cloth over Livy’s shoulder and explained how the shade was complementing Livy’s skin, hair, and eyes—or the reverse. And Livy, who had always chosen colors purely by whether she liked them, could see what Madame Beauvillier was trying to show her.
They had a pile of suitable tones and a larger pile of rejects before they moved on to the next stage.
“Let us consider silhouettes,” said Madame. “You are tall and curvy, Miss Wintergreen. We must dress you to make the most of these assets.”
“Assets?” Livy’s laugh had nothing of humor in it. “The fashion is for slender and diminutive, Madame Beauvillier. Not for giants with large…” she indicated her breasts and hips with a gesture.
Madame snorted. “Fashion! Fashion is a way to sell gowns and other items. This year waists are up. Next year they are down. Today Pomona green is all the rage. Tomorrow, coquelicot pink. Ribbons are in. No, lace. No, flounces. No, ribbons again. Today’s fashions, slavishly followed, look stunning on fashion dolls and ladies who look like them—thin like a stick with no shape.”
“Nonetheless…” Livy ventured. She did not want people to laugh at her, as they did at Mr. Addison, an elderly gentleman who still wore the powdered wig and embroidered coats of his youth.
