Page 14 of The Subtle Craft of Courting Kate

“But of course. She’s a wonder with silk and satin. Anyone who is anyone has got a gown by her—if they can manage to obtain an appointment. Luckily, for some reason, she likes me. Mostly. When I am on time.”

A strangled little laugh bubbled up in Kate’s throat as Rebecca threw open the door. It made a queer sort of sense. Despite herself, despite the chaos into which she had been thrust over the whole of their acquaintance—probably only fifteen minutes on the outside—she supposed even she liked Rebecca. It would have been difficult to find a reason not to; she seemed a sunny, vivacious, and vibrant woman. Good-natured and friendly and just a bit irreverent.

A stark counterpoint to the woman they encountered immediately within the shop, who turned a narrowed, grey-eyed gaze upon them and looked down the excessive length of her nose as she sniffed, “Lady Crewe. You are late.”

“Am I?” Rebecca inquired, all sweet syrupy innocence, “I do beg your pardon, Madame Dubois. I would have sworn I had arrived exactly on time.”

“On the street, perhaps,” This, with a pinch of lips that seemed to fall into a natural frown in perpetuity. “I have got windows, Lady Crewe, and eyes with which to see through them. I saw the haste with which your driver bowled down the street.”

Mama made a muffled sound beneath her breath that sounded rather like a snicker had stuck in her throat, which she forced back down with an audible swallow the moment Madame Dubois turned that frosty gaze toward her.

She was an imposing woman, with a height that would have dwarfed most men, and yet she cut quite the figure in her perfectly-tailored navy gown. Madame Dubois had armed herself already with the tools of her trade in advance of their appointment; a measuring tape draped over one shoulder and a pin cushion held in one hand, full of shining silver needles and pins. A thimble graced the point of one finger the way some ladies might wear a ring, but she looked no less sophisticated for these trappings of commerce she wore—rather, she looked something like a Valkyrie primed for battle.

And a battle she had decided it was going to be, Kate realized, as Madame Dubois’ assessing eyes turned upon her at last. “Plain,” she pronounced so matter-of-factly that Kate found she could not take offense to the deliberately tactless comment.

“But such good bones,” Rebecca hastened to say, with a little gesticulation of her hands that Kate supposed was meant to fan heated tempers before they could flare up. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Another sniff, and Madame Dubois stepped closer, fishing in her pocket to retrieve a quizzing glass, which she held up to her eye as she scanned Kate once again. “Hm,” she said. “Your complexion, your coloring—that is from your father, no?”

“I—I suppose so,” Kate said, feeling uncomfortably like a prize fish held up for examination. It was an effort not to lean away as Madame Dubois leaned closer.

“Well,” Madame Dubois said as she put away her quizzing glass at last. “It is clear that your mother was a great beauty in her day. You haven’t got her coloring—but you have got her bones, and this is good. This I can work with.” With one bony finger, she pointed to the rear of the shop. “Both of you,” she said. “Go. Undress there. I must see what I have to work with.”

As the stately woman walked off in all confidence that her demands would be followed to the letter, Rebecca clutched Kate’s arm and released another high-pitched trill of glee. “This is going to be such fun!” she said.

And Kate found that she did not have it in her to pop Rebecca’s bubble of joy. “Fun,” she echoed, pasting on a smile as Rebecca seized their arms again to drag them toward the rear of the shop as instructed. If she could not appreciate being poked and prodded by Madame Dubois, whom Kate suspected would have more criticisms than simply plain before their visit was through, then she could at least appreciate Rebecca’s pleasant company.

Chapter Seven

Tucked away in a quiet corner of his club, Elliot tapped his fingertips upon the surface of the table, producing a disjointed, restless rhythm that earned him a glare from someone at a neighboring table. “It’s nearly five o’clock,” he said as he withdrew his hand from the table to tug at his cravat instead.

His companion—Richard, Lord Crewe—heaved a sigh as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his watch and check the time. “So it is,” he said. “Would you stop fidgeting? You’re making me nervous.”

“What if they’re not getting on?”

“Of course they’re getting on. It’s been hours.”

“That’s just the thing,” Elliot said. “It’s been hours. What could they possibly be doing that would take so long?”

Richard released a long, low breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I always forget you’ve only brothers,” he said. “My sisters could spend hours and hours at the modiste without batting an eye.”

But could Kate? Elliot could count on one hand the number of gowns he’d seen her wear in the past five years. Probably the ones he’d purchased ready-made from the village’s only seamstress had at least doubled her wardrobe. “Kate’s mostly made her own dresses,” he said. “Or her mother has.” Though there had been a time, when her father had still been living, that there had been money in their meager budget for finer clothes, their circumstances had been substantially reduced since. “I think she was perhaps twelve or thirteen the last time I saw her wear anything with even the slightest hint of lace or ribbon.”

“Well, she will have that opportunity now,” Richard said decisively. “Rebecca has got fine taste and she adores lace and ribbon. And Madame Dubois, I am assured, has got the finest fabrics there are to be found.” He lifted his glass to his lips and drank down the last of his brandy. “I’ve instructed the staff to send a note to me here when they’ve returned. And as it has not yet arrived…”

Then they had not yet returned. Which could be good, provided they were still engaged in…whatever it was, exactly, that women did when at the modiste. Elliot found himself wondering whether or Kate was enjoying herself.

Probably not, he decided with a sigh. She had always seemed to enjoy herself most out of doors, like there lived an itch beneath the surface of her skin that was only soothed when the sun was upon her face, and the fresh air tugged at loose strands of her hair. She had never seemed particularly aggrieved by the limitations of her wardrobe, nor the fact that nothing she owned could remotely be said to be in the height of fashion.

What would she look like, when Rebecca had finished with her? Would she wear those silks and ribbons like an uncomfortable disguise? Would she still look like the Kate he had always known?

As he lifted his glass to his lips, he found it snatched away from him before he could drink.

“That’s enough for you, I think,” Richard said as he pushed the glass to the farthest edge of the table, too distant for Elliot to comfortably reach. “Much more, and you’ll be crawling by the time the ladies are done.”

“It wasn’t so much,” Elliot protested.

“No, but there will be wine with dinner, and then port when the ladies go off to the drawing room. You don’t want to escort Kate back home in your cups, now, do you?”