Page 47 of Lady for a Season
“I have a riding habit,” protested Maggie.
Celine laughed. “You cannot possibly be seen in that old thing,” she said. “You will require a made-to-measure habit and a hat. Most days you will ride in the carriage with Her Grace on Rotten Row, but on some occasions, you will ride out with His Grace, and to do so you must be immaculately turned out.” She ticked each item off on her fingers. “Fans. Perfume. Parasols. Gloves. Muffs, they are worn very large at present so Her Grace’s older ones will not do. Opera dress with a hooded cloak. Pelisses, spencers, reticules, chemisettes and fichu, feathers for your hats and hair. Fancy dress.”
“Fancy dress?”
“Oh, there is always at least one fancy dress ball, where you dress up in a costume. And often a masquerade as well.”
“Masquerade?”
“A fancy-dress ball but where you wear masks. Some consider them risqué, as one cannot be sure with whom one is dancing, but everyone goes anyway.” She gave a sly smile. “Of course, mamas who are trying to marry off a son or daughter will drop hints about what they are wearing. I am sure Her Grace will let it be known what His Grace is wearing so that the young ladies will know to whom they should make themselves pleasant. Anyone on her list, for sure.”
“List?”
“Every lady has a list of suitable matrimonial prospects for the season,” said Celine. “Her Grace will have one for His Grace.”
“Who is on it?”
Celine shook her head. “She will tell you herself,” she said, reluctantly. “His Grace will be informed of the women Her Grace considers most worthy of his time and attention and on whom she would look most favourably.”
The ribbon counter at Harding, Howell & Cowas bewildering. Hundreds of ribbons, ranging from so narrow they might have been used for embroidery threads, up to lavishly wide strips of silk that would easily have covered a hand, intended for dress sashes and bows on bonnets. The range of hues was greater than Maggie had ever seen, from a green so pale it was goose-egg white, to the darkest forest green; a bold scarlet transformed into daintiest pink, navy blue lightened to a spring sky. Woollen braids, gauzy silk wisps, rich velvets. Stripes, scalloped and picot edges, stiff-tight woven linen and slippery satin.
“Ribbons are every lady’s friend,” Celine said, in her element. “The plainest outfit can be transformed with ribbons. Your bonnet and sash,naturellement, but also trim for your neckline and sleeves, to tie your dancing shoes or weave through your hair, your fan’s loop for your wrist, the finish on a basket. Besides which there is ribbon embroidery to finish a gown’s hem, if your modiste employs someone skilled. Poor ribbon work can look very clumsy, but when it is done well it can be so pretty. I am a fair hand at it myself,” she added as she fingered a narrow pink ribbon. “This, you see, if you worked it well it would make rosebuds, then a fresh green for stems and leaves.”
Maggie nodded as though she were fully aware of all these uses but in truth, she had never even owned a single ribbon until she had come to Atherton Park. It would have been seen as a frippery by the Hospital.
“We will require a fair few, given how many items we need to trim and finish,” said Celine. “Do you choose those you most take a fancy to, and I will select those I know we will need.”
Maggie stood frozen with indecision. How to choose? Matron’s voice echoed in her head:The girls of the Hospital are clean and neat and that is all that is required of them in the way of looks.She reached out to stroke a shimmering peacock blue silk three inches wide. Celine had secured the services of an assistant and was pointing here and there, rattling off lengths and discussing the merits of each fabric for their intended purposes.
“A good choice,” she said, noticing what Maggie had touched. “Perfect for a bonnet tie. Three yards.”
“I didn’t…” Maggie began, but Celine was not listening, she was indicating in rapid succession a wispy rose-pink, a deep blue velvet, and a white satin.
“For your stockings,” she said of the white satin.
A giddy sickness rose in Maggie. Soon she would be wearing white silk stockings embroidered with tiny pink roses, held up with the white satin ribbon, while pulling on a bonnet trimmed and tied with the peacock blue… it was too much. She wanted them, these beautiful things, wanted them so desperately. They were everything she had never had and had sometimes, wickedly, envied in others, but they were also everything she had been told were above her place, unnecessary frivolities leading only to vanity and pride. And all of it was false, a lie. Would they be able to tell, these leading members of society who had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of their own kind, would they take one look at her and know that she was only play-acting the part of a lady? Surely they would. At least Edward had been born to this life; some of it still came naturally to him from his early days. But everything Maggie had learnt to enable her to get through the season had come in the last few months; she had no prior knowledge to fall back on. She would like to stop here, todeclare that she could not do this, but then Edward would face them all alone and she could not leave him to do that.
“I feel…” she began, and touched her throat, where the contradictory feelings were gathering.
“Are you unwell, Miss?” asked the assistant, catching the gesture and looking concerned.
“No, I just… felt…”
Her protestations were waved away. A chair was brought at once, another assistant dispatched for refreshment.
“I’m sorry to be such trouble,” Maggie murmured, blushing hotly at all the fuss, the heads turning as she took a seat by the ribbon counter. She was a fool: falling sick at buying a few ribbons, what sort of nonsense was this?
“Trouble, Miss? Not at all. Shopping can be very tiring for a lady,” said the assistant, evidently well trained in the art of soothing rich women and their imagined frailties. Behind the assistant, Celine smiled warmly at Maggie and nodded when a delicate cup and saucer were proffered, before turning back to the selection process while Maggie sipped the hot tea and tried to smile at the second assistant whose entire job it now was to hover by her side in case she should faint or do something else ladylike.
“Gloves,” said Celine, consulting her list. “And perfume.”
The scents at the dark wooden perfume counter at perfumer Floris gave Maggie a headache. Celine had her try samples of more than fifteen different perfumes, some in fresh citrus, others in a too-strong woody vetiver. As Celine was picking up another bottle Maggie touched her arm.
“Celine, I prefer the rose perfume you make yourself,” she said. “I know it may not be made by a grand perfumer, but it is warm and delicate, and it reminds me of walking in the rose garden.”
She expected Celine to argue that a home-made perfume was not good enough but instead the maid dipped her head with apleased smile. “I am glad you like it so much. It reminds me of my mother.” She inspected the vast array and pointed. “In that case, we shall simply purchase a bottle worthy of storing it.”
A tiny but beautiful rose-hued glass bottle with a silver cap was purchased and Maggie hurried back outside where the air, even if it did include dung from passing horses, did not at least give her a headache from too many rich scents packed into one space.
