Page 6 of A Secret Correspondence
Would that they knew Marguerite had lived twenty years on English soil and had learned everything she knew of dressmaking here. That a woman just on the other side of the county had taken her in, almost directly off the boat, and apprenticed her into the craft, hoping to snuff out anything that set Marguerite apart as French for her own safety. Marguerite had been Mary Perry for most of her English life.
Marguerite Perreau was the third name she had been forced to grow accustomed to, and she hoped it would be her last. Learning to answer to something new took time and a certain level of risk. She loved her little shop, the tiny town of Harewood, and the people she was coming to know. Once she had put off her widow’s weeds, disposing of the black gowns three months after moving to Harewood, she’d felt fully free. This seemed as good a place as any to live out the rest of her life.
And there were the letters, too.
Pushing through the doorway into the shop, she trained her smile on the pair of women admiring a pale yellow silk she had brought out earlier. She needed to sell it, for it had been sitting too long on her shelves, and she hoped it would catch someone’s eye.
It appeared Miss Kimball’s attention had been caught.
“For the Faversham dinner, Mama?” the lady asked.
“Yellow, dear? I think not. You need to draw attention, not blend into the settee.”
Folding her hands primly, Marguerite gently cleared her throat.
Mrs. Kimball shifted, swiveling to look at the modiste. She held a quizzing glass to her eye, enlarging just the one in an owlish way.
Marguerite had to force her expression to remain neutral. “There will be gentlemen at this dinner, no?”
“Indeed,” Miss Kimball said, rubbing the silk between her fingers. She dropped the fabric and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “If rumors are to be believed, there will be men we have not met.Newgentlemen.”
Which meant the stakes of the evening were ever higher. It was no surprise the very first thing they did was rush to Marguerite’s shop. It was shocking she hadn’t received a summons from Lady Faversham already.
“You will permit me to give my opinion?” Marguerite waited. She had observed her mistress over the years and taken more notes on hownotto interact with customers than how to deal with them. If there was a natural talent in being the dressmaker for snobbish women, Marguerite had been gifted it. She could wrap them around her thumb like a limp ribbon.
Compelling Mrs. Kimball to choose the yellow silk was her objective now, and it would be done without very much difficulty.
The fabric needed to be sold, after all, if she wanted to order anything fresh.
Mrs. Kimball swished her wrist, implying Marguerite could proceed.
Marguerite nodded slowly, her eyes flicking unhurriedly over the bolts lining the shelves, as though she were considering each one. “A woman who chooses to stand out in too dramatic a fashion will sometimes find herself the center of attention for the wrong reasons, no? A figure so fine as yours, Miss Kimball, ought to stand on its own—the gown should embellish an already glorious woman. It is my belief…”
Silence hung in the shop. Marguerite let the words dangle, pretending to worry her lip.
“Well, go on,” Mrs. Kimball said impatiently.
“Oh, I shouldn’t. Truly. I will make the gown you want most, madame. Do not listen to me.”
“Do finish,” Miss Kimball said, gripping the edge of thecounter. She blinked her large, round eyes, and for a brief moment Marguerite felt sorry for the girl. It could not be easy having such a hawk for a mother.
“It is my belief a man might notice a shocking gown first, but a more dignified gown will stay in his head much longer. Would you prefer to surprise the new gentlemen or leave a lasting impression?” She clasped her hands and waited. At least she agreed with the things she told them. If Mrs. Kimball took her advice this time, her daughter could very well stand a chance of not blending in with the other ladies at their upcoming dinner.
For both Miss Kimball’s sake and that of her yellow silk, Marguerite hoped she had said enough. She was fairly confident she had.
“Look through the plates,” the matron snapped. “I will consider the fabrics.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Or perhaps Marguerite hadn’t said enough. Drat.
She retreated behind the counter to wait in case she was called on to answer a question, hands clasped in front and eyes on the women. When she had bought this shop from the older woman who had run it before, she was unsure if it would bring in enough business to keep her occupied. Marguerite had a sum squirreled away for just this purpose—not that her parents would ever have countenanced it—and she put her faith into this place. Harewood boasted a small number of eccentric wealthy women who needed new gowns with regularity, and between them and the neighboring ladies, Marguerite was kept busy enough.
“Perhaps blue,” Mrs. Kimball said.
Marguerite’s gaze snapped to the pale blue ball gown sitting in her window. She had made it to entice women into the shop, but it had the adverse effect of influencing many of them to choose blue fabrics as well. Perhaps it was nearly time to sew a new gown for the window.
Yellow, if this silk did not sell.
