Page 20 of The Rake
“You might be quite the oldest debutante I’ve ever seen.” She tutted over the breakfast table at Margot. “But I daresay we may still have a merry time of it. And I for one am sick of those ghastly whites and creams. You will at least be able to dress in some pretty colours.”
Margot opened her mouth to refuse, but then she remembered what Langley had said about having some fun. This idea was echoed in Mrs. Bowley’s statement. Fun. As if it was an accusation, a temptation idea dangled before Margot that other girls and women got to enjoy, but she had frequently deniedherself. Perhaps on this one occasion she could act with just one degree less stiff-backed responsibility and the world would not crumble beneath her.
“That would be most appealing,” Margot said. She prayed her parents would understand, and if the bills mounted up the new duke would be sympathetic. After all, if she managed to locate the family diamonds, she would be giving them to him—that should sweeten the heir. “When is our trip to the modiste’s to be?”
To this Mrs. Bowley set off in delighted raptures. There was a list of things they would need, and no expense should be spared. Briefly, Margot wondered if this was what Ashmore had always intended for her, after all, why else would he have hired Mrs. Bowley if he did not know that this was her intention?
“…and we need to go the hat makers, shoemaker, and we must get you some gloves…”
As long as paste jewels could be worn, Margot reasoned it would not be too bad.
“A proper lady’s maid might be sensible.” Mrs. Bowley had drawn closer, her eyes examining Margot most closely. “If your hair could be made to curl.”
“It never does, in my experience.”
To this, Mrs. Bowley gave a sly smile, and she lifted her cup of chocolate to her mouth, and Margot caught her whisper: “We’ll see.”
The modiste’swas one of the most beautifully decorated places that Margot had ever been to, so much so she felt out of place. The discreet black sign outside, with its cursive gold handwriting reading, ‘Madam Fletcherite’, gave little real clue asto the wonders behind its doors. Certainly, it would have never fitted in in Berwick-upon-Tweed. The shop had high, doomed ceilings, with handsome opaque glass windows that let in soft spring light but gave no opportunity that the customers might be spied upon. The cerise wallpaper and matching plush carpet beneath the soles of their feet added to the overall feeling of opulence.
Dotted throughout the room, there were neat wooden chairs for clients to sit in, and a large stool for one lucky girl to be measured up on. Along the wall of the dressmakers were rack after rack filled with rolls of materials, from the buttery yellows to the most luxurious of velvets, with every shade imaginable. Finally, there was the most delicious of scents, the perfume of sugary vanilla, which gave the shop the flavour of a recently cooked cake.
Unable to help herself, Margot turned and smiled at Mrs. Bowley. She was still trying to get used to such situations, and she was grateful for the loop of Mrs. Bowley’s arm through hers. Despite not having a great deal in common with her companion, it was a comfort to feel as if the older woman was there to ensure Margot’s progress.
“Aaah, Mrs. Bowley,” there came a delighted cry and in walked one of the most handsome women Margot could ever recall seeing. She was not young by any means, but there was such art to her polished face, such a well-placed curl, and a real smile, that it seemed as if this modiste had truly found her happiness. Turning sharp blue eyes on Margot, the modiste said, “And this must be the lovely Miss Keating you mentioned in your communication. I am Madam Celine Fletcherite.” The modiste gestured Margot forward with such warmth that any awkwardness she might have felt melted away as she stepped onto the stand.
“I’m sure I am quite the oldest debutante,” Margot began after a few seconds of Madam Fletcherite examining her, “and my dressmaker always said I was a beanpole?—”
“You are excellence personified.” It was said with such authority that it entirely stopped Margot in her well-worn self-deprecating tracks. It made her stand up straighter and feel the sort of confidence she had never expected to feel swell through her chest. “Now—” Madam Fletcherite did another turn. “—I am quite excited to have a challenge out of the norm. We can go one of several ways… all of which will be sophisticated and bring out your most handsome features.”
“The strength of her cheekbones,” Mrs. Bowley said. “Her face is well made, is it not? Almost aristocratic in its bearings.”
“Indeed, but I was thinking Miss Keating’s handsome green eyes. Now there is just the loveliest of shawls I had delivered last week. I think it will work perfectly alongside any gown we pick. Lydia,” she called to one of the younger women perched nearby and whispered a few words to the girl, who hurriedly scurried off to search.
Never could Margot remember ever being complimented so, or the likelihood of her parentage alluded to so strongly. In response to this, her face went red.
Madam Fletcherite gave her a knowing glance. “None of that. You must wear your knowledge and wisdom as a badge of pride, after all, is that not the best way?”
Lydia returned with what seemed to be a vast collection of shawls, which Mrs. Bowley started to pick her way through as Lydia took Margot’s measurements.
“Now, my dear.,” Mrs. Bowley stepped closer. “You will need to have at least six day dresses. Two pelisses or so. Then at least four dresses suitable for evening wear.”
Margot’s eyes moved over to the roll after roll of material. She could easily imagine herself returning with the mosthandsome of gowns, and the new heir of Ashmore’s estate fairly telling her that the annuity the duke had promised her had been spent on trifles.
“Perhaps half of that, madam,” she whispered. “I do not want to test my godfather’s good will too far.”
“I know quite how to manage him,” Mrs. Bowley said with far too much faith, and Margot gave her an uneasy smile. She personally did not have the same skill: that of managing men. One, in particular, sprang to mind—the elusive earl next door, Lord Langley. She had not seen him in over three days, quite deliberately. But did it really count if she thought about him all the time, and kept sneaking out to the rear of the townhouse to see if she could catch a glimpse of him? So far, she had been unsuccessful, and she had not even had the distraction of a letter from her sister to provide a welcome relief from her curiosity.
While Margot had been frowning into the middle-distance, dwelling on that Adonis of her dreams and nightmares, she saw that Mrs. Bowley had been selecting out several different rolls of fabric. Madam Fletcherite held up the material and the two of them were conversing in rapid French that Margot could just about follow, although her conversational French had never been as good as Elsie’s.
It was in that moment, as the two older women turned to her, that Margot gave in. She was done with the worrying, and the fretting, and she was simply going to take Langley’s advice and enjoy the next few days’ worth of silliness and fun.
After Madam Fletcherite had promised to deliver the first few of the gowns to Ashmore’s within the week, they made their way through the crowds along Bond Street, and towards Mrs. Bowley’s favourite hat maker.
When the door swung open, Mrs. Bowley bustled through and let out another cry of pleased recognition, although this time it was to a patron of the store. A matron in her early thirties, witha smiling face and a bright smile, from the lady’s dress Margot strongly suspected that this woman was a widow.
“Allow me to present you to my new dear friend, Miss Margot Keating. This fine lady is Lady Briers.”
Margot bobbed a curtsey in greeting to Lady Briers. There was an appealing sparkle to the woman’s clever dark eyes as she surveyed Margot. “Are you new to Town?” Lady Briers asked.
