Chapter Seven
The next morning, Thea and her sisters arrived for an appointment with Madame Rousseau, a fashionable modiste. The shop on Bond Street had recently expanded its premises in order to accommodate its ever-growing legion of devotees. The spacious atelier, done up in fresh shades of spring green and pale bronze, was brimming with patrons rhapsodizing over Madame’s exquisite creations. An assistant dressed in black led Thea and her sisters back into a large private dressing room.
Thea and Polly shared the cozy loveseat while Em occupied the cream velvet chaise longue. Not one for sitting still, Violet wandered around the room, inspecting things.
“Madame will be in shortly,” the assistant said. “May I bring some tea while you wait?”
They all declined, except for Violet, who asked if a biscuit could be had as well.
“Didn’t you have breakfast this morning?” Thea said after the assistant left to fetch the refreshments.
“That was ages ago.” Violet sifted through bolts of fabric on the worktable. “I get hungry.”
“I wonder why,” Emma said in dry tones. Their middle sister had moved on, investigating a grid of colorful bobbins that hung on the wall. “Sitting still isn’t a crime, you know.”
Vi spun a spool on its hook. “But it feels like punishment. It’s so boring.”
If there was anything Violet couldn’t abide, it was boredom.
“You’re about to have your final fitting for a masquerade,” Em said in exasperation. “That should be exciting enough, even for you.”
This Friday night, Emma, Thea, and Violet were to attend a costume party given by the Marquess and Marchioness of Blackwood. The annual event coincided with the winding down of the Season, and, with unattached ladies and gentlemen still searching for mates, it was guaranteed to be a crush.
For once, Thea was looking forward to a social event. She was determined to get her mind off Tremont and start afresh. Mama had always said that the important things in life were worth working for. If Thea wanted love and marriage, she couldn’t let one disappointment stop her from pursuing her goal. She refused to rot away like forgotten fruit. No, she would dedicate herself to meeting possible candidates and, if necessary, learn to play the marriage mart game.
But why did the notion make her heart feel as heavy as lead? Tremont, for his part, seemed unaffected by what had passed between them. Actually, he’d been avoiding her; she hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning in Freddy’s room.
“I wish I could go.” Polly’s aquamarine eyes were wistful. “The costumes will be so beautiful.”
“You’ll get to go next year, dear. After you’ve had your come out,” Emma said.
Now that their sister was a duchess, the Kent girls were being introduced at Court. It was a far cry from their previous lives, where the most esteemed personage they’d met had been the local mayor. Polly bit her lip, her gaze lowering to her hands. Guessing her youngest sister’s fears, Thea set aside her own turmoil and gave the other’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
“It wasn’t all that bad, Polly,” she said. “It’s mostly standing around waiting. The actual presentation itself only takes a minute. And since Rosie will be making her curtsy too, you’ll have her by your side.”
“Rosie’s not afraid of anything,” Polly said with a relieved nod.
“Exactly. Between her exuberance and your gentle charm, the two of you will take Court by storm,” Thea said.
Polly’s slow smile transformed her little face into a thing of beauty.
The door opened, and the modiste entered. A slight French woman with dark coloring and pale skin, Madame Rousseau managed to look utterly chic in severe black. The pair of assistants behind her scurried over to the dressing screens and carefully hung up the dresses.
“Bienvenue, Your Grace. Misses Kent.” Madame Rousseau’s skirts rustled crisply as she curtsied. “I am most eager for you to view my finished creations.”
“Thank you, Madame,” Emma said. “We’re grateful that you expedited our order.”
“You are family to Mrs. Kent,” the modiste said simply.
Marianne Kent, their sister-in-law, had been one of Madame Rousseau’s first patrons, helping to launch the dressmaker’s star. The two women were confidantes, and Marianne had brought the Kent sisters into their realm of high fashion and impeccable taste.
Which had been no small feat, Thea thought with amusement. Growing up in Chudleigh Crest, she and her siblings had not only been lacking in Town polish, they hadn’t even known what polish was. For most of their life, they’d sewn their own clothes, many of which had been passed down, patched over, and remade.
Yet here they all were now, looking as shiny as buffed apples. The fact never ceased to amaze her. How far her family had come; she had so much to be grateful for.
“Who would like to go first?” Madame said.
Violet jumped at the opportunity. When she emerged from behind the dressing screen in a bright yellow gown, Thea smiled. Madame had made Violet into a daffodil. Exquisite leaves of emerald green decorated the bodice, matched by long satin gloves of the same shade. The bold, fresh colors perfectly captured Vi’s vibrant spirit and the long, clean lines clung to her lithe figure, emphasizing her femininity.
“Lovely,” Em approved. “You put me in mind of that poem by Mr. Wordsworth.”
“Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in a spritely dance,” Thea quoted softly.
“And then my heart with pleasure fills,” Polly chimed in, “and dances with the daffodils.”
Grinning, Vi swung this way and that in front of the looking glass. “This daffodil definitely plans to waltz the night away.”
“Now, Vi, you do know the rules about waltzing—” Em began.
Violet directed her tawny eyes at her hairline. “Not to worry, mother hen. ’Tis only a figure of speech.”
Emma exchanged looks with Thea, who shared the other’s concern. As a young girl, Vi’s high-spirited nature had landed her into plenty of scrapes; luckily, most had proved harmless. Now that she was older, however, and circulating in London’s higher circles, her impulsiveness could lead to more damaging consequences.
“Even so, you must have a care, Vi,” Thea said. “You know how sticklers can be.”
“If sticklers are anything like sisters, I’ll be in suds for certain.” Violet snorted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be so proper and demure they’ll mistake me for my shrinking namesake.”
She trotted off to change, snatching a biscuit along the way.
“Who would like to go next?” Madame Rousseau waved at the second dressing screen.
Emma volunteered, and when she returned Thea and Polly applauded her appearance. The modiste had transformed their eldest sister into a sleek feline with luxurious ermine trimming the bodice and hem of her dove grey gown. The cleverly designed headpiece gave the appearance of two small pointed ears protruding from Emma’s dark curls.
“How adorable you look,” Thea said.
“It was Strathaven’s idea.” Emma blushed. “But never mind me. It’s your turn, Thea.”
Thea took her turn behind the dressing screen. Madame helped her to don her outfit, and when they were finished, she regarded the image in the looking glass. She’d seen the unfinished costume before at previous fittings and approved the elegant design.
Yet looking at herself now, emotion hit her like a wave.
A tear leaked and slipped down her cheek.
“Alors, what is this?” the modiste said, frowning. “You do not like the ensemble, mademoiselle?”
“N-no. It’s l-lovely.”
In vain, Thea tried to control the quiver in her voice. But it was as if a hidden dam had broken inside her and the tide of emotions she’d been holding back came rushing to the fore. She thought of her sisters so vivid and hale in their costumes, and despair filled her. Why can’t I be like them? Her own feathery white image blurred.
Instead, I’m a stupid swan. Pallid and useless. An ornamental creature.
“Ah, je comprends. The dress, it is not how you envision yourself, Miss Kent?”
Looking into Frenchwoman’s shrewd eyes, Thea said helplessly, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. You’ve done a splendid job, and I am ever so grateful—”
The modiste cut her off with a hand. “We must begin anew.”
“Oh no,” Thea said, horrified, “there’s nothing wrong—”
“If it is not right, then it is wrong,” Madame Rousseau said simply.
“Thea,”—Em’s voice drifted from the other side—“is everything all right? Shall I come and help you?”
Why do I always need help? Why can’t I be strong? Why can’t I even kiss a man without my lungs giving out on me?
One after another, thoughts tumbled through Thea’s head. Heat pushed behind her eyes.
The modiste murmured, “I’ll be right back.”
Numbly, Thea heard the proprietress saying to Emma and the others that Thea’s fitting required more time. She instructed her assistants to show the Kents some accessories in the main shop.
“Are you certain you don’t need me?” Emma called out.
“Don’t worry about me,” Thea managed. “I’ll be right out.”
The doors closed behind the others, and Madame Rousseau returned.
“Thank you, Madame.” Embarrassed, Thea said, “I’m usually not a watering pot.”
“In my profession, tears are as common as pins. And like pins, they are useful if one knows what to do with them.” The modiste passed Thea a handkerchief, her manner matter-of-fact. “In your case, mademoiselle, tears may yet lead us to the truth.”
“The truth is that I’m being an idiot.” Thea dabbed at her eyes. “This dress is lovely. It will suffice, truly—”
“In my shop, sufficient is not a goal one aims for. Do you wish to tell me what troubles you, Miss Kent? A modiste cannot properly dress a client without understanding her. And of my discretion, you may be assured.”
“That is very kind of you.” Blowing into the linen, Thea wondered why it was easier to talk to the dressmaker than to her own sisters. Perhaps it was the lack of the judgement, the no-nonsense objectivity she sensed in the other. She exhaled a shaky breath. “There is… a gentleman.”
“Ah, chérie, there almost always is.”
“He thinks I’m fragile and weak,” she blurted.
Madame shrugged. An infinitely Gallic gesture. “Gentlemen, they like to believe we are the weaker sex, non?”
“I thought we had an attraction.” Releasing a breath, she said haltingly, “He’s a widower, you see, and his departed wife was a paragon. Everything a lady ought to be. I’ll never be as perfect as she was.”
“No two gowns can ever be alike,” the modiste said philosophically. “In fashion, as in life, the goal must be to accentuate one’s unique gifts rather than emulate another’s. That, ma petite, is true art.”
Her chest clenched. “But what if one doesn’t have any gifts?”
Madame arched a dark brow. “Then I would say begin with that belief.”
“Pardon?”
“If you see yourself as lacking, then the world will see what you see.”
Did she see herself as lacking? Was that the problem?
“I want to be strong,” she whispered.
“Alors, aspiration is the first step to success.” A glint in her eye, the modiste circled Thea slowly. “Go on. What else do you wish for?”
“I don’t want to be held back by my illness. I don’t want to be frail, to miss out on life while it happens around me.” Her voice grew steadier as she faced herself in the mirror. She saw a slender woman clad in ashen feathers, colorless cloth, and her hands balled. “I want to fall in love and have a family of my own.”
Madame Rousseau tapped a finger against her chin. “And?”
“I want to know passion,” Thea said in a rush.
To feel the way I do when I’m in Tremont’s arms. Dash it all, why can’t I forget him?
“Ah, I begin to understand. It is not the calm, serene waters you seek but a new adventure. You wish to feel alive, to be vibrant… aflame with the joie de vivre.” The artiste’s eyes blazed. “Mais oui. I know exactement the costume for you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I shall make you the dress of your dreams, but only you can make your dreams become a reality.” The modiste’s gaze seemed to see straight through her. “If you wish others to see you as strong, you must first believe that you are so.”
“I will try,” she said earnestly.
“Then I will promise you this: when you wear my creation two days hence, the world shall see you as you were meant to be seen. As for the feat of transforming yourself truly into this vision, chérie,”—the modiste lifted her brows—“that will be up to you.”