Wedded in Scandal

“Stop it!” ordered Wendy without even looking up from her work. “I can hear your brain yapping all the way over here.”

“I didn’t say a word,” returned Helaine stiffly. It was a pretend anger because they really were the best of friends. And because they had only each other to rely upon. If either failed, they both failed.

“But you be thinking and worrying yerself to death and I won’t have it. Got the milliner’s daughter Francine coming tomorrow, and we need you to design her something that will get her wed.”

Helaine sighed, the sound coming from deep within her. “I’m not sure anyone can do that.” The girl was fat. Not even plump, but decidedly fat, and she had a mean temper to boot. The first could be hidden. The second made any efforts at dressing moot.

“Well, if you can do it, then we’d be established for sure.”

“Wendy—,” Helaine began, but her friend just shook her head.

“Jus’ talk to the girl. You can tell her things about how to be sweeter.”

“But there are some things—”

“Tut-tut!” the girl said as she pointed her needle straight at Helaine’s heart. “They can’t all be like Lady Gwen. You just think on that and not our prices. Teach that fat girl how to be nice on the inside, and then she’ll find her man.”

Helaine plopped down by the worktable and pulled out her sketchbook. She didn’t need it. She already knew what would look best on Francine. “It’s not about being nice,” she said as much to herself as to the seamstress. “It’s about feeling happy inside. Then nice is easy. As is husband hunting.”

“There you go,” said Wendy with a grin. “You just teach her that and we’ll be rich. Easy as stitching a straight line.”

“Well, maybe for you,” said Helaine. Her stitches had always wandered willy-nilly.

“Fine then,” said Wendy. “Easy as drawing a straight line. And that I know you can do.”

That she could. Now if only she could get someone to pay for their talents. Then they would be rich. Or at least not a half breath away from the poorhouse.

It was that fear that carried her through the night and into the next morning. Years ago, she and her mother had spent two nights in the poorhouse. Two nights crammed into the same bed with a rail-thin mother of three. Two nights of starting at every noise and holding her mother while the frail woman sobbed. Thankfully, they were both exhausted from a day spent doing prison labor—pounding hemp into rope—that at least they managed to sleep on the second night. And then Wendy had rescued them, offering them her home until the business turned a profit. And slowly, their life had changed.

Helaine and her mother had rooms of their own now, right above the shop. And if they didn’t own anything of value anymore—it had all been sold six months after her father’s disappearance—at least they each had a bed, food on the table, and a little coal for the winter. It was more than many had in London, and Helaine was grateful for it every day. And terrified it would all disappear on the morrow.

That was the fear that pulled her from her bed at dawn and sat her down at her worktable to sketch. And that was the fear that drove her to work on Lady Gwen’s trousseau, sketching a new dress for her wedding that would emphasize every detail of the woman’s beautiful body. And that was the fear that had her setting down six new designs before Miss Francine while the girl was munching on crumpets and spilling cream upon the paper.

“But wot ’bou’ m’ ’ck?”

Helaine leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

The girl set aside the crumpet and dusted off her fingers. “Wot about my neck? Won’t it pinch?” she asked, pointing to the full collar.

“Oh, no. Not this material and not when Wendy sews it. Trust me, Francine. It shall look divine.”

The girl was obviously not convinced. Her face pinched up and she reached again for the crumpet. “But it’s so plain. Not a ruffle or rosette anywhere.” She stuffed another full bite into her mouth. “Mama says at least with the rosettes, the men will look at the decoration and not me.”

Helaine blinked, shock reverberating through her system. “Surely your mother doesn’t say that! The men are supposed to look at you, Francine. How can you possibly think to attract a man if they are looking at the rosettes and not you?”

Francine didn’t answer as she stuffed another bite into her mouth. But her eyes did, and her body. Her gaze dropped to her lap, and her body slumped in the seat. She was the picture of a depressed, downtrodden woman. Helaine knew the look. She understood the need to hide yourself any way you could. After her father was exposed as the Thief of the Ton, she had done everything but put a bag over her face as a way to hide.

“It never works, you know,” she said gently. “Nothing can hide who you really are. No laces, flounces, or even the best rosette that Wendy can make will hide who you really are.” Then she leaned forward and lifted the girl’s chin. “And Francine, nothing should.”

The girl didn’t believe her. She sat there in slumped misery. “I’m fat, Helaine. No one wants a fat wife.”

“No one wants a mean wife, Francine. I have seen many fat girls get married. Many ugly girls, too. Fortunately, my dear, you are not ugly and not exactly fat yet, either. And you have the advantage of something special.”

Francine wrinkled her nose. “Yes. My father’s money.”

“No, silly!” Helaine said. “A talented dresser. Come, come. Put down that silly crumpet and let me show you the truth. Let me show you what I see when I look at you.”

She didn’t have to pull hard to get the girl to comply. They went to the dressing room to where Wendy waited with the first of three dresses they had made for Francine. In the back of Helaine’s mind was the ever- present knowledge that the girl had to like these dresses—and pay for them—or they would have no money at all until Lady Gwen chose to pay. But she tried not to let it influence her at that moment. This time was for Francine, and she would not let anything detract from that.

Wendy began with a smile, lifting up the first of the three dresses. It was a moment that Wendy most especially treasured because the ladies always oohed and aahed over what was before them. But Francine didn’t. She scrunched up her nose and made a bad face that clearly upset Wendy.

“’Ey, now…,” the seamstress began, but Helaine stepped forward to interrupt.

“Wendy, dearest, before we get to the gowns, perhaps you could do me a favor. Please, would you find that spare piece of muslin and cover the mirror?”

Not surprisingly, her friend looked at her in shock. “Cover the mirror—”

“Please, Wendy.”

The seamstress knew better than to argue. Helaine was the one who soothed the customers and brought in business. When they were in front of a client, Helaine ruled. And so Wendy bobbed a quick curtsy and went to the back room to find the fabric. Meanwhile Helaine turned to Francine.

“What were you looking at right then?” she asked gently.

Francine frowned. “What do you mean? I was looking at the dress.”

“I don’t think so. I was watching your face. You were looking in the mirror. At yourself, weren’t you? That grimace was what you do every time you look in the mirror, isn’t it?”

Francine shrugged, one shoulder coming up to her ear while her eyes slid away. “Nobody wants to look at your ugly dresses anyway,” she snapped.

And there she was: Mean Francine. Helaine was beginning to see the problem. Mean Francine only came out when the girl felt threatened or embarrassed. And this, too, Helaine had some experience with.

“Very well, Francine, I would like you to do something for me. I would like you to turn and look at yourself from all angles in this mirror.”

“What?”

“I want you to see how you look right now, really look.”

“Why?”

“Please, my dear. Just leave yourself in my hands for a few minutes. And then you shall see something truly special, I promise you.”

The girl was not going to leap right into trust, and who could blame her? If her mother had been telling her she was fat and ugly all her life, then of course the child was angry. Especially since Mama dressed the girl like