The Copeland Bride

'Posh! I enjoy taking care of you.' She reached out her hand and lightly stroked Noelle's cheek. 'Have you looked at yourself lately in the mirror?'

'I don't like mirrors very much.'

'Perhaps you should give them another chance.' Constance smiled cryptically.

That night, Constance's curious statement came back to Noelle as she was preparing for bed. Impulsively she stepped over to the mirror she had been so studiously avoiding.

It was as if she saw a stranger.

First to catch her attention were her eyes. No longer dimmed by poverty, no longer obliterated by great purple shadows, they almost leapt from her face-beautiful, bright, tawny as sparkling topazes in her clear, smooth skin. She lifted her hand in wonderment and gently slid the tip of her finger along the dainty curve of her jaw. She tilted her head to the side and stroked her cheek and the smooth expanse of her forehead. Her face was still thin, but now it was the thinness of bone structure, not of poverty. Yes, there were still a few pale mauve shadows. In places, the skin seemed stretched too tightly. But, dear God, the difference! Delicately carved, finely molded, the face in the mirror stood, incredibly, on the threshold of great beauty.

Her eyes flew to her hair. It curled in a shiny nimbus around her head, only the ends having retained any trace of the orange dye; the rest was a rich golden brown as warm as spilled honey. It was as if another had taken her place in front of the mirror.

With trembling fingers she unfastened her petticoats and then shed the thin camisole beneath so that she stood naked. Here, the steel jaws of poverty were giving up their hold more reluctantly, but the improvement was still amazing.

Her long legs were more shapely, the muscles beginning to define themselves. Although her rib cage was visible, each rib no longer stood out so rigidly, nor did her hip bones protrude at such sharp angles. She doubted that she would ever develop the fashionably dimpled buttocks and rounded stomach that so delighted painters and sculptors, but at least she looked healthy. Then she scrutinized her breasts. High and full, they stood out proudly from her body, the nipples blushed with coral.

Intensely she studied her reflection, searching for the truth of it, unclouded by her preconceptions. Her old self was gone. No one seeing her now would ever recognize this finely made sylphid as the shabby Soho pickpocket.

The breathless promise of the mirror's reflection stunned her.

Several weeks later, Scheherazade herself would not have felt out of place had she wandered into Constance's sitting room, for it looked like something from The Arabian Nights. Filmy gauzes and exotic silks lay next to gay muslins and taffetas that gleamed like precious jewels. Bolts of every stylish fabric of the day were strewn haphazardly about the room. Some lay in stacks; others were unrolled with great lengths draped across furniture, carpets and, in the case of a vibrant cherry satin, the arm of Madame Renee LaBlanc.

'C'est parfait, Madame Peale. With those beautiful eyes, it will be magnifique, non?'

'No.' Constance shook her head. 'Absolutely not. The color is much too vibrant; she has not yet come out.' Despite Constance's tendency toward the ruffled and beribboned for herself, her taste was excellent, and she had an unerring instinct for the fabric and cuts that would be most flattering on Noelle.

'Ah, but of course, one forgets. Elle est tout sophistique, just like her charming curls. The old hairstyle of the Empire looks so fresh and modern on her.' The dressmaker picked up another bolt. 'Now this, perhaps, would be better.'

Clad only in her chemise, Noelle stood on a small stool in the center of the room, thankful that the remainder of her carrot hair had fallen victim to Letty's scissors only the night before, leaving a short cap of curls. She was content to be a bystander as Constance and Madame LaBlanc discussed her. Since early morning she had been poked, prodded, and scrutinized from every direction. The garrulous little Frenchwoman's measuring tape had not missed a single curve of her blossoming figure.

Noelle's eyes wandered to the window, where raindrops were drilling against the panes. She was not going to be able to take a walk again today, the second day in a row. Still, there was something so agreeable about being inside on such a dreary day. So much better than haunting the wet, stinking alleys off Bow Street or Charing Cross Road.

As Noelle mused, Madame LaBlanc issued orders to her two assistants, sending them scurrying in a torrent of French and then countermanding her original instructions with conflicting ones. 'Estelle, tu cagnarde, arrange cette chambre. Mariette, apporte- moi la soie verte. Celle-la. Non, tu imbecile, pas la verte, la blanche.'

Madame LaBlanc handed Constance a small bolt of creamy silk. 'Madame Peale, I must insist. Only this shade for Mademoiselle Pope's ball gown.'

Constance unrolled the fabric and then held it out for Noelle to touch. 'Do you like it?'

'It's beautiful.' The delicate silk slipped through her fingers like raindrops. 'I can't believe it's for me.'

'Madame LaBlanc is correct, it will be perfect. Now, I think a rounded neckline, not very low…'

'Ah, but Madame Peale,' the Frenchwoman interrupted as she began draping the creamy silk over Noelle's body. 'A decollete, perhaps a little off the shoulder, c'est a la mode. She is young, tres belle. To show off a little is not too bad, eh?'

Constance threw up her hands in mock exasperation. 'In truth, I don't know why I attempt to argue with you. Very well, I agree to the lower neckline but only if it is edged with a ruffle of the wide lace you showed me earlier. It will give a softness.'

'Madame's taste is faultless, as usual.' The submissive manner in which the dressmaker lowered her head did not fool either Constance or Noelle, and they exchanged a smile.

'Now, for the rest of the gown…' Constance began, only to be interrupted again.

'I'm sure madame will agree that the sleeve a la folle is too extreme.' With an expressive lift of her eyebrows, Madame LaBlanc contemptuously dismissed the current fashion of grossly oversized sleeves. 'I am certain you will prefer the balloon sleeve with a wide cuff in the same lace as the neck ruffle, noni'

For the rest of the day and much of the next, the discussions continued. Finally Madame LaBlanc and her assistants sealed themselves in the sewing room. But for Noelle, this was only the beginning.

Merchants arrived brandishing kid gloves and slippers with tiny bows. Shawls and reticules were purchased.

After several days, a simple cotton frock emerged from the sewing room, then another. Noelle slipped them on and pirouetted gaily in front of her mirror. A bolt of fine lawn was transformed into delicate chemises and petticoats. There was a beautiful morning gown, then an afternoon ensemble with a pleated bodice and tiny shoulder cape.

The days passed. A note arrived from Simon with a draft covering the first four months of her salary. The amount was staggering until, with Constance's assistance, she calculated the cost of the purchases that had been made on her behalf and, over the protests of her hostess, deducted a separate amount to pay her living expenses. She set aside the little that was left. Somehow she would have to get this money to the children. Otherwise she would find no pleasure in her new clothes.

The creamy silk ball gown was finished and hung carefully away in her closet. A gay sprigged muslin appeared. Noelle moved through her days as if in a dream.

The tutor Constance had hired appeared. The day of her first formal lesson she arrived in the library to find him standing at loose-limbed attention in the center of the room. Tall and spindly, he had thinning sandy hair and rimless glasses that kept slipping down his bony nose.

His adam's apple bobbed up and down in his cadaverous neck as he observed his new student. She stood before him in a lavender muslin frock. There was a delicate ruffle of deep violet at her throat and twin bands of the same color encircling the wide hem. A grosgrain belt emphasized her tiny waist. He took in the wide topaz eyes, the