“Callisto, ma’am.”
Callisto? What manner of lord named a mare after one of Jupiter’s moons?
“His lordship sent her an’ a small carriage ’round too.”
A mare. And a carriage? When she’d half expected her congé?
Bemused, she quickly claimed a seat and unfolded the page, trying to give the appearance of a lady of leisure—one accustomed to receiving surprise guests—while inside, her heart set up a distinctly unsettled rhythm.
Forgive me, Dear Thea. I’ve been negligent, inexcusably so, forgetting to tell you that you have accounts arranged in your name at a number of establishments, that you are free to spend, within generous reason, to your heart’s content, outfitting yourself and your home.
For today, I beg of you, my proud girl, work with Madame Véronique. She’ll see you grandly clothed and I shall see you this evening. Be ready at 6 p.m.
Daniel
Daniel. His given name was Daniel.
And he hadn’t taken offense at her requests. Hadn’t taken her to task for the audacious listing of them. Had, in fact, responded with even more consideration, more generosity. He’d sent her a horse and carriage, and, more amazingly than an unexpected invitation to dine with their rotund Regent, signed it with his given name!
Thea had no time to savor the realization, not when “Madame Véronique Rousseau, exquisite dressmaker to London’s elite” immediately presented upon her doorway.
A tall, handsome woman with mounds and mounds of brightly hennaed hair, Madame V, as she said “Meezes Hurwell” could call her, spoke with an unmistakable French accent. Unmistakably fake, Thea suspected, but the words were delivered with such arrogance, she doubted very few ever quibbled with anything the haughty “French” woman might want.
With entourage in tow, comprised of three assistants carrying boxes piled high, she swept inside as though she were a tornado that made no allowance for anything in its path. And tornado was a perfect comparison, for within a matter of seconds, Thea found herself surrounded by a profusion of books, patterns, bolts of colorful fabric and swatches of even more, lace, trims, edgings, ribbons, hats…the previously sedate morning room becoming a storm of productivity.
And that was only the first trip!
After the second round of all three bringing in yet more boxes, aided this time by Buttons whose arms were piled high as well, Thea’s startled gaze flitted from girl to girl as they pulled forth dresses in various stages of completion, each more beautiful than the one before. Once the final box was emptied and the last dress swished softly into place atop the settee, Madame Véronique clapped her hands imperiously. “Come now, girlz. Yvette, clear zee floor. Josette, find a stool or crate for Meezes Hurwell to climb upon. Suzette, ready yourself to take zee notes.” A snap. “My measuring tape!”
Trying not to laugh at the false accent or phony names proved surprisingly easy once the first dress was held up to Thea’s form and she was shoved in front of the mirror Mrs. Samuels brought in. (Hard to giggle when one is gasping.)
Time passed in a haze, fittings and pinnings interspersed with various pronouncements from Madame V…
“Zix p.m.? He expectz zee miracle!”
“Suzette, for the last stinking time, leave off making cow eyes at that footman!” (In her exasperation, as this was the third such warning, Madame V’s accent took a tumble.)
“Tsk, tsk, Meezes Hurwell, you are a stick, a twig! Theez will never hang right! You are a weed, a—”
By now, Thea had heard enough mutterings and criticisms about her shortage of natural padding to vex even the most patient of saints. She might be down to only chemisette (a peach-colored silk, it should be noted) and bare feet, but in recent days, she’d finally learned to stand on them—and stand up for herself. “Madame V, I appreciate all the work you’re doing on my behalf, but where my figure—or lack of one—is concerned stop comparing me to spindly vegetation! I vow, pretty dresses and unmentionables aside, if you don’t harness your nettling opinions forthwith, I’ll eject you all.”
After that, the fittings continued much more silently, and if Suzette caught Thea’s eye and gave a nod of approval that caused Thea to blush, then it was all for the better. Blonde and buxom and so very English, Thea thought she might’ve stepped right off a dairy farm in a neighboring shire; there was no conceivable way that girl came from across the Channel. And if she had a fondness for Buttons? Well then, Thea liked her already.
“Six p.m.? Never!” The accent had been long discarded. “I’ll never have it ready. ‘Fit for a princess’ he orders…” Madame V complained from her kneeling position near Thea’s feet.
“Lord Tremayne?” Arms straight out, Thea had been forced away from the mirror and off the stool as the hem was checked and rechecked.
“Lower them. Aye, Tremayne.” As though coming to a decision, Madame V left off fiddling with the hem and stood. “Yvette, ball up some cotton. I need to fill in the bodice.”
Madame might have abandoned the accent but Thea wasn’t ready to falsify her bosom. “I’m not sure—”
“I am.” The woman was adamant. “If I had designed this for you from the beginning, ’twould not be necessary, but alas, he orders you clothed like a queen for tonight and I am left with altering what already exists. I positively cannot have one of my creations fitting so ill. You’re not a scrawny scarecrow without a hint of curve”—at least she’d unbent that much in her assessment of Thea’s form—“and it would do no credit to my reputation to have your dress hanging on you as though you were.”
“Mum always said that all a girl needed was to pop out a babe or two and her bosom would plump out right nicely,” Suzette said helpfully.
Madame tugged the neckline forward and Thea frowned at how much it gaped.
“I shall make a temporary fix,” the dressmaker announced. “The padding, it will be removable, hmmm?”
She shoved the small, rounded wad of cotton Yvette handed her behind one side of
