Wedded in Scandal

this.

Under Helaine’s instruction, Francine stared at herself in the mirror. She was dressed in puce, of all colors, a washed-out, dull brown. Flounce after flounce covered her, adding to her size and making her look like a fat lump of mashed potatoes and gravy. At least her hair didn’t lie in a flat, greasy pile. The girl was clean and her brown hair was quite lovely. Except that it was pulled ruthlessly back from her face as if someone—her mother most likely—wished to pull the skin back from her nose as tightly as possible. It didn’t work, of course, but created a perpetually pulled expression and most likely gave the girl a terrible headache by day’s end.

As requested, Francine looked at herself in the mirror. She turned slowly around, her eyes filling with tears of misery. And in the end, she didn’t even finish her perusal, but sat down in a defeated lump. She didn’t even have the strength to argue but just sat there, her eyes darting this way and that, as she no doubt looked for another crumpet.

“There now, you have looked. I shall not ask you what you saw because I can see it in your face how miserable you feel right now. Ah, here is Wendy.”

And there was Wendy, covering up the mirror with quick jerks of her arm. As the muslin settled over the reflection, everyone—Helaine included—sighed in relief. The girl in that mirror was the picture of dejection.

“Now, please, Francine, if you would but stand up, we shall help you into your new gown. You shall see what I see when I look at you.”

Francine didn’t argue. She obviously hadn’t the strength, but hope did sparkle a bit in her eyes. Just a tiny flash, but one that shot to Helaine’s soul. The girl wasn’t lost yet.

“First off, let us change your hair.” Francine didn’t have the time to argue as Helaine plucked pins out of her hair. Before long a tumble of loose, lovely curls fell down and Francine was sighing in relief.

“Those hurt, don’t they?”

“Terribly. But Mama says—”

“For the moment, Francine, I have no desire to know what your mother says. She may be the best of all mothers, but she does not know how to dress you.”

At that, Francine gaped at her. It was perhaps the first time that anyone had contradicted her mother, who was, in Helaine’s opinion, a narrow-minded tyrant. It wasn’t that the woman was cruel. She did love her daughter. But as happened with some mothers, the woman could only see the flaws, not the beauty, in her offspring. That was why Helaine had specifically conspired to see poor Francine alone, at a time when her mother was busy with her son’s tutor.

“Today, dear Francine, is about you. And what will look best on you despite what your mother says.”

The girl had no response except to nod. She was obviously still in shock that someone would speak ill of her mama.

“Next, you absolutely must remove those terrible boots. You should try on this pair of silk slippers, I think.” She held up a dainty pair dyed the palest of pinks.

The girl looked down at her thick half boots, designed more for a man who worked in a pigpen than for a girl. “But Mama said—” She stopped when Helaine raised her eyebrows. “Slippers wear so easily,” she finally managed.

“And if you were to be traipsing about London, then you should wear those, I suppose. But we are dressing you for a London party, my dear. Come, come. Mr. Shoemaker makes the most divine slippers. If you like them, then we shall bring his daughter Penny in to show you what can be done for your feet.”

Helaine didn’t mention that Mr. Shoemaker had not made these particular slippers. That shoe shop was too pricey by half for demonstration slippers. But if Francine wanted to change her footwear, she could afford the best. Meanwhile, Francine did as she was bidden, pulling off her boots with a grimace. Truly, those boots could not have been made for her. They were much too huge.

“Whose are those?”

“My cousin’s, when he grew too big for them. Papa said there was no use in throwing out perfectly good boots.”

“Hmph,” Helaine snorted. Even she could see where Francine’s feet were rubbed sore from the ill-fitting footwear. “Then we shall put your father’s feet in boots that are two inches too big and see how he likes trying to dance in them.”

“I don’t like how they make such noise when I walk,” the girl confided.

The rest of her clothing was serviceable but nothing refined. Cheap muslin for her shift and a corset as ill fitting as her boots. On a flash of inspiration, Helaine called for it all to be changed. A silk shift and a new corset. Indeed, Wendy had to run to the shop three doors down to obtain a corset of the right shape and fit. It was terribly expensive, but price was not the problem with Francine.

By the time Wendy returned, Helaine had already restyled the girl’s hair. She was not especially skilled at it, but her years at school had taught her some things. After all, what more was there for girls to do in the evenings but play with each other’s hair?

Finally they could get to the clothes. Silk shift and a corset that fit correctly went on first. Wendy had taken her cue from Helaine and brought in a pair of silk stockings as well. Pale blue slippers and then the dress, a beautiful, simple dress of midnight blue.

“But it is so dark!” Francine protested. “I thought all young misses were supposed to wear pale colors.”

“Oh, the tyranny of Almack’s!” Helaine huffed. “You are fortunate, my dear, that you are not constrained by those biddies. We shall fashion something exactly for a dance there when you go, but for now, be grateful that none of those harpies shall be staring at you. They chose those colors specifically because pale gowns are beneficial to their complexions and no one else’s.”

Francine nodded, completely awed that someone would criticize that hallowed dance hall of the haut ton. In truth, as the daughter of a milliner, Francine would never be allowed inside the doors, but it never helped to point out a person’s social limitations. So Helaine spoke in “ifs” and “whens,” as she helped Francine into one of her simplest but most inspired designs.

Simple, clean lines. A high back collar that plunged in front to a scandalous V neckline to show her cleavage. And best of all, a full drape of fabric to make her appear stately rather than frumpy. With her hair flowing softly about her face, she appeared like a queen emerged from her boudoir.

“One last thing,” Helaine said as she carefully draped a necklace of deep amethyst about the girl’s throat. It was paste, of course, and rather dull at that. But it was all that was needed to complement Francine’s porcelain skin. “And now, the mirror.”

Wendy waited a moment, pursing her lips. “The line ain’t right,” she said as she ducked forward. Wendy was lying. The line of the dress was perfect; it was Francine who was not right. She still slumped as she looked with worry down at the dark-colored fabric. “Lift up straight, else you’ll be nipped by the pins,” Wendy said.

Francine did as she was ordered, lifting her chin, her torso, and then her whole body into a tall, statuesque line.

“Oh, absolutely perfect,” breathed Helaine.

Now came the moment of truth. Wendy stepped back and took hold of the muslin on the mirror. She paused to grin, and then she pulled off the fabric in a whoosh. Helaine held her breath. It all depended on whether Francine could see the change. Some women, she knew, would see only the ugly no matter what one did. But the girl was young, and life had not yet battered her into bitterness.

The moment her reflection appeared, the girl gasped. Then she stared. Then she stared some more, her mouth ajar with shock. “But…but…” She was so stunned she couldn’t formulate the words.

“Do you see?” asked Helaine with a grin. “You’re beautiful!” Then she crossed to the mirror and started pointing. “Your skin is flawless, like creamy foam. This dark color brings out that beauty. You should never wear pinks, Francine. It makes your cheeks look as if you were drunk.”

“Mama loves pink,” she whispered.

Helaine did not have to say anything. The girl’s tone said that she knew her mother was wrong.

“Do you recall how you objected to the high collar of my designs? Do you see how it lifts and lengthens your neck? Does it hurt you at all?”

Francine twisted her head left and right. “It feels divine!”

“Especially since there is no starched lace. That, my dear, feels terrible. But this? Heavenly.”

“Yes, it does.”