Commerce, industry, society itself—they all depended on such fragile foundations. And when those foundations burned, the consequences would be catastrophic. His breath fogged the glass as he exhaled, and a single thought echoed in his mind:They are building their fortunes on kindling.
Chapter 2
Gracechurch Street, Cheapside, London, July 1811
Elizabeth Bennet was about to cry.
The mirror offered no kindness as she stared at her reflection, her lips trembling and her hands clutching the sides of the dress as though it might somehow reshape itself.
She had trusted Madame Dupont’s expertise, had even looked forward to this fitting with her usual sense of optimism. Shopping with her fashionable aunt Gardiner in London was always so much more enjoyable than in Meryton with her mother’s insistence of more lace and a lower neckline.
Yet now, standing in the modiste’s elegant fitting room surrounded by gilt-framed mirrors and the gentle rustle of silk, she could only think one thing: she looked like a squash.
A frilly, feathered squash.
Staring at herself in the full-length mirror in the fitting room, Elizabeth could scarcely believe what she saw. Lace cascaded from the bodice like a frothy waterfall, feathers bristled from the shoulders in an affront to all sense of decorum, and embroidery in garish gold swirls sprawled across the skirt like a map to some imaginary treasure.
The thought of the gown being stolen by a pirate to seek out gold nearly caused Elizabeth to lose control of her last threads of sanity. She pushed back the tears of laughter that had formed in her eyes and turned around to address the other person in the room.
“This,” she declared to her aunt, who was perched on a nearby chaise, her lips twitching dangerously, “is not what I ordered.”
Mrs. Gardiner coughed delicately into her handkerchief, though it did little to hide her amusement. “I should say not, my dear.”
“I am not certain why the waist is so loose.” Elizabeth gestured at the drooping fabric. “Surely I do not look as though I require this… extra room.”
“And yet the bust and hips are tight,” Mrs. Gardiner added, her amusement growing. “The dress seems to have no idea what it wants to be. Unless, of course, you secretly aspire to be a particularly flamboyant bird of paradise.”
Elizabeth threw her an incredulous look. “I hardly think even a bird of paradise would wear this.”
She turned back to the mirror, grimacing as she attempted to adjust the waistline, which hung awkwardly loose while the bodice strained precariously. The skirt, pooling at her feet in an alarming volume, seemed designed for a woman several inches taller and quite differently proportioned. While Elizabeth’s waist was kept trim from her usual ramblings throughoutHertfordshire, her hips and bust had become quite… curvier over the last year or so.
This dress was made for a woman who was built like a twig, not a pear.
Mrs. Gardiner stood, circling her niece with a critical eye. “Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “the modiste mistook you for a dowager duchess who fancies herself a fashion icon. Or a guest at a masquerade ball—one where peacocks are the theme.”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. “Or someone who wishes to frighten small children,” she said, her voice muffled by laughter. “Truly, Aunt, it is a crime against fabric.”
“I must admit,” Mrs. Gardiner said, her composure wavering, “the color alone is enough to make one reconsider the merits of sight.”
“It would certainly frighten any foxes out of the henhouse. Perhaps I ought to recommend it to Hill for each of the maids?”
Mrs. Gardiner pressed a hand to her lips, her shoulders shaking. “Or perhaps to Jane, in order to ensure no suitor with bad poetry ever dares to call again,” she managed, her voice muffled with barely contained laughter.
Elizabeth let out a half-sob, half-laugh, her composure teetering on the edge. “Do you think... do you think Madame Dupont hates me?”
Mrs. Gardiner stepped closer, circling Elizabeth as if examining a particularly curious painting. “I think,” she said solemnly, “she may have mistaken you for someone attempting to impersonate a particularly flamboyant canary.”
That was too much. Elizabeth clutched the sides of the monstrosity as laughter bubbled out of her, mingling with her earlier despair. “It is awful,” she gasped. “It is so awful I do not even know where to begin.”
Mrs. Gardiner tilted her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps with the feathers. I am not certain why anyone would think shoulders need plumes.”
The sound of their mirth echoed through the small fitting room. Just as Elizabeth was about to attempt an escape from the lace prison, the door swung open, and Madame Dupont herself bustled in.
“Ah, mademoiselle!” the modiste exclaimed, her eyes widening as she took in the sight before her. “Oh, mon Dieu! Non, non, non, this is all wrong!”
Elizabeth turned, still shaking with laughter. “I should say so.”
Madame Dupont clasped her hands to her cheeks, the picture of dismay. “Forgive me, please! That dress—it is not yours!”
