After two daysin the city, Grace’s feet ached with so much traipsing from linen drapers to milliners, fan shops and shoemakers, then back again. Helen had been in ecstasy as they’d pored over fashion plates, attempting to convince Grace to choose the outrageous colors and patterns Helen favored. Not that there was any chance of Grace doing so, and she was thankful to find an ally in her soon-to-be mother-in-law who managed to gently redirect Helen’s attention to the far more understated shades that Grace preferred. Lady Ravenscroft was so changed from the countess she’d known as a child, and yet, in her deep kindness, still the same—and still beautiful, despite the years.
What had changed was the hint of sadness in the countess’s eyes whenever she looked at Lucien. It seemed brittle and tentative. An underlying current of painful and exquisite carefulness in their dealings with each other.
All might have seemed well to anyone less intuitive. Helen certainly had no clue anything was amiss. If Grace had to guess, however, it had much to do with Lucien’s need to fillevery minute of his day with business, meeting them during the afternoons without fail out of duty. He would escort them to luncheon or Gunter’s and then take his leave. Grace, herself, might not have noticed the delicate way they interacted, if not for the occasional, unguarded glances she caught between the two. No doubt about it. Lucien’s mother moved through her son’s world as if picking her way gingerly across uncertain ground…
Helen, on the other hand, pushed her way through heedlessly, as if clearing a path for ‘our soon-to-be viscountess.’
Today, they wove their way through the vendors hawking posies and embroidered kerchiefs, Helen chatting away with the countess about the wonders of the shop recommended by Mrs. Kemble. “Have you ever shopped there?” she asked, then nattered on without waiting for a reply, as was her habit. “Apparently, this istheshop that is the most fashionable, and dear Mrs. Kemble insists that if we are to havethewedding of the season, wemustacquire Grace’s wedding gown from there.”
Grace, determined to get it over with as soon as possible, glanced up at a bird sitting atop the raised sword of a bronze cavalier. The sense of familiarity on seeing it, reminded her of her last trip to London years ago with her mother. A warmth spread in her heart at the forgotten memory, her mother pointing high up to the statue’s stalwart gaze locked on something across the square. “That’s how I found my favorite modiste,” she’d said. “I thought to myself, what’s he looking at? Whatever it is, that’s where I want to go. And there she was. Madame Lavoie, her shop newly opened, and I one of her first customers.”
Grace stopped mid-step, following the statue’s gaze across the square toward the very establishment her mother had frequented so long ago. The paint on the exterior was not as she remembered it, but the sign dangling above was unforgettable.A unicorn with a gauzy veil draped around it. Beneath, in gold letters: M.m. Lavoie, Modiste.
“I wish to go there,” she exclaimed, her heart pounding.
“We are going to the shop down the street!” Helen protested. “Mrs. Kemble was most particular?—”
But Grace was already hastening across the square toward the blue-painted door. Behind her, she heard the countess’ voice. “It is Grace’s wedding. If she desires?—”
Grace didn’t hear the rest. She opened the door, and stepped in. The scent of dried roses hit her, and with it vivid memories of her trip here with her mother. A rainbow of fabrics and trims were arranged around the charmingly outfitted room, completed gowns displayed on dress forms. Gleaming mirrors with distinctively carved frames still graced the pale pink walls, the same color as the dried rose petals filling the crystal cut bowl near the leaded window. She could see her younger self, selecting fabric, then retreating to the fitting room, her reflection in the mirror as she stood on the small, raised platform, seamstresses fluttering about…
Mama peering over her shoulder, her face glowing with love and pride.
A movement at the back of the room brought her swiftly back to the present. The modiste, in the midst of giving orders to a young girl about beads to be stitched on a bodice, looked up and froze.
The woman’s features were so familiar to Grace it wrenched at her heart. “Madame Lavoie…?” Grace said, her voice cracking. She barely noticed as the countess and Helen swept in. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but?—”
“Mon Dieu, can it be?” Marie Lavoie pressed a hand to her heart and rushed forward. “Lady Grace Elliot! I would recognize you anywhere. So like your dearmamanyou are.”
Tears stung Grace’s eyes. “I am sad to say that my mother is not with me, she…”
“I knew…” Madame gave a deep sigh. “When I heard dear Lady Elliot had left town so suddenly, I knew what she dreaded had come to pass. She was so hoping to have more time with you.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “How did you know? She’d told no one.”
“Madame had a spell during a fitting. She must confide in someone, no?” Madame clucked her tongue, her face filled with empathy. “She would not worry her husband or her so-lovely daughter who was on the brink of taking the ton by storm.”
A whirl of emotions swept through Grace. Had she known her mother was sick earlier, she would have forced her to go back to The Willows and rest. Perhaps she and the boys could have had a few more precious months with her. How lonely she must have been, keeping her secret from the family those early days.
Grace’s throat ached, her tears pushing against her lashes as she thought of her mother’s silence.
The modiste gave a wistful smile. “Yourmaman, she loved you so very much. She was eager to see you through your first season. It wounded her that she might not be here when you became a bride.”
“Oh, my…” Helen said under her breath.
Recalling she wasn’t alone, Grace schooled her features and turned toward the two older women standing behind her. Helen, who no doubt heard the entire conversation, looked distinctly pale. The countess, her gentle face filled with empathy stood stalwartly next to her as if to lend her support.
The gesture wasn’t lost on Grace, and she felt the first twinge of guilt that perhaps Helen deserved a modicum of respect from her, at least in public. “Pardon me for not introducing my companions sooner,” Grace said. “Madame Lavoie, may Ipresent the Countess of Ravenscroft and my stepmother, Lady Elliot.”
“Stepmother?” Marie’s nose wrinkled just the tiniest bit. “Ah, well…Your ladyship, your ladyship, welcome.” The Frenchwoman curtsied.
Helen puffed up, her earlier discomfort immediately banished as she announced the reason for their visit. “We are about the business of selecting Lady Grace’s trousseau. She is to be married to the Viscount Everdene.”
“Mais oui!” Madame smiled as she set aside her pin cushion. “Of course I heard the news. The match is all anyone talks about. Lady Grace, you are quite the sensation since the Elusive Viscount E chose you for his bride. I have seen his lordship about. He is most handsome, and fierce. And now, the young ladies come into the shop, weeping, because he is to be wed! That you have tamed such a man…oh la la!” Madame said with a sweep of her elegant hand.
Grace’s cheeks flamed, aware the countess was hearing her son described so.
The modiste smiled kindly at Lady Ravenscroft. “To think the day has come when his lordship will confine himself to hearth and home must warm a mother’s heart. And he has chosen a diamond, I can see.” She glanced at the over-large gem weighing down Grace’s finger, then looked up at her, her dark eyes sparkling. “When I saw the announcement of your betrothal, I told myself, Marie, the day you have awaited has come! I meant to dispatch a note to The Willows, but it seems you already knew that I have something for you here. Is that not why you’re here?”
