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The ladies set out the next day with a list that filled an entire book of tablets, a resigned-looking footman sitting up beside the coachman and a warning to Mr Fulgrave that he must expect to eat his luncheon in company with his two younger children or at his club, whichever he pleased. He was left in no doubt that his wife intended to devote herself entirely to his niece’s needs for as long as it took to achieve a creditable, although sombre, trousseau.
An amiable man with a strong sense of family, he raised no objection to this desertion, instead pressing a roll of banknotes into his wife’s hand with a whispered injunction to ‘buy something special for little Hebe’. It was not every day that a connection of the Fulgraves allied herself to an Earl. His dear Grace had done very well for herself, but what might Joanna achieve with her cousin’s new influence when she came out next year?
‘Where are we going first, Mama?’ Grace enquired, conning the lists, which were long enough to give even such a dedicated shopper as herself a faint feeling of exhaustion.
‘Madame de Montaigne,’ her mother declared. ‘We have no time to spare in having Hebe’s wedding dress and one good evening gown made. Perhaps a walking dress, as well. I would not normally think of a riding habit as you will be in mourning, but, in the country, it may be necessary. She has such a good figure that we may be able to get away with other things made up by Miss Bennett if we obtain fabrics and patterns today.’
She turned to Hebe, who was dividing her attention between the bustling street and her aunt. ‘Miss Bennett makes all our day-to-day things my dear—such a clever seamstress, why, show her a fashion plate and she will contrive excellent results. Her sisters work with her, so I have every confidence she will be able to produce, let me see, four day dresses, two afternoon gowns…’ She began to rattle off a list that appeared to Hebe, who had grown up believing that three new dresses in a year was wanton extravagance, to be outside all possibility of need.
‘But, Aunt—’ she began, but was silenced with a wave of her aunt’s hand.
‘You are about to become a Countess, dear, that changes everything.’
‘But the money,’ Hebe interjected. ‘I am not a Countess yet!’
‘Your uncle has given me a little present for you, which will pay for your evening gown, and while he was with your uncle, Lord Tasborough arranged for funds for you, quite appreciating the position you might find yourself in.’ She smiled complacently, as happy for her niece as she would have been for one of her own daughters. ‘We need not stint on the smallest item.’
Madame de Montaigne, who might, or then again, might not, have been the aristocratic émigrée she purported to be, threw herself into the task confronting her with enthusiasm. She knew that to betray by so much as a whisper the news that there was about to be a new Countess upon the social scene would be to lose her every hope of ever dressing this prestigious new client again. But once the announcement was made and smart ladies learned that the charming Lady Tasborough was dressed at de Montaigne’s, she would be able to pick and chose her clientele.
‘But, of course, Madame Fulgrave! A dusky rose would be of the most charming for mademoiselle: so pretty, yet so suitable under the circumstances. It so happens that I have a gown of just that colour—not a suitable style, but if mademoiselle cares to try it on to see the shade…’
Hebe found herself dressed in an evening gown of great elegance and far lower cut than she had ever worn. She hardly dared breathe lest what felt like an entirely inadequate bodice allowed her breasts to escape. There were puff sleeves attached to the slimmest possible shoulders and the skirts fell from immediately below her bosom to her ankle bone.
The colour was exquisite, Hebe thought, looking down: the shade of raspberries mixed with cream. Then Madame turned her around and she found herself confronting a stranger in the long pier glass. The shiny brown hair was hers, but her face was suddenly finer, her eyes bigger, her mouth fuller in contrast to the high cheek bones. It was as if every vestige of youthful plumpness had gone, leaving a young lady of haunting and unusual looks.
‘Enchanting!’ Madame sighed.
‘Yes,’ Aunt Emily agreed, looking at her niece as though for the first time. ‘Enchanting is exactly the word.’
‘Now, this colour is exactly right for the wedding gown, and this style, but in black of course, for the
evening gown.’
‘But, Aunt Emily, this is much too low,’ Hebe gasped.
‘Not for a married lady of fashion,’ Madame assured her. ‘Now, what do you think of this silk, with a gauze overskirt of embroidered net? I have a net here with the work all concentrated at the bottom—wreaths of leaves, which would be most appropriate.’
The evening gown settled, they turned their attention to a design for the wedding dress. To Hebe’s huge relief the neckline was more modest, trimmed with satin ribbons in an unusual twisting edging that was reflected in the hem and in undulating bands of trim which circled the skirt.
‘With roses in the hair and at the bosom and pearls, do you not think, Madame?’ Aunt Emily enquired.
By the time they emerged with a gratifyingly large number of garments crossed off Mrs Fulgrave’s list, Hebe was feeling decidedly light-headed and made no resistance at all to being steered into Gunther’s. A cup of hot chocolate and a delicious ice with almond biscuits had a reviving effect and she was able to contemplate an afternoon at the silk warehouses with some enthusiasm.
‘Millard’s East India Warehouse might have the best prices,’ Aunt Emily mused while the coachman sat stolidly ignoring the curses of carters until she had made up her mind where to send him. ‘But do we really want to go as far as Cheapside? No, I think Shears. Henrietta Street, Grimes!’
Shears’s of Bedford House certainly had the most staggering display of mourning fabrics one might hope to view. Hebe allowed herself to be seated by the counter while assistants brought bombazines, crepes, Italian nets, silks, gauzes and Gros de Naples for her approval. She was overwhelmed and simply said, ‘Whatever you think, Aunt,’ at regular intervals as pelisses and gloves, trimmings and beadings followed the fabrics.
‘Stagg and Mantle’s for linens,’ was the next decree, once Peter, sweating freely from trying to fit the numerous parcels into the carriage, had finally climbed back on to the box, mopping his brow.
Once they found the linen drapers, Grace whispered, ‘Do all Hebe’s underthings have to be mourning too?’ She was already beginning to embroider daringly flimsy unmentionable items for her own trousseau.
‘I really do not think so,’ her mother answered. ‘This is, after all, a wedding outfit.’
If Hebe had blushed at the neckline of the evening gown, she was reduced to silence by the items which the, fortunately female, assistant brought for her inspection. Cotton petticoats and camisoles for day wear were modest enough, if made in the finest fabric she had ever worn and with exquisite tucks and lace trims. But some of the underwear made from Indian lawns, and all of the night-wear, was, to her innocent eyes, utterly immodest.
‘Aunt, I cannot wear that, why, it is transparent!’ she protested on seeing the most fragile nightgown and its accompanying peignoir.
‘My dear,’ her aunt whispered, ‘this is for your wedding night.’
