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“Yes, please. You are right. I can see myself in this silk.”
“Dancing with Mr. Symon, perhaps?”
Miss Hobarth giggled again. “Perhaps. He has called on me. I should like him to continue.”
Romy nodded in agreement. “Lavender, Miss Hobarth, for a delicious dress in which to receive him, with an edging of green. You’ll look like a spring hyacinth. Madame Dupree, I’m sure, has an original design already in mind for you.”
“Indeed, Miss Hobarth. No need to look at a magazine or pattern book. I’ve just the thing in mind,” the modiste assured her, tapping a slim finger against her temple.
“You don’t mind helping me choose everything?” She looked at Romy. “I wish to look very put together.” At Romy’s nod, she said, “My mother”—Miss Hobarth looked in the direction of Mrs. Hobarth who was eyeing her daughter with impatience—“as I mentioned, is not helpful. She knows nothing of the latest fashions.”
“You would be doing me a favor,” Romy insisted. “If I return home too soon, I fear I will have to endure my younger sister’s violin lesson.” That much was true. Phaedra, though enthusiastic, lacked even a hint of musical talent. Her ability to punish the violin was akin to Romy’s playing of the piano. “I’d much rather help you choose the proper gloves and perhaps a small purse?”
“Then we are in agreement,” Miss Hobarth nodded.
Romy and Madame Dupree exchanged looks. There was nothing in the world Romy adored more than designing a gown or creating an entire ensemble for a young lady in need. It was a passion of hers, one she found little time to pursue as the daughter of a duke, but her talents did not go unappreciated by Madame Dupree.
“Bon.” The modiste towered over both Romy and Miss Hobarth, standing nearly six feet in her heels. “When you are ready, Miss Hobarth, please come, and we will take your measurements. Your waist appears smaller to me.”
Miss Hobarth smiled. “I have been forgoing biscuits.”
Madame Dupree winked discreetly at Romy before leaving to assist another young lady who had entered her shop.
Romy had formed a partnership of sorts with Madame Dupree, one which had started during her last visit to London before the death of her father. Romy had taken to haunting the modiste’s shop as a way to avoid being consumed by the knowledge her father would never recover from his illness. Wandering through the bolts of fabric and offering advice to Madame’s patrons had become a near daily habit, something which helped to blunt the pain of the approaching loss of her father. Romy hadn’t thought anyone had noticed her presence, until Madame Dupree had invited her to tea.
Over two steaming cups and the modiste’s gentle urging, Romy had explained her interest in designing clothing, along with the frustration of not being able to practice her talents. It wasn’t enough for her to dress her sisters and mother on rare occasions. She kept current on fabrics, fashions and even the rumors of a mechanical device which would eliminate sewing by hand. Romy longed to see her designs brought to life.
At the request of Madame Dupree, Romy had arrived the next day at the modiste’s, entering through the back with her portfolio beneath her arm. Madame Dupree had run one perfectly shaped nail along the design for a tea dress and pronounced Romy an artist. Soon after, the two women had reached an understanding.
Under no circumstances could Romy actuallyworkfor Madame Dupree. The modiste had no desire to anger the Duke of Averell or cause a scandal; however, if Romy were to arrive several times a week to offer suggestions on style to the other young ladies patronizing the shop under the auspices of casual conversation, such a thing wouldn’t bring undue attention. Those conversations naturally led to Romy sketching out entire ensembles which the modiste would approve or make suggestions to before presenting them.
Finally, Romy had been able to express herself through the clothing she created. Madame Dupree had the assistance of another talented modiste. It had been a very satisfactory arrangement. Romy even made a small commission when her designs were chosen.
All of it had come abruptly to an end when the Duke of Averell’s health had declined sharply and Romy, along with her sisters and mother, had returned to Cherry Hill. She had continued to send sketches to Madame Dupree from her family’s country estate along with suggestions on accessories and trim, but it hadn’t been the same. In the end, the Barringtons had spent over a year at Cherry Hill, choosing to grieve for their duke away from the glare of society.
Now that Romy had returned to London, she’d resumed her previous agreement with Madame Dupree and hoped it would evolve into something more.
After assisting Miss Hobarth for the better part of an hour, Romy wandered over to the far corner of the shop where Miss Lucy Waterstone stood frowning over a selection of velvets. She knew Miss Waterstone but not very well and took the opportunity to renew their acquaintance.
Waving away one of Madame’s assistants, Romy struck up a conversation with the girl. Miss Waterstone explained she had been invited to a house party scheduled for the following month. Several eligible bachelors would be in attendance, an earl and a marquess among them. Her father wished her to make an impression, she said to Romy, lisping softly as she cast her eyes down.
Miss Waterstone was a shy, lovely young woman, a year or so older than Romy. She was the granddaughter of an earl, but fate had awarded her with a crippling shyness, in addition to her lisp, which accounted for her unmarried state. As well as the fact that Miss Waterstone’s father was a tyrant. Few wanted him for an in-law.
“I know just the thing.” Romy took her hand and led her around the corner. As she did so, her skirts caught on something.
“Drat.”
One of Madame’s assistants had carelessly left behind a pair of fabric shears, the sharp edges jutting out dangerously from a table laden with sample fabrics. The shears were wedged into a block meant to secure ribbons, lace and other trimmings while being cut. Thankfully, Romy herself hadn’t been sliced due to the thickness of her skirts. But when she tried to move forward, threads snapped along her waist.
“Oh, my lady.” Miss Waterstone put up a hand, her eyes widening.
Romy tugged on her skirts, all the while smiling at Miss Waterstone, until the sickening sound of thread and fabric popping apart filled the air. She turned and began trying to work out the edge of the shears without cutting herself, but the slightest movement tore more of her skirts, exposing a large portion of her petticoats.
Miss Waterstone’s gloved hand pressed against her lips as she tried to stifle a sound of anguish. As if tearing one’s skirts was the absolute worst tragedy which could befall someone.
“I’m sure it isn’t as bad as all that,” she assured Miss Waterstone. She twisted to the side only to watch the fabric slice again. A small portion of her corset showed through as the entire right side of her dress sagged open at the waist. She should never have used the seamstress in the small village outside of Cherry Hill. The stitches in the hem of her dress weren’t as small and careful as they should be, a sure sign the garment was not well-made.
Miss Waterstone looked quite upset, much more so than Romy herself was. “I fear this is my fault, Lady Andromeda.”
