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“Do you worry that people would see the white for what it is?”
“And what is it?” Lady Edith asked.
Misdirection. A sorry attempt to prove I was innocent despite what everyone thought of me. Again, exceedingly difficult to keep clean.
None of the reasons left my lips, and my mother-in-law simply shook her head. “I may have been away from London for a number of years, but I know well how things are meant to be run here, and I hope you will trust my judgment.”
“I do trust your judgment.”
“Good.” Lady Edith smiled, and I believed, for the first time, that it was at least partially genuine. She pointed to the door before us. “Let us design the whitest, grandest gown we can.”
The shop was filled with bolts of fabric and spools of ribbons and lace. Lady Edith went directly to speak to a woman with flaming red hair and chalky white skin in the back of the shop, and I perused the silks near the window. A green silk caught my eye that was nearly the color of James’s eyes, and I ran my fingers through it, letting the fabric slide over them like water down a stream.
“Felicity, you should be part of this conversation. Madame Rousseau was showing me her new white silk.”
I looked up and the women were standing near a table, a bolt of white fabric lying between them. The modiste clapped her hands together. “I have just the thing. The latest Ackermann’s arrived, and there is a white dress . . .” She pulled the periodical onto the table and flipped through it. Her thick French accent skipped all of the h sounds, and her painted face was slightly garish, but the examples of her talent around the shop gave me hope. “Let me find it. It is simply magnifique.”
Madame Rousseau scanned the pages as she flipped through them until she paused on one. “Here it is.”
She pressed the pages flat, and I leaned closer to Lady Edith to see the fashion plate spread before us. The woman pictured was seated, wearing a white gown with roses appliqued to gathered fabric at the hem and sleeves.
“White silk underdress,” Lady Edith said.
Madame Rousseau pointed to the gathered fabric near the hem. “You can see the sheer overlay here. It could be a soft pink—”
“White,” Lady Edith said. “I want the entire gown to be white. Even the flowers.”
The modiste’s gaze flicked to me. “A little color surely will help the young lady to not look pale in the cheeks.”
“Perhaps we will employ a bit of rouge for that purpose. If the entire theme of the ball is to be white, it would behoove us to dress our bride in the same flawless color. Can you do that for me, Madame Rousseau?”
“Indeed, I would be happy to.”
“Then I needn’t tell you that it is my aim to impress the attendees at our ball with an elegant masterpiece, which I know you can provide.”
“Of course, Lady Edith.”
“And I would like the concept of our gown to be a surprise.”
Madame Rousseau looked to me as though seeking confirmation, and I tried to smile. “I am so looking forward to this gown. The design is lovely.”
Lady Edith looked at the paper again. “Can we add a train?”
“That could make dancing more difficult,” the modiste said.
Which was entirely the last thing I needed.
My mother-in-law looked to me. “I think Mrs. Bradwell is willing to sacrifice a few conveniences in order to make a more striking figure.”
“Of course,” I said. What other choice did I have? I wanted this woman to like me. “I do not intend to dance very much that evening, anyway.” As soon as I stepped onto the dance floor, I would be finished for the night. It was inevitable.
“We could gather more of the fabric here,” Madame Rousseau said, pointing to the sweeping fabric beneath the roses at the hem. “If we bring it up higher there will be more fabric to create a train in the back.”
The image described resembled the gowns worn by debutantes in the royal drawing rooms. “Are we not concerned I will appear ready to make my bow to the queen?”
“Perhaps,” Lady Edith said quietly. “So we must not put a feather in your hair. Maybe a strand of pearls instead.”
“Or white flowers to match the appliques on the gown,” the modiste suggested.
