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Chapter Six
None of the ladies who patronized Madame Robillard’s shop paid Molly any attention as she followed the modiste back to a private fitting room. She was an invisible maid, and that was both a familiar and comfortable role for her.
Dread filled her as she trailed after the Frenchwoman, who glided rather than walked and left a wake of subtle but distinct lemon and bergamot perfume behind her. Once Molly entered the fitting room, Madame Robillard’s eyes—nearly as black as her raven hair—would sweep over her, and there would be no hiding from her.
Would the woman discern that however staid Molly’s appearance, however practical her airs, a torrent had been released within her of late? Would she divine that Molly had come to question the protestations she’d lodged against the modiste’s and her ladyship’s suggestions? Here for the fitting, the gown had already been fashioned, so surely it was too late to change her mind and accept the women’s advice.
When Lady Clara had brought her to the dressmaker before leaving for Anterleigh, Molly hadn’t been prepared to embrace either her ladyship’s generosity or the revealing and luxurious gowns they had pointed to in the fashion plates. It was one thing for a lady like her employer to wear such frippery inspired by the French, but Molly knew her station.
Perhaps alittlefrippery would have been called for, Molly thought, stepping past the modiste and entering the fitting room. Madame Robillard shot her fine-boned wrist into the air and signaled to her assistant, snapping once…twice…a third time. The tension released from Molly’s shoulders when she stopped at three.
“Lady Clah-ra, she is well?” Madame Robillard asked.
“She has sent word that she arrived safely at Anterleigh, yes.”
“Bien. Très bien.” With a flourish of her hand, she indicated the red velvet cushion-topped box in the center of the small room.
Hands fisted by her sides, Molly stepped up onto it. It took all her restraint to stand still as the modiste helped her undress. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had assisted her in such tasks.
She had no memories of her mother caring for her this way. Being the oldest, Molly had to have benefited from her mother’s attentions for at least a short while, but she was only eleven months old when Tilly was born, scarcely two years old when John came along, just over three years old when Meg arrived…
Molly couldn’t recollect the sensation of her mother’s arms around her. There was always someone younger who needed her mother’s attentions or her milk; always brothers or sisters for Molly to tend or dishes to wash or floors to sweep. Was it any wonder why she wrapped herself so tightly in a blanket at night? The habit had started before she could say, certainly during childhood, and was the only time she could pretend that someone was holding her.
“I trust that the gown does not disappoint, eh? I followed your instructions as to the color.”
Hopes dashed that the modiste had disregarded Molly’s ill-advised instructions, she nodded weakly. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Quelle couleur for your gown? Who do you want to be at these concerts?” the Frenchwoman had asked, eyes boring into her soul.
She could hardly say black like her uniform, not for a concert. “Brown,” Molly had supplied. When Lady Clara suggested lavender, Molly shook her head. “No, my lady. I’m a mouse, I am.”
Undeterred, her ladyship had tried to enlist Madame Robillard. “We can’t send her to the Philharmonic Society in a brown gown, now can we? Nor do I think you could bring yourself to construct a mousy gown if you tried!”
Blinking indolently, her eyes ever mysterious, Madame Robillard had surprised Molly and Lady Clara with her answer. “A brown evening gown…I have yet to make one. But as she wishes, Madame la Souris shall go to her concert in brown.”
The woman who entered Madame Robillard’s shop today would not have requested a dull gown nor a brown one.Thatwoman would have considered the sweet lavender the Lady Clara suggested. Lively lime appealed, too, in honor of theVictoria regiawater lily!
No matter. It’s already a treat to go to the concert, let alone be wearing a fancy gown!
A fancy brown gown.
Perhaps there’s some embellishment. A bit of lace. Something…
“Et voilá!” Madame Robillard said, looking toward the doorway.
Skirts rustled as the assistant moved, but it wasn’t the woman’s skirts. Draped across her outstretched arms were voluminous, shimmering folds of light-colored silk.
“It’s not brown!”
Molly’s utterance, filled with approval and wonder, lifted the corners of the modiste’s lips. “But yes—it is. A shade of brown, let’s say. Tan perhaps.” The dressmaker trailed a knuckle over the light buff-colored fabric; iridescent, it looked like champagne at one angle, the palest pink from another.
Hands pressed to her cheeks, Molly shook her head in utter delight. “I’d said I was to be a mouse.”
“Eh, oui. So you shall be.” When Molly looked at her with confusion, the Frenchwoman lifted her chin. “A mouse, have you seen her up close? Her fur is luscious. Shiny. She is careful, timid at times. A mouse is small, yet she knows how to survive. When someone earns her trust, she is curious—playful even.”
Giddy, Molly nearly giggled at that—until the modiste and her assistant lifted the gown over her head. The sensual glide of silk against her body froze the breath in her throat. She was almost lightheaded when she stepped down and went to stand in front of the cheval looking glass in the corner of the room.
She trembled, but not from any chill, though the gown did indeed bare her shoulders.
