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Until the warning, it hadn’t occurred to her it would be Pen who worried about standing out! Her own stomach had been in knots over visiting the elegant shop, and she felt slightly more at ease.
Upon entering, however, the other ladies looked askance at her indeed, even though she was wearing her emerald gown and every petticoat she had in England.Pay them no attention.
“Bonjour,Mademoiselle Pénélope!”
Pen’s glossy ringlets bounced as she greeted the raven-haired Frenchwoman who glided her way, her eyes as dark as her mane, wearing a burgundy gown.
“Not forme,today.” After switching to English, Pen presented Helen to Madame Robillard, who looked to be in her late thirties.
Unabashed in the slightest, the dressmaker looked at her from head to toe before clasping her hands. “Ah, je vous remercie pour le défi que vous m’avez apporté!”
“Yes, I’ve brought you a new client. Mrs. Gray is visiting from America and will require several gowns. Including one for a soirée in five days’s time.”
Clucking her tongue and using her hands as she conversed back and forth with Pen in French, the modiste continued her open inspection of Helen’s appearance. Eventually, Pen smiled in satisfaction, and Madame Robillard nodded.
“Mademoiselle Pénélope, Madame Gray, please follow to my special room.” She snapped her fingers at a junior assistant and sailed through a door.
Helen, Pen, and the employee trailed behind her to the long, windowless room, candles blazing, where seamstresses were measuring clients, pinning hems, and snipping threads. Helen had never seen such a busy dressmaker’s shop, nor imagined that a space could be so organized, yet filled with fabric, ribbon, and cord. Each station had one basket of implements and another containing samples of fabric and trimmings.
Helen was grateful when they proceeded into a private room, away from the frenetic beehive of energy. The Frenchwoman prompted her to step onto a scarlet velvet-covered box in the center of the room, and Pen sank into one of two matching plush chairs in the same fabric.
As if suddenly making a realization, the girl sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Would you like for me to stay? If you wish, I could go browse—”
“Please stay.” Helen intended for her words to resonate as an invitation, but they came out like a plea.
“First, we speak ofles couleurs!” Madame Robillard’s gaze darted over Helen’s hair.
If she complains about the shade of red, may divine providence help me overcome the spirit of anger.
“You wear the colors of the richest gems, yes?”
She blinked, realizing that she did indeed favor deep, powerful hues. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Over the next minutes, the woman rattled off instructions to her assistant in such a heavily accented rapid fire, Helen didn’t realize for some time that she was speaking English. She stood still while the woman circled her, holding up swatches of fabric to her cheeks and peppering her with questions. A light but distinct bergamot and lemon perfume wafted pleasantly, citrusy and spicy.
The silent assistant presented Helen with a copy ofLe Folletas Madame Robillard lifted the hem of her Boston-made gown and examined its stitching.
Helen’s face must have shown how lost she felt browsing the Parisian fashion magazine; Pen moved to her side, pointing out various features and asking about what she liked or didn’t.
As exquisite as the hand-colored illustrations were, they exasperated her. “None of these look likeme.”
Madame Robillard snatched the collection of fashion plates from her hand, but her voice was serene, as if trying to transport Helen from a place of angst to one of peaceful introspection. “What sort of fruit are you, Madame Gray? What impression do you give?”
“What?!”
Pen giggled at Helen’s bewilderment and impatience.
Undeterred, Madame Robillard gestured dramatically toward Pen’s gown. “La mademoiselle,she is the dark-purple, almost black grape. No, not one grape.Une grappe de raisins.”
Pen whispered with great amusement. “I’m a cluster of grapes. An entire bunch!”
“Oui,a bunch.” Pantomiming, the dressmaker held up her hands, as if admiring such fruit at the market. “Fullof the grapes, this bunch.” She pointed to Pen’s richly flounced skirts. “Different sizes, different colors. So much temptation, this fruit. Such pretty skin that covers the sweet flesh. Buttrès complexe, non?The seeds deep inside, they are bitter! No one eats the seeds for pleasure, but in combination with the sweet, tart grape,c’est la perfection.”
Pen considered all this, then nodded with satisfaction.
Helen huffed out a stunned laugh. Was she here for a gown or an assessment ofher?
“My gowns are not silk and thread,non. They are part of you. I must know exactly what you need.”
