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Astounded by the dressmaker’s observation, offered as if in response to her thoughts, Helen looked down at the cushion-topped box on which she stood, half wondering if it somehow placed her soul on display.
Pen said something in French and Madame Robillard nodded sagely. “I said, at times, a gown is not what a womanisbut what she wishes others to believe.”
Deluged, Helen stepped down, seeking distance from the perch and the turn of conversation. She took refuge in a chair. Ledgers and calculations were preferable over these musings—she would even take a trip up or down the ladder onAlacrity.
Especially if it means a tumble into Nicholas’s arms…
The Frenchwoman gestured vaguely, and the wan assistant turned on her heel and left.
“Tea. You need some tea.”
This time, the laughter bubbling out of Helen was genuine and so unexpected that both women turned to her with humor and surprise. “Yes, I do. I need an entireshipload, in fact. One thousand, six hundred tons of tea, to be precise.”
Pen smiled. “Ah, I see now!”
The dressmaker looked at Helen solemnly, her almost black eyes ancient-looking. “You are not MadameGray.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Gray.Gris.Non.That is not you.”
“It’snotme. But it’s my name.”
“Your father’s name? Or your husband’s?”
Don’t answer! It’s none of her affair!
But the woman’s eyes held no judgment, not even curiosity, only a sort of discernment Helen found inexplicably compelling. “Husband,” she whispered.
“Femme ou veuve?Wife or widow?”
I’m neither. I’m me.“He’s dead.”
Madame Robillard made a shockingly neutral sound—unaccompanied by perfunctory or heartfelt condolences—then disappeared from the room.
Pen looked contrite. “I suppose instead of cautioning you about the bargaining, I might have emphasized her…methods.”
Pressing her hands to her cheeks, Helen stared. “Is this all very…French?”
“No.”
They laughed, and Pen explained that not only was her mother a longtime patroness of the shop, she had begged without success for Madame Robillard to permit her to paint her portrait.
“What of her assistant? That woman has the most tragic eyes.”
“Oh, if only you’d seen her a few years ago! She’s downright jolly now in comparison.”
Studying Pen’s face, Helen could only conclude that she was neither jesting nor belittling the woman, and her thoughts turned to what sadness and difficulties had befallen the employee.
Despite the dark thoughts, the break was welcome, and she felt calmer by the time Madame Robillard reappeared, followed by the assistant and a maid carrying tea trays. Helen stifled a sigh at the sight of the exquisite, blush-colored fabric tucked under the modiste’s arm.
The employees disappeared, and Madame poured the tea. Pen and Helen occupied the two chairs while the dressmaker settled gracefully on the matching bench against the wall, next to her basket brimming with the tools of her trade.
“How do you find London, Madame Gray?”
Aware of both women’s attention, Helen paused before answering. “I’d thought Boston was large, especially with so many Irish coming. But London! It’s vaster than I could have ever imagined. I’ve visited little of it, but what I’ve seen is so grand and beautiful in parts. So filthy and ugly in others.”
The two women murmured agreement. After Pen promised to accompany her as she explored more, Madame Robillard added her own recommendations, including for the opera. “Such a pity Jenny Lind is no longer performing. Even the Queen admires her so.”
