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Smiling, Helen made a silent vow to attend a concert in London. Aside from the devotional music in church and the shanties and ditties overheard on ships and at the docks, she’d never attended a musical performance.
Robbie’s mother disapproved of what she called ‘excesses of spirit.’
“How long have you lived in England, Madame Robillard?”
The woman lifted one shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Oof.Ça fait au moins…fourteen, no fifteen years. But it feels like one hundred!”
“Oh! How so?”
“London is a city of many opportunities, Madame Gray—and difficulties. Operating this shop, it’s a good life. But”—she made a chopping motion with one hand onto her other palm—“I’m always working.”
“Always designing gowns. Looking into souls,” Helen said seriously.
“Mais oui.And I have a design for you in my head. I can show you?”
Resigned, she set aside her empty teacup and resumed her position upon the box, moving her shoes into the slightly worn spots of velvet.
The woman lifted the bolt of pale pinkish-peach fabric. “You do not wear such a color,d’habitude.”
“No. But itislovely.” She trailed a finger over the cool, smooth fabric, a shiver running through her at its almost erotic sleekness.
“For day gowns, I suggest the colors you like to wear often.D’accord?But for the evening gown,je vous suggérerais d’être”—she eyed the satin—“l’abricot.”
“Apricot,” Pen breathed, coming closer. “Whatmakes Helen an apricot?”
“Not every woman is the apricot,hein? It lookspetit, sweet. Smooth and simple—not ornate, not busy, no.” Madame Robillard’s eyes gazed meaningfully at the clean lines of Helen’s current gown. “But the instant an apricot is in your hand, you realize there is much inside. It’s heavier than it looks.Le noyeauinside is very strong.”
Helen inhaled as she stared at the fabric shine flatteringly next to her skin. Could she be an apricot?
“Even the flesh ofl’abricot, it’s firm,hein? Perfect forpâtisseriesbecause even cooked, it does not fall apart. Fresh or baked, there’s a complex flavor. Sweet, yes.Aigre, aussi.”
“So I, the grape, can be bitter deep inside. You, Helen, are sweet but sour. What do you say? Does Madame Robillard have the proper measure of us?”
Before she could reply, the modiste gestured to Helen’s chest. “With your hair, this shade will make a man wonder if your gown is the same color as your nipples.”
Under her bodice, tingles shot from one breast to the other as she imagined Nicholas Irons gazing upon her, wondering such things, his face as intent as when he pondered questions of commerce.
Both Madame Robillard’s and Pen’s chuckles were throaty, and the dressmaker’s gaze knowing. “Thisis the apricot. Such a soft color. Innocent…almost. But underneath the skin of the fruit, such strength and delights. The combination is stunning.”
Helen accepted the bolt of subtly shimmering fabric, wondering whether she dared. As a girl without a mother, she wore the colors she wanted; once married to Robbie, she had made the same selections, though the cost was his family’s displeasure at her boldness.
His mother would have approved of this color, a feminine and virtuous pastel. That alone made her want to drop the material on the floor; never again would she seek the Grays’s acceptance.
Madame Robillard’s suggestive comments tugged at her lips. If she needed an excuse to embrace this color, she could do so in the name of passion, not virtue, something that would have sent the elder Mrs. Gray into a state of prune-mouthed upset.
No.
While amusing, such a thought didn’t represent true liberty. Freedom meant making choicesfor herself, not to conform to or to rebel against the Grays’s ideals.
What doIthink of being an apricot?
Stroking the back of her finger against the satin, it felt sumptuous. Beautiful.
Could she really…? She looked up at the two women, who awaited her verdict with curious eyes.
“Yes.”
While Pen clasped her hands in delight, Madame rapped at the door. Her assistant appeared soon after, just in time to hear her employer’s murmurs of dissatisfaction when she opened the back of Helen’s gown and fingered her shift.
