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Chapter Seventeen
“And this one,” the modiste said, holding up yet another fashion plate, “would accentuate your petite frame. Might I recommend you get it with a pink organza overlay?”
Dinah took the plate and looked at it closely. It was a lovely dress—though, if it were up to her, she’d drop the shoulders a bit, bring the fabric in more snug just below the breast, and add a bit of lace to the hem. She shook her head, handing the plate back.
“It is lovely, but not quite right.”
“Are you certain?” Emily asked, sitting beside her. “I think it is a beautiful dress.”
Dinah gave her sister-in-law a smile. It was a beautiful dress, but she suspected Emily wished Dinah would agree to the dress more so that she could rest easy knowing all was in order for the ball, not because she actually thought it would be the best dress for Dinah.
With a sigh, Dinah picked up a fashion plate she’d discarded before. She shouldn’t be causing Emily so much unnecessary stress. The sweet woman was overly anxious about the possibility of reconciling with her parents; she didn’t need Dinah fouling things up over a dress.
But no, Dinah couldn’t find it within herself to like this other dress either—the cut was wrong for her frame, she was sure of it. She put the plate back down, pulling her lips to the side. She needed to decide on something. The ball was in only a couple more weeks.
“If I may, your ladyship,” the modiste said humbly, “is there something specific you’re wishing for? If you can describe it to me, I may have better luck in locating it.”
Dinah sat back, her eyes moving across the parlor, but not seeing much of it. She found she did indeed have a clear idea of what she wanted. Something low on the shoulders, with a sweeping neckline, but not too low. A dress that hung close to her around the stomach but loosened ever so slightly around her thighs, for easy dancing. Though she’d always felt she looked good in soft pink, now that she was married, she wanted to try something a bit more bold. Perhaps a deep red? Or a royal blue?
Dinah opened her mouth to say all she had on her mind, only...she hesitated. This modiste—the third Emily had brought in—would no doubt make Dinah a very fine dress indeed. But where would be the fun in that? Sending the woman off with some ideas and a choice in fabric...then sitting about, waiting for the thing to be made and sent to her?
Dinah sat up straighter. “I do know what I want, actually.”
Both women waited to hear what she would say next.
“I want to make my own dress.”
The modiste looked at her quite like she had no idea how to respond to such a declaration.
Emily, on the other hand, wasn’t so silent. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why not?” Dinah asked.
Emily leaned in and spoke low. “You are the wife of an earl. It is not done.”
“I would rather say it is the other way around,” Dinah said, “I am the wife of an earl, therefore, who cares what society believes I should or should not occupy my time with? It’s not as though sewing a dress is immoral.” If it was, everyone who was raised outside of thehaut tonwas rather in danger of losing their souls.
“Of course not,” Emily said, but her fingers twisted about one another. “Only...”
“Don’t worry,” Dinah said, placing a hand on Emily’s arm. “I promise this isn’t my first time working with dresses. I’ve taken in and altered more than I care to admit.”
“But this will be your first time creating a dress from bolts of fabric?” Emily guessed.
“Yes,” Dinah had to admit.
“That cannot be so simple, then, as what you are used to,” Emily pressed.
Dinah glanced at the modiste, but the woman seemed content to remain silent and let her talk it out with Emily.
“No doubt,” Dinah said, “you are correct. Making a dress is not the same as taking a dress already created and changing it a bit. But I love a good challenge, and I know I am up to the task.” She didn’t like the idea of giving Emily more to stress about, but honestly, Dinah’s dress was not going to impact the rebuilding of the relationship between Emily and her parents. Truthfully, Dinah doubted Emily’s parents would care one way or another what she wore. No matter what society may or may not say, Dinah wanted to do this. She wanted to try her hand at designing and sewing her own dress.
She turned toward the modiste, years of listening in on her father making trade agreements coming back in an instant. “I would love your expert thoughts, however, on fabrics. Show me what you have, and perhaps I’ll simply buy it straight from you.”
* * *
The names Dinah had given him were proving useful indeed. Henry had passed the names on to Mr. Harding and was still waiting final word, but the few letters he’d had from the man indicated that these new leads were promising. It was hard to wait, but he’d learned in the past two years that waiting was often what a spy had to do. It was work, work, work then wait, wait, wait. Push hard to find something, then sit back and see where it leads.
Oftentimes, it led to nothing.
