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She’d had three gowns made before she left for Cornwall. All exactly the same, with sleeves loose enough to allow for reaching books on the highest library shelf, but not so voluminous they made one’s arms feel like the clapper inside a bell.
She’d had pockets specially sewn into the skirts for the storing of books and papers. Her one concession to luxury had been the fabric—brushed cotton that flowed almost like silk, in a lovely blue color that put her in mind of a summer sky.
“I’m afraid I can’t agree to the last rule, Mama. Most of my friends are wallflowers. Miss Mayberry and Miss Beaton should be arriving any moment, in fact. May I be excused?”
Beatrice couldn’t wait to reconnect with her friends.
Her mother pursed her lips. “Not until this gown is perfectly fitted.”
“If it fits any closer, I won’t be able to breathe. Isn’t that generally a requirement for dancing?”
“A lady doesn’t need to take deep breaths. Gentlemen prefer to be the robust and lusty ones, while ladies should take small sips, shallow breaths, and dainty steps.”
Beatrice groaned. “You don’t truly believe that tripe, do you, Mama?”
Mrs. Adler returned with several lengths of ribbon. “The white or the yellow, Your Grace?”
“The yellow, I think,” replied her mother.
“I’ll sew the ribbons to the bodice myself. I can’t entrust the task to anyone else.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adler.” Beatrice’s mother clasped her hands together. “It’s simply perfect.”
Beatrice glanced down at the layers of ruffles rioting down to the carpet. “It’s extremely stratiform.”
“What was that, Your Ladyship?” asked Mrs. Adler.
“Layered. It’s very layered.”
“It will put Mayhew in mind of a wedding cake,” said her mother.
“You want him to think about eating me?”
“That’s the idea.” Her mother and Mrs. Adler exchanged cryptic glances.
“The bonnet you ordered arrived,” the dressmaker announced. She snapped her fingers, and a maid arrived bearing an enormous hatbox.
Mrs. Adler unwrapped the bonnet reverently and held it up.
“Ooh!” exclaimed the dowager duchess.
Zounds,thought Beatrice.It’s hideous.
“What do you think? Isn’t it the very height of fashion?” asked her mother.
It was the height ofsomething—a towering mishmash of yellow straw, red ribbons, white feathers, and... what were those scrunched-up round things? “What have you trimmed this hat with, Mrs. Adler?”
“Poems,” announced Mrs. Adler, permitting herself the ghost of a smile. “Your mother told me thatyou are known as a bookish lady, and so I fashioned roses from verses.”
Beatrice squinted at the paper roses. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day...’ You desecrated a volume of Shakespeare for my millinery?”
“It’s utterly ingenious,” said her mother. “Everyone will want to copy this design.”
“What if it rains?” asked Beatrice. “Paper doesn’t do so well in a downpour.”
“Don’t be so prosaic,” said her mother. “I’m sure they are treated with a fixative.”
“Of course, Your Grace. These paper roses are as durable as any stiffened cotton.”
