Lilith couldn’t bend, much less breathe, in her corset. “I feel like a yogi from India.”
“A yogi?”
“A person who ponders the meaning of life while assuming different positions with his body.”
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know if George thinks you should say such things.”
Lilith raised her hoop. Given her emotional instability at the moment, she opted to change the subject before she blew up in fury over the subject of George’s censorship. “Why are you not residing at your husband’s London home?”
Penelope’s brow creased, but her smile remained intact. “Lord Fenmore is at his hunting lodge. My husband loves horses and hunting. Always hunting.”
“I didn’t think it was hunting season.”
A cloud passed across her eyes. “I just adore my brother,” she said, steering the conversation away from her husband. “He requires a lady to keep his home. He unselfishly puts everyone else’s needs first. Now bend to the left.”
“A regular Atlas.”
“Atlas?”
“The Greek god carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Lilith lowered her hoop to demonstrate.
“I don’t know if George thinks you should say such things.”
“I don’t care what people think I should do or say,” Lilith replied, no longer able to hold her tongue.
Penelope flinched as though free will were a terrifying concept. Hers was a flat world and ships that ventured too far fell off the edge. “Ladies should always seek to please their brothers or parents or…or…husbands in all matters.”
“What if your husband, brothers, or parents are cruel monsters?”
Penelope’s eyes turned hot. “I hope you aren’t suggesting my brother is a cruel monster. He only wants what’s best for you. He’s so caring. You know nothing about him.”
Lilith, who was bending to the right, burst out in incredulous laughter, causing her to lose balance. Her staystrings popped as she fell to the ground and the giant ring crashed upon her. Penelope gazed down with a smug expression that said See what happens when you say terrible things about Lord Marylewick.
Seven
With this auspicious beginning to Lilith’s education, she could only assume the trip to the clothing shop would be disastrous. George sent his carriage to drive the ladies about. Heaven forbid they should rub shoulders with the great unwashed.
Madame Courtemanche’s shop exuded wealth. Delicate fabrics and handmade lace were draped in the front window amid gold-framed paintings of gowns adorned with intricate ruffles, bustles, trains, and pleats.
Lady Fenmore allowed the footman to help her down without looking back at Lilith. If she did, she would surely see the panic seizing Lilith’s features.
Once on the pavement, Lilith reached for Penelope’s elbow. “I’m sorry, Lady Fenmore, but I— I can’t, that is, I don’t have enough funds for this modiste.”
Why did admitting poverty feel like a crime?
“My brother will pay,” Penelope replied and entered the establishment as the footman held the door.
“But—”
Penelope couldn’t hear Lilith anymore. She was being greeted by a fashionable woman with a lovely French accent.
“But I don’t want to be further beholden to George,” Lilith whispered to no one.
Nor did she desire to become further entrenched in that ridiculous house party. She nervously entered the shop’s lush parlor of mahogany furniture and white, lace-trimmed cushions.
Penelope made a curt introduction of the ladies.
“Your cousin is a beauty.” Madame Courtemanche curtsied. “I shall make a gown worthy of her.” She clapped her hands and a young seamstress appeared from the back rooms. “Bring the English fashion book,” she ordered in French, which, if Lilith translated correctly from the subtle inflection, meant Bring the uninspired fashion book. Madame reverted to English and gestured to the sofa. “Please, please, sit down, my ladies.”
Penelope took a seat on the edge of the cushion, her expansive bustle commanding a great deal of space. Lilith edged in beside her. The modiste chose the wing chair on the other side of a low marble table.
“Now, what lovely creations shall I make for you? Morning dress? Walking dress?” She leaned in to Lilith. “A ravishing ball gown to make a certain gentleman fall madly in love?” She shifted her gaze to Penelope. “You remember the gown I made for your debut ball? Did not Lord Fenmore fall in love that night?”
Penelope didn’t respond, but opened her reticule and retrieved several folded pages. George’s list for Lilith’s education rested on the top. Lilith fought the urge to tear it into tiny strips useful only for bum fodder.
Penelope shifted the pages, handing several to Madame.“My brother sketched pictures of what he thinks are appropriate gowns for Miss Dahlgren.”
What?
“Such magnificent pictures,” Madame Courtemanche commented. “If I may—”
“P-pardon me,” Lilith cried. “Did you say that Lord Marylewick sketched these?”
Penelope looked at Lilith as though she had lost her senses. “Of course,” she said, and then returned her attention to the modiste. “His instructions were that the gowns should be made in shades of soft gold, reds, or browns. Also, if you could—”
“Pardon me again,” Lilith cut in. “May I see them? The sketches. Please.”
Lilith’s fingers shook as she took the offered pages. She gasped. The images were fast renderings, but the style and the composition were exquisite. The top sketch displayed Lilith seated in a chair and wearing a simple yet elegant ball gown. Her hand dangled casually off the armrest and her head was slightly raised, a smile blossoming on her lips. The illustration below featured Lilith standing with her hands resting on a table behind her, thereby pushing up her breasts. Her hair was piled high, accentuating the long line of her neck. The sheer silk gown he had created flowed like smooth water over her curves. Her eyes had been drawn slightly downcast, a modest touch to a rather provocative image.
“And you said Lord Marylewick—your brother George—sketched these,” Lilith broke into the conversation between Penelope and Madame Courtemanche. “Using his own hands and a pencil?”
“Yes,” Penelope affirmed, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted again.
“These could be the work of Edgar Degas,” Lilith marveled aloud.
“Who?” Penelope asked.
“Edgar Degas?” cried the modiste. “J’adore Edgar Degas!”
“Me too,” Lilith said. “I saw his work at the Impressionist Exhibitions in Paris last summer.”
“I was there, as well! How sad that we missed each other.”
Lilith and Madame laughed, each recognizing a kindred spirit. Penelope eyed the two ladies nervously and then tried to nibble on a fingernail through her glove.
The young seamstress returned, bearing the fashion book.
Madame Courtemanche waved her off. “No, no, this will never do. Please bring the French magazine.” Her eyes glittered. “Those designs will better suit my fashionable guest.”
The modiste was overjoyed to have a client who appreciated the more modern fashions. She carried on in fast-flowing French. Lilith did her best to keep up as she was being measured and various silks held to her face. Penelope added nothing to the conversation except to say what George would or would not approve of and to please remain true to the sketches.
Lilith wished she could steal the pictures and examine them in solitary silence. She still couldn’t believe George—overbearing, dry George—drew them. That he was capable of such imagination or beauty. He must answer for this artistic side he hid. What else had he drawn? Did he paint? Where did he keep his art? Her heart raced so fast that perspiration broke out around her temples. Good heavens, she hadn’t time to worry about such trivial things as gowns when a great mystery demanded to be solved.
She was bereft when the sketches were taken to the back rooms to be used as references by the seamstresses. Despite George’s claim that she had posed for paintings, she truly hadn’t. In fact, these were the only sketches ever made of her.
As the ladies rose to leave, Penelope casually asked that the gowns be ready in two days. Lilith thought that wasn’t enough time. The poor seamstresses.
“Of course,” Madame Courtemanche said without a beat. “The gowns will be delivered. My girls and I will make the final fittings at your home, if your ladyship agrees.”
Penelope nodded and then the modiste kissed Lilith warmly on both cheeks. “Au revoir. I shall make inspired creations for you. Edgar Degas with fabric. You will adore.”
Penelope stared on, her expression unreadable.
When they stepped onto the pavement, Lilith was dying to ask Penelope about the sketches. She thought she would ease into casual conversation before she peppered Penelope with questions.
“Madame Courtemanche is a fascinating lady,” Lilith said. “Did she really make your debut gowns?” Penelope had made quite a societal splash with her debut, and Lilith assumed it would be a pleasing subject.
“Yes,” Penelope replied and glanced away. So much for a cozy tête-à-tête. But Lilith couldn’t give up. She spied a confectionery shop down the street. Toffee! That’s what she needed to butter up the conversation.