M is for Marquess(11)
“Now, Vi, you do know the rules about waltzing—” Em began.
Violet directed her tawny eyes at her hairline. “Not to worry, mother hen. ’Tis only a figure of speech.”
Emma exchanged looks with Thea, who shared the other’s concern. As a young girl, Vi’s high-spirited nature had landed her into plenty of scrapes; luckily, most had proved harmless. Now that she was older, however, and circulating in London’s higher circles, her impulsiveness could lead to more damaging consequences.
“Even so, you must have a care, Vi,” Thea said. “You know how sticklers can be.”
“If sticklers are anything like sisters, I’ll be in suds for certain.” Violet snorted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be so proper and demure they’ll mistake me for my shrinking namesake.”
She trotted off to change, snatching a biscuit along the way.
“Who would like to go next?” Madame Rousseau waved at the second dressing screen.
Emma volunteered, and when she returned Thea and Polly applauded her appearance. The modiste had transformed their eldest sister into a sleek feline with luxurious ermine trimming the bodice and hem of her dove grey gown. The cleverly designed headpiece gave the appearance of two small pointed ears protruding from Emma’s dark curls.
“How adorable you look,” Thea said.
“It was Strathaven’s idea.” Emma blushed. “But never mind me. It’s your turn, Thea.”
Thea took her turn behind the dressing screen. Madame helped her to don her outfit, and when they were finished, she regarded the image in the looking glass. She’d seen the unfinished costume before at previous fittings and approved the elegant design.
Yet looking at herself now, emotion hit her like a wave.
A tear leaked and slipped down her cheek.
“Alors, what is this?” the modiste said, frowning. “You do not like the ensemble, mademoiselle?”
“N-no. It’s l-lovely.”
In vain, Thea tried to control the quiver in her voice. But it was as if a hidden dam had broken inside her and the tide of emotions she’d been holding back came rushing to the fore. She thought of her sisters so vivid and hale in their costumes, and despair filled her. Why can’t I be like them? Her own feathery white image blurred.
Instead, I’m a stupid swan. Pallid and useless. An ornamental creature.
“Ah, je comprends. The dress, it is not how you envision yourself, Miss Kent?”
Looking into Frenchwoman’s shrewd eyes, Thea said helplessly, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. You’ve done a splendid job, and I am ever so grateful—”
The modiste cut her off with a hand. “We must begin anew.”
“Oh no,” Thea said, horrified, “there’s nothing wrong—”
“If it is not right, then it is wrong,” Madame Rousseau said simply.
“Thea,”—Em’s voice drifted from the other side—“is everything all right? Shall I come and help you?”
Why do I always need help? Why can’t I be strong? Why can’t I even kiss a man without my lungs giving out on me?
One after another, thoughts tumbled through Thea’s head. Heat pushed behind her eyes.
The modiste murmured, “I’ll be right back.”
Numbly, Thea heard the proprietress saying to Emma and the others that Thea’s fitting required more time. She instructed her assistants to show the Kents some accessories in the main shop.
“Are you certain you don’t need me?” Emma called out.
“Don’t worry about me,” Thea managed. “I’ll be right out.”
The doors closed behind the others, and Madame Rousseau returned.
“Thank you, Madame.” Embarrassed, Thea said, “I’m usually not a watering pot.”
“In my profession, tears are as common as pins. And like pins, they are useful if one knows what to do with them.” The modiste passed Thea a handkerchief, her manner matter-of-fact. “In your case, mademoiselle, tears may yet lead us to the truth.”
“The truth is that I’m being an idiot.” Thea dabbed at her eyes. “This dress is lovely. It will suffice, truly—”
“In my shop, sufficient is not a goal one aims for. Do you wish to tell me what troubles you, Miss Kent? A modiste cannot properly dress a client without understanding her. And of my discretion, you may be assured.”
“That is very kind of you.” Blowing into the linen, Thea wondered why it was easier to talk to the dressmaker than to her own sisters. Perhaps it was the lack of the judgement, the no-nonsense objectivity she sensed in the other. She exhaled a shaky breath. “There is… a gentleman.”
“Ah, chérie, there almost always is.”
“He thinks I’m fragile and weak,” she blurted.
Madame shrugged. An infinitely Gallic gesture. “Gentlemen, they like to believe we are the weaker sex, non?”
“I thought we had an attraction.” Releasing a breath, she said haltingly, “He’s a widower, you see, and his departed wife was a paragon. Everything a lady ought to be. I’ll never be as perfect as she was.”
“No two gowns can ever be alike,” the modiste said philosophically. “In fashion, as in life, the goal must be to accentuate one’s unique gifts rather than emulate another’s. That, ma petite, is true art.”
Her chest clenched. “But what if one doesn’t have any gifts?”
Madame arched a dark brow. “Then I would say begin with that belief.”
“Pardon?”
“If you see yourself as lacking, then the world will see what you see.”
Did she see herself as lacking? Was that the problem?
“I want to be strong,” she whispered.
“Alors, aspiration is the first step to success.” A glint in her eye, the modiste circled Thea slowly. “Go on. What else do you wish for?”
“I don’t want to be held back by my illness. I don’t want to be frail, to miss out on life while it happens around me.” Her voice grew steadier as she faced herself in the mirror. She saw a slender woman clad in ashen feathers, colorless cloth, and her hands balled. “I want to fall in love and have a family of my own.”
Madame Rousseau tapped a finger against her chin. “And?”
“I want to know passion,” Thea said in a rush.
To feel the way I do when I’m in Tremont’s arms. Dash it all, why can’t I forget him?
“Ah, I begin to understand. It is not the calm, serene waters you seek but a new adventure. You wish to feel alive, to be vibrant… aflame with the joie de vivre.” The artiste’s eyes blazed. “Mais oui. I know exactement the costume for you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I shall make you the dress of your dreams, but only you can make your dreams become a reality.” The modiste’s gaze seemed to see straight through her. “If you wish others to see you as strong, you must first believe that you are so.”
“I will try,” she said earnestly.
“Then I will promise you this: when you wear my creation two days hence, the world shall see you as you were meant to be seen. As for the feat of transforming yourself truly into this vision, chérie,”—the modiste lifted her brows—“that will be up to you.”
Chapter Eight
Madame Rousseau’s words lingered with Thea that day and the next. Whenever she tried to guess what kind of costume the other was designing for her, she felt a charge of excitement and hope. Whatever form the creation took, she vowed that she would do it justice. For the modiste’s words had resonated with a truth she hadn’t considered before.
It wasn’t enough to want others to believe that she was strong—she had to believe it too. Her first task, then, was to prove the depth of her resolve to herself… and there was no better place than at the Blackwood masquerade.
Tomorrow night, she wouldn’t sit on the fringes of the ballroom like a frail invalid or dejected spinster. She wouldn’t just watch the world go by as the old Thea used to do. No, her new self would dance and flirt and make new acquaintances. She would behave like any woman in search of a spouse. She would work toward finding the love she wanted.
Her plans for the ball took a backseat, however, when Freddy developed a megrim that afternoon. As worried as she was for the boy, she was also surprised and touched when he asked for her personally. She kept him company, placing cool towels on his forehead and distracting him with Captain Gulliver’s exciting adventures with the Lilliputians until Dr. Abernathy arrived. During the physician’s examination, Freddy’s small hand clung to hers, and she didn’t let go until after the laudanum had taken effect and he drifted into sleep.
“How is my son, Dr. Abernathy?”
Tremont had remained at the foot of the bed while the doctor treated Freddy. Despite his stoic demeanor, Thea saw his tight grip on the bedpost. The wags of the ton oft made note of his lack of emotion, but Thea suspected there was a surfeit, rather than lack, where he was concerned. From her observations, he was a man who guarded his feelings and secrets tightly.
His feelings are none of your business. You’ve moved on, remember?
Right. Her gaze returned to Freddy’s face, and a frisson of anxiety coursed through her. His freckles stood out in stark relief against the pallor of his cheeks. She brushed a damp lock of hair off his forehead.