All this was observed only from within the perimeters of Mrs. Penhallow’s enormous residence in Upper Camden Place, for Livia had been declared by the old lady unfit to be seen in public.
She was therefore confined to the house, and only occasionally could she escape to its small, high-walled garden in the back where she could pace along the pretty graveled path and tilt her face up to the sun. If it rained—as it often did—she would sometimes seek a few moments of refuge in the large, beautifully furnished bedchamber that had been assigned to her, so sharply contrasting with her former dingy room at the Abbey that she sometimes sat on the edge of the bed, looked around her, and simply stared. At the handsome striped wallpaper in softest ivory and white; at the broad oak dressing-table, on it placed an embossed silver tray holding a comb and brush so lovely she was at first hesitant to use them; at, underfoot, warm carpets in a floral pattern whose colors matched with pleasing harmony the hangings on her bed.
But there wasn’t much opportunity for such modest leisure, as Mrs. Penhallow had constructed for her a schedule that kept her occupied from early morning until well into the evening.
Like a powerful wizard waving a wand, her hostess summoned hordes of dressmakers, milliners, corsetieres, and shoemakers to Upper Camden Place, where they were conducted upstairs to a capacious chamber that had been set aside for them.
There they consulted in exhaustive detail with Mrs. Penhallow, who sat regally in the best chair, while Livia was measured, surveyed, scrutinized, assessed, appraised, evaluated, analyzed, and (by Mrs. Penhallow) criticized; made to sit, stand, walk, twirl, and curtsy; held up to her were lengths of satin, muslin, silk, cambric, crepe, lace, net, and the softest wool, in delicious shades of green, blue, violet, yellow; lavender, cream, apricot, silver, gold; and white, a great deal of white, most suitable for an unmarried young lady, the sublime simplicity of which complemented Livia’s vivid coloring and sent even Madame Lévêque, the most exclusive and supercilious of Bath’s numerous modistes, into ecstasies of praise.
These beautiful fabrics fascinated and delighted Livia, but the moment she ran a speculative finger along a length of sleek satin or delicate lace, the old lady would snap with maddening perceptiveness:
“You need not indulge yourself with flights of fancy! We’ll have no repeats of that earlier monstrosity of yours!” Or, after what felt to Livia like hours—like eons—of being made to stand absolutely still while a hem was adjusted or a sleeve set or a sash remade (and discouraged from offering any sort of opinion whatsoever), Mrs. Penhallow might say impatiently, “Do stop fidgeting! Most uncouth!”
Day dresses, walking dresses, and carriage dresses were ordered, along with evening dresses and ballgowns, and of course reticules, fans, stockings, shawls, gloves, and embroidered handkerchiefs by the dozen. Then there were muffs, tippets, cloaks, pelisses, and spencers; slippers and half-boots; parasols, extremely fragile but charmingly designed and so very, very pretty. Spangles, feathers, ribbons, tassels, ruffles, lappets; hats, caps, bonnets, in a kaleidoscopic riot of styles, shapes, fabrics, colors, and embellishments.
Each and every garment, accessory, and shoe was subject to the approval of old Mrs. Penhallow, whose taste was exquisite and unerring: with consummate judgment she rejected anything with the slightest taint of inelegance or excess. Even Livia, whose ignorance of les habillement à la mode was extreme, could see that she was in the presence of a savant. Madame Lévêque herself acknowledged it with humility.
One morning, after several new items had arrived (including, to Livia’s intense gratification, a pair of kid slippers with ravishing pink rosettes), she said impulsively to Mrs. Penhallow:
“All this, ma’am, for me? I must thank you.”
The old lady had somehow managed despite her inferior height to look down her nose at Livia. “It is not for, or about, you, young lady,” she replied with her usual hauteur. “Never think that for a moment. It is merely that you are to represent the Penhallows, and standards must be upheld.”
Temporarily cowed by this frigid set-down, Livia submitted to successive applications of Lotion of Ladies of Denmark, Milk of Almonds, and the distilled water from green pineapples, her complexion having been pronounced shockingly brown, and also to the rose oil and white wax for lips deemed repulsively dry and chapped.
She balked only at the hairdresser who, with a martial light in his eye, came at her with scissors and hot tongs, but she did permit her new dresser—a laconic, efficient, middle-aged woman she was to address only by her surname, Flye—to employ a little pomade and create a rich, shining coronet of braids that even Mrs. Penhallow admitted was both flattering and fashionable.