Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,20
two of you, you should find the perfect colors.”
Betsy rose, brushing cake crumbs from her black skirts. She wouldn’t know one pot of paint from the other. Maris didn’t require much from her but to do up her hard-to-reach buttons and brush her mud-brown hair free of tangles. Not a proper countess, she did not have a proper lady’s maid. Betsy had helped Monsieur Richard in the kitchen until she’d dropped one too many platters, and Maris had taken pity on the girl, spiriting her upstairs.
“I’ve told you I like simple things,” Maris said.
“Simple is one thing—ugly is quite another. There is no reason for a lady with your standing in society to appear so plain. You are la comtesse. This dress? Bah! It is not fit even for your little mouse of a maid. Take off that dreadful hat.”
For an instant, Maris wished for Captain Durant’s presence. Surely he would not let Madame Bernard hector her so? But she had no champion, not even her “little mouse of a maid.” Maris pulled the pin from her hair and placed the hat on top of the tower on the drum table.
“Ah. Just as I thought. You are a brunette, Lady Kelby, and fortunate that you can wear bold colors without them overpowering you. The woman should wear the clothes, not the other way around. Garnet, emerald, bronze—these will suit you. No pastels. No blue, although perhaps a deep navy.” Madame Bernard made quick work of Maris’s buttons and Maris found herself in her plain linen underthings, earning a disapproving cluck from the dressmaker.
“Even if no one sees what is underneath, it improves a woman’s confidence to know good quality is next to her skin. I shall get Yvonne to pack up some pretty chemises for you. And a proper corset. This one will not do.”
Any response Maris could have made was blocked by a wash of dark ruby silk over her head. When her face emerged, her arms were being thrust into long tight sleeves. When she was hooked into the dress, most of her bosom was exposed by the low square neckline. The design was simplicity itself—as she had requested—but surely she would not be expected to show so much flesh?
“I see from your expression you are not happy. But does your husband not wish to admire his wife?” asked Madame Bernard.
“He . . . I . . . we lead a very quiet life. He is a scholar, madam, and we do very little socializing. He has not been well.” Henry would not be smitten with this gown or any other.
“Poor soul. All the more reason to cheer him up, n’est pas? Your breasts, they are formidable, even in this sad corset. But if you wish, we might add a little ruffle on the bodice. I have some scraps of the fabric still and it would be a matter of minutes to have Yvonne run something up for your modesty. You will remain in town until tomorrow?”
“I plan to leave early in the morning.”
“Bien. We shall manage. Now the green next, I think.”
Maris endured Madame fitting her into three more dresses. She had to admit she looked uncommonly well in all of them, or would when minor adjustments were made. Betsy returned with Yvonne and watched with concentration while the junior dressmaker applied a subtle hint of color to Maris’s lips and cheeks. Something was done to her hair as well, which made Maris almost reluctant to put her hat back on.
As it happened, she was not given that choice. Once she was measured, Madame decided the violet walking dress and matching coat needed no alteration and Maris would be wearing them out of the shop. A tiny pouf of matching velvet and feathers was found in the back room and affixed to her head. Maris could only blink at her reflection. She had never been so stylish.
Or so very purple.
“Et voila! Now you are fit to take the town by storm. I shall send everything round this evening to your hotel. Your own things as well, although I do hope you will not ever wear them again.”
Somehow Maris agreed to gloves and stockings and a host of other fripperies in addition to the four new dresses. The afternoon would prove costly, and it was utter nonsense to try to make lamb out of mutton. She was four-and-thirty, well past her prime, and no one cared how she dressed.
“Oh, Lady Kelby,” Betsy gushed. “You do look a treat!”