Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(22)

I want to live!

Her own words came back to haunt her.

I want to dance and flirt—

She could almost hear Amille’s reply: Rosalie!

Toss my head . . . make eyes at handsome men . . , Don’t dress yourself like a maid.

Rosalie, a voice said in warning.

“Madamoiselle Belleau,” Madame Mirabeau inquired with exquisite tact, “would you like me to ‘elp you choose?”

“Oui,” Rosalie said, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Make me . . . as elegant as you can. S’il vous plait.”

They spent all morning and part of the afternoon choosing, discussing, measuring, fitting a simple gown that had been stitched quickly by many pairs of hands for her to wear until the rest of the lot was finished. The total order included scandalously fine underwear, stockings, slippers, bonnets trimmed with feathers, gloves, two pelisses, one with sleeves, one without, and some chemise dresses, light and closely fitting, trimmed with wide bands of embroidery around the bodice and hem, or pleated frills and ruching, with deeply scooped necklines. Rosalie wondered at the differences between the French and English versions of the classical style.

“It seems to me that the French make much more of a production out of the . . . br**sts than the English,” she remarked, looking uneasily at the display of cle**age one of the gowns would reveal, and for some reason Madame Mirabeau burst out into gales of laughter. By the end of the session Rosalie was feeling daring enough to ask for the formal-wear designs, and she found her interest caught immediately.

“The Valois,” Madame explained, her voice faintly excited. “No longer the cool, pure lines of the classical style. This is more for a woman, do you see?”

“I see,” Rosalie said, peering at the sketches curiously. There were puffs and slashes in the sleeves and skirts, longer waists that were nipped in to small proportions, wider shoulders, fuller skirts. Some of the sleeves were gathered several times down the arm, finished at each gather with bows or tassels. “I gather corsets are coming back?”

“Pah!” Madame exclaimed. “They would have come back years ago, had it not been for the war! Women have been letting great rolls settle on their stomachs without the laces.”

They’ve also been more comfortable, Rosalie wanted to point out, but she was not experienced enough to be a critic of fashion.

“Then make this one for me,” she said, indicating a design with a peculiarly shaped neckline, a V that reached down to between the br**sts.

“In silver-blue?”

“Justement,” Rosalie agreed, and they grinned at each other. “But, Madame, tell me, is this an extraordinarily expensive order?”

Madame Mirabeau picked up a bolt of silk and fingered it idly as she fastened Rosalie with a speculative look.

“Monsieur seems to be a generous man, yes?” Rosalie nodded doubtfully. Rand was generous, per haps. But philanthropic? No. She would not dare complain if he decided to cancel half the order, for she and Madame Mirabeau had most definitely picked out more than she had need of.

It took most of the day for Rand to convince the customs officials at the port to allow Lady Cat to dock.

They were convinced that the cotton shipment she carried was fraudulent, and none wanted the responsibility for it. The close-minded attitude they all shared was a result of the trade barriers Napoleon had established during the worst of English and French hostilities. In order to defeat the British, Bonaparte had banished all trade with England by setting up a formidable customs network. The plan had backfired, nearly ruining the French merchant class and agricultural system. Without a sympathetic French minister of the interior to ease the bans, it would have been an even greater disaster. Even though the former emperor was now languishing on a small island in exile, there was still a residue of hostility toward the British on the part of the customs officials.

The captain of Lady Cat, a weathered man in his midforties who went by the name of Willy Jasper, assisted Rand in checking the first few bales of cotton as the customs officials watched. Jasper ran his ship like a man-o’-war, with discipline and efficiency. He was dependable and self-assured, for the job he held was equal to a similar position in the Royal Navy and he possessed a large amount of pride in what he did. In return for his excellent service he was granted several tons of the ship’s total weight capacity to use for private trade. It was no secret that he intended one day to retire and use the money to buy his own ship. Jasper and Rand worked their hands into the fragrant Georgia fleece, and predictably the bales were rife with stones. A flurry of conversation ensued among the Frenchmen, so fast that Rand could understand only one word in ten.

“Sorry about this,” Jasper apologized in a low monotone. “The bloody American buggers swore they weren’t cheating anymore; What do they think we are, bloody idiots?”

“It would seem so,” Rand replied, his face carefully neutral as he flickered a glance toward the customs agents.

“Send it back?”

“No. Despite the extra weight, there’s still some valuable cotton here. Send back a message instead: ‘Cargo lost at sea. Too heavy to float.’ ”

Jasper chuckled suddenly.

“Aye, sir.”

“I doubt our position could be much clearer. The problem is in getting the next shipment through.” Rand turned to the chattering officials and tried to clear the situation with his laborious French. He had little doubt of his ability to persuade them to see reason, for postwar France was not in much of a position to upset the fragile, newly established trade channels with England. Slowly the French market was beginning to recover and they had need of both raw and manufactured cotton, guns, wool, leather and saddlery, and especially coffee and sugar. The best and most luxurious goods in the world came from England at a massive volume as steam power was being developed and made use of in the tide of Britain’s industrialization. Rand intended to take as much advantage as possible of France’s hunger and England’s overabundance.