Cinderella Six Feet Under(39)

“Magic? No doubt she’s got her hands on some extra strong corset laces, then.”

The door opened and a maid led them inside. Penrose gave the maid his card and she scurried away, leaving them in a waiting room decorated with mirrors and urns of roses.

Ophelia caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. She’d done her best to sponge her traveling gown and cloak, but she still looked as shabby as a church mouse next to the professor. Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it except stand up tall. No need to ponder how well Miss Ivy Banks probably looked next to him.

“When you speak to Madame Fayette alone,” Penrose said, “ask her if she made the gown and the matching ballet costume. When it comes to the stomacher, be as subtle as you are able.”

“Why am I to speak to her alone?”

Penrose didn’t answer.

“Welcome, Lord Harrington!” A tiny, chubby woman floated towards them, arms outstretched. “I am Madame Fayette.” Her voice was fluting and French-accented. She was between grass and hay—sixty years old, maybe—clothed in an expertly darted black silk gown. Her silver hair was swept up beneath a Spanish lace cap, and a diamond bracelet shimmered at her wrist. “I made your cousin Eliza’s wedding gown last year. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“My American cousin, Miss Stonewall”—Penrose drew Ophelia forward—“is in need of a few gowns. She lost her trunks somewhere between Cleveland and Paris, I’m afraid, and has been forced to borrow her maidservant’s attire. Do you suppose you might have a visiting gown and—what do you ladies call your coats these days?”

“A paletot?” Madame Fayette said.

“Yes, a paletot, made up for Miss Stonewall by tomorrow, and a ball gown and another gown in the next few days?”

“Tomorrow? Oh dear. I do have sixteen seamstresses, oui, but we are quite busy, Lord Harrington. Quite. Prince Rupprecht’s ball is in but three days’ time, so—”

“I would compensate you for the rush. Miss Stonewall is rather desperate.”

“Oh, very well. I may have a few half-made gowns that could be altered. Please, do sit, Lord Harrington, and the maid will bring you tea. Come along, Miss Stonewall.”

The walls of Madame Fayette’s inner sanctum were hung with mauve and cream stripes and edged with plasterwork like thick, white cake icing. Three plum-colored velvet dressmaker’s stools stood in front of three huge, gilt-framed mirrors. Flowery chandeliers burned with gas bulbs. The room was unoccupied.

“Please.” Madame Fayette gestured to a folding screen in the corner. “I shall go and fetch Josie. We have just enough time before my first appointment, if we hurry.”

Ophelia stripped down to her unmentionables behind the screen. Her chemise and petticoats were gray-tinted from age and hand-laundering, and her corset had never been quality.

Madame Fayette reappeared with a delicate, blond-haired young lady.

Ophelia recognized her as Josie, the seamstress who had been hemming Eglantine’s ball gown yesterday. The one who had spilled her pins. Ophelia had been disguised as Mrs. Brand then, so Josie wouldn’t recognize her. Knock on wood.

“Josie,” Madame Fayette said. “Your notebook.” Madame Fayette addressed Ophelia. “Mademoiselle Baigneur is my chief assistant and most skilled seamstress. She speaks English, too, which helps—so many of my customers come not only from England, but New York, Boston, and Philadelphia as of late. But you are my first”—her brows lifted—“from Cleveland.”

“Fancy that.”

Madame Fayette took Ophelia’s measurements every which way and murmured numbers in French. She moved quickly, and her bracelet slid up and down her arm. The bracelet was hefty, with a braided design crusted all around with diamonds. And for some reason, it looked awfully familiar to Ophelia.

Josie scribbled away in a notebook.

“For the visiting gown,” Madame Fayette said to Josie, “the forest green crepe we were working on for that Italian princess who ran off with the painter—I do not suppose she will return. With three rows of black velvet ribbon along the hem—oui? The matching paletot to wear over. Black velvet. With a hood, for this dreadful weather, and a small, flat hat of the green crepe to tie under your pretty chin. Très jolie. And the ball gown, ah, oui, the ball gown of eggshell blue that was meant for that courtesan with the smelly little dog. She is a gambler. I would likely never be paid anyway. Oh! But I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Stonewall. I should not speak of such things in front of a young lady.”