Moonlight Over Paris(42)
After an everlasting pause Mathilde nodded, a little awkwardly, and smiled shyly at Helena. “If you truly do not mind, I would be most grateful.”
They said their good-byes soon after, and as the evening was cold Helena took the tram most of the way home. Hamish wasn’t at the door when she arrived, however, which was unusual enough to warrant an immediate search. She found him with her aunt, who was once again abed with a headache.
“You ought to see a doctor, Auntie A. This is your third headache in less than a week.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Agnes insisted. “I only needed to rest my eyes. Now, tell me, what did your friends say?”
“They’re all coming.” The answering smile on her aunt’s face made Helena regret her earlier irritation over the party. Agnes could be overwhelming at times, but she was very easy to please.
“And Sam?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping to see him on Saturday, so I thought I’d ask then.”
“Heavens, no. What if he’s asked to go away and write some story for his paper? No, you must ask him tonight. Send him a petit bleu.”
“If you insist. But I—”
“Ooh—I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve made an appointment for us at Maison Vionnet tomorrow afternoon. It’s at four o’clock, so I’ll have Vincent collect you directly from the Académie.”
“Vionnet? But that’s one of the couture houses. Their clothes cost a fortune. I can’t, Auntie A. Mama would have a fit.”
“Forget about your mother. She is ridiculously frugal when it comes to important things like clothes.”
“But I have a perfectly lovely frock—my blue and silver, from last year.”
“That old thing? Do you wish to embarrass me in front of all my friends? No, I insist—you shall have a new frock, and only a Vionnet will do. Off you go, now. I need to rest, and Hamish needs a little walk. Don’t forget to send that petit bleu to Mr. Howard.”
Dear Sam—A formal invitation is forthcoming but want to let you know that my aunt is holding a dinner party on Sat. 13th. We both hope you can come. Dinner jacket as it’s a formal shindig. Sorry! Regards, Helena
Ellie—Thanks for advance notice. My tux smells of mothballs but will air it out. Have a good week. Sam
THE MAISON VIONNET, located in a monumental Second Empire building on the avenue Montaigne, was every bit as impressive as Helena had expected. The instant their car drew up to the entrance, footmen were at hand to lead her and Agnes inside. There they were greeted by Madame Charpentier, her aunt’s longtime vendeuse, who escorted them to the viewing salon on the floor above.
Helena had grown up in beautiful houses filled with lovely and valuable things, but the salon at Maison Vionnet was truly jaw-dropping in its magnificence. Its neoclassical décor was perfectly restrained; even her own mother, who had a horror of anything even faintly arriviste, would have approved. Low-backed armchairs, each with a matching table, were arranged along the length of the room, while the walls were hung with Lalique plaques, subtly backlit, of women in Vionnet gowns.
As soon as she and Agnes were settled, and had been served cups of perfectly brewed English tea, Madame Charpentier nodded to an assistant and the parade of frocks began. One young woman after another appeared at the far end of the salon, walked toward Helena and Agnes, paused, and moved to wait a few yards away.
Twenty frocks were displayed to them in this manner, each of them more beautiful than the last. How would she ever decide?
“Have you seen anything to your liking, Lady Helena?” asked the vendeuse in impeccable English.
“They’re all so pretty. I’m not sure . . .”
“May I take the liberty of suggesting three gowns that I think especially suitable?” At Helena’s nod, Madame Charpentier called to three of the mannequins, who came forward while their fellows moved silently and impassively toward the door. “These are, I think, particularly suitable for your lovely English coloring.”
All three frocks were sleeveless tunics with irregular hems, but that was the extent of their similarities. The first was of ivory crêpe embroidered with intersecting Japanese fans, the second of pale peach chiffon with bands of delicate apricot beading, and the third, rather more fitted than the others, was a pale gold silk charmeuse, with an overlay of darker golden net. Leaning forward, she realized the net had been decorated with hundreds of intricately appliquéd flowers.
How to decide? With her luck, she’d end up choosing the most expensive of the three. “The last one, perhaps? Aunt Agnes, what do you think?”
“The third. It is perfection. Though you may have all three if—”
“Only the one, Auntie A. That is what we agreed.”
A further parade of mannequins was presented, this time with frocks for her aunt. It took Agnes an age to choose, but she eventually settled on a severe black tunic, its only embellishment a central embroidered motif that reminded Helena of the artwork from Tutankhamen’s tomb.
Their selections made, she and Agnes were escorted to two smaller fitting rooms, where their measurements were taken and Helena’s serviceable undergarments were tutted over. They were directed to return at the end of the week so their toiles might be fitted, and would then have to return again for a final fitting a few days before the party.