Wedded in Scandal (7 page)

“Jus’ talk to the girl. You can tell her things about how to be sweeter.”

“But there are some things—”

“Tut-tut!” the girl said as she pointed her needle straight at Helaine’s heart. “They can’t all be like Lady Gwen. You just think on that and not our prices. Teach that fat girl how to be nice on the inside, and then she’ll find her man.”

Helaine plopped down by the worktable and pulled out her sketchbook. She didn’t need it. She already knew what would
look
best on Francine. “It’s not about being nice,” she said as much to herself as to the seamstress. “It’s about feeling happy inside. Then nice is easy. As is husband hunting.”

“There you go,” said Wendy with a grin. “You just teach her that and we’ll be rich. Easy as stitching a straight line.”

“Well, maybe for you,” said Helaine. Her stitches had always wandered willy-nilly.

“Fine then,” said Wendy. “Easy as drawing a straight line. And that I know you can do.”

That she could. Now if only she could get someone to pay for their talents. Then they would be rich. Or at least not a half breath away from the poorhouse.

It was that fear that carried her through the night and into the next morning. Years ago, she and her mother had spent two nights in the poorhouse. Two nights crammed into the same bed with a rail-thin mother of three. Two nights of starting at every noise and holding her mother while the frail woman sobbed. Thankfully, they were both exhausted from a day spent doing prison labor—pounding hemp into rope—that at least they managed to sleep on the second night. And then Wendy had rescued them, offering them her home until the business turned a profit. And slowly, their life had changed.

Helaine and her mother had rooms of their own now, right above the shop. And if they didn’t own anything of value anymore—it had all been sold six months after her
father’s disappearance—at least they each had a bed, food on the table, and a little coal for the winter. It was more than many had in London, and Helaine was grateful for it every day. And terrified it would all disappear on the morrow.

That was the fear that pulled her from her bed at dawn and sat her down at her worktable to sketch. And that was the fear that drove her to work on Lady Gwen’s trousseau, sketching a new dress for her wedding that would emphasize every detail of the woman’s beautiful body. And that was the fear that had her setting down six new designs before Miss Francine while the girl was munching on crumpets and spilling cream upon the paper.

“But wot ’bou’ m’ ’ck?”

Helaine leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

The girl set aside the crumpet and dusted off her fingers. “Wot about my neck? Won’t it pinch?” she asked, pointing to the full collar.

“Oh, no. Not this material and not when Wendy sews it. Trust me, Francine. It shall look divine.”

The girl was obviously not convinced. Her face pinched up and she reached again for the crumpet. “But it’s so plain. Not a ruffle or rosette anywhere.” She stuffed another full bite into her mouth. “Mama says at least with the rosettes, the men will look at the decoration and not me.”

Helaine blinked, shock reverberating through her system. “Surely your mother doesn’t say that! The men are
supposed
to look at you, Francine. How can you possibly think to attract a man if they are looking at the rosettes and not you?”

Francine didn’t answer as she stuffed another bite into her mouth. But her eyes did, and her body. Her gaze dropped to her lap, and her body slumped in the seat. She was the picture of a depressed, downtrodden woman. Helaine knew the look. She understood the need to hide yourself any way you could. After her father was exposed as the Thief of the Ton, she had done everything but put a bag over her face as a way to hide.

“It never works, you know,” she said gently. “Nothing can hide who you really are. No laces, flounces, or even the
best rosette that Wendy can make will hide who you really are.” Then she leaned forward and lifted the girl’s chin. “And Francine, nothing should.”

The girl didn’t believe her. She sat there in slumped misery. “I’m fat, Helaine. No one wants a fat wife.”

“No one wants a mean wife, Francine. I have seen many fat girls get married. Many ugly girls, too. Fortunately, my dear, you are not ugly and not exactly fat yet, either. And you have the advantage of something special.”

Francine wrinkled her nose. “Yes. My father’s money.”

“No, silly!” Helaine said. “A talented dresser. Come, come. Put down that silly crumpet and let me show you the truth. Let me show you what I see when I look at you.”

She didn’t have to pull hard to get the girl to comply. They went to the dressing room to where Wendy waited with the first of three dresses they had made for Francine. In the back of Helaine’s mind was the ever-present knowledge that the girl had to like these dresses—and pay for them—or they would have no money at all until Lady Gwen chose to pay. But she tried not to let it influence her at that moment. This time was for Francine, and she would not let anything detract from that.

Wendy began with a smile, lifting up the first of the three dresses. It was a moment that Wendy most especially treasured because the ladies always oohed and aahed over what was before them. But Francine didn’t. She scrunched up her nose and made a bad face that clearly upset Wendy.

“’Ey, now…,” the seamstress began, but Helaine stepped forward to interrupt.

“Wendy, dearest, before we get to the gowns, perhaps you could do me a favor. Please, would you find that spare piece of muslin and cover the mirror?”

Not surprisingly, her friend looked at her in shock. “Cover the mirror—”

“Please, Wendy.”

The seamstress knew better than to argue. Helaine was the one who soothed the customers and brought in business. When they were in front of a client, Helaine ruled. And so
Wendy bobbed a quick curtsy and went to the back room to find the fabric. Meanwhile Helaine turned to Francine.

“What were you looking at right then?” she asked gently.

Francine frowned. “What do you mean? I was looking at the dress.”

“I don’t think so. I was watching your face. You were looking in the mirror. At yourself, weren’t you? That grimace was what you do every time you look in the mirror, isn’t it?”

Francine shrugged, one shoulder coming up to her ear while her eyes slid away. “Nobody wants to look at your ugly dresses anyway,” she snapped.

And there she was: Mean Francine. Helaine was beginning to see the problem. Mean Francine only came out when the girl felt threatened or embarrassed. And this, too, Helaine had some experience with.

“Very well, Francine, I would like you to do something for me. I would like you to turn and look at yourself from all angles in this mirror.”

“What?”

“I want you to see how you look right now, really look.”

“Why?”

“Please, my dear. Just leave yourself in my hands for a few minutes. And then you shall see something truly special, I promise you.”

The girl was not going to leap right into trust, and who could blame her? If her mother had been telling her she was fat and ugly all her life, then of course the child was angry. Especially since Mama dressed the girl like this.

Under Helaine’s instruction, Francine stared at herself in the mirror. She was dressed in puce, of all colors, a washed-out, dull brown. Flounce after flounce covered her, adding to her size and making her look like a fat lump of mashed potatoes and gravy. At least her hair didn’t lie in a flat, greasy pile. The girl was clean and her brown hair was quite lovely. Except that it was pulled ruthlessly back from her face as if someone—her mother most likely—wished to pull the skin back from her nose as tightly as possible. It
didn’t work, of course, but created a perpetually pulled expression and most likely gave the girl a terrible headache by day’s end.

As requested, Francine looked at herself in the mirror. She turned slowly around, her eyes filling with tears of misery. And in the end, she didn’t even finish her perusal, but sat down in a defeated lump. She didn’t even have the strength to argue but just sat there, her eyes darting this way and that, as she no doubt looked for another crumpet.

“There now, you have looked. I shall not ask you what you saw because I can see it in your face how miserable you feel right now. Ah, here is Wendy.”

And there was Wendy, covering up the mirror with quick jerks of her arm. As the muslin settled over the reflection, everyone—Helaine included—sighed in relief. The girl in that mirror was the picture of dejection.

“Now, please, Francine, if you would but stand up, we shall help you into your new gown. You shall see what I see when I look at you.”

Francine didn’t argue. She obviously hadn’t the strength, but hope did sparkle a bit in her eyes. Just a tiny flash, but one that shot to Helaine’s soul. The girl wasn’t lost yet.

“First off, let us change your hair.” Francine didn’t have the time to argue as Helaine plucked pins out of her hair. Before long a tumble of loose, lovely curls fell down and Francine was sighing in relief.

“Those hurt, don’t they?”

“Terribly. But Mama says—”

“For the moment, Francine, I have no desire to know what your mother says. She may be the best of all mothers, but she does
not
know how to dress you.”

At that, Francine gaped at her. It was perhaps the first time that anyone had contradicted her mother, who was, in Helaine’s opinion, a narrow-minded tyrant. It wasn’t that the woman was cruel. She did love her daughter. But as happened with some mothers, the woman could only see the flaws, not the beauty, in her offspring. That was why Helaine had specifically conspired to see poor Francine
alone, at a time when her mother was busy with her son’s tutor.

“Today, dear Francine, is about you. And what will look best on you despite what your mother says.”

The girl had no response except to nod. She was obviously still in shock that someone would speak ill of her mama.

“Next, you absolutely must remove those terrible boots. You should try on this pair of silk slippers, I think.” She held up a dainty pair dyed the palest of pinks.

The girl looked down at her thick half boots, designed more for a man who worked in a pigpen than for a girl. “But Mama said—” She stopped when Helaine raised her eyebrows. “Slippers wear so easily,” she finally managed.

“And if you were to be traipsing about London, then you should wear those, I suppose. But we are dressing you for a London party, my dear. Come, come. Mr. Shoemaker makes the most divine slippers. If you like them, then we shall bring his daughter Penny in to show you what can be done for your feet.”

Helaine didn’t mention that Mr. Shoemaker had
not
made these particular slippers. That shoe shop was too pricey by half for demonstration slippers. But if Francine wanted to change her footwear, she could afford the best. Meanwhile, Francine did as she was bidden, pulling off her boots with a grimace. Truly, those boots could not have been made for her. They were much too huge.

“Whose are those?”

“My cousin’s, when he grew too big for them. Papa said there was no use in throwing out perfectly good boots.”

“Hmph,” Helaine snorted. Even she could see where Francine’s feet were rubbed sore from the ill-fitting footwear. “Then we shall put your father’s feet in boots that are two inches too big and see how he likes trying to dance in them.”

“I don’t like how they make such noise when I walk,” the girl confided.

The rest of her clothing was serviceable but nothing
refined. Cheap muslin for her shift and a corset as ill fitting as her boots. On a flash of inspiration, Helaine called for it all to be changed. A silk shift and a new corset. Indeed, Wendy had to run to the shop three doors down to obtain a corset of the right shape and fit. It was terribly expensive, but price was not the problem with Francine.

By the time Wendy returned, Helaine had already restyled the girl’s hair. She was not especially skilled at it, but her years at school had taught her some things. After all, what more was there for girls to do in the evenings but play with each other’s hair?

Finally they could get to the clothes. Silk shift and a corset that fit correctly went on first. Wendy had taken her cue from Helaine and brought in a pair of silk stockings as well. Pale blue slippers and then the dress, a beautiful, simple dress of midnight blue.

“But it is so dark!” Francine protested. “I thought all young misses were supposed to wear pale colors.”

“Oh, the tyranny of Almack’s!” Helaine huffed. “You are fortunate, my dear, that you are not constrained by those biddies. We shall fashion something exactly for a dance there when you go, but for now, be grateful that none of those harpies shall be staring at you. They chose those colors specifically because pale gowns are beneficial to
their
complexions and no one else’s.”

Francine nodded, completely awed that someone would criticize that hallowed dance hall of the
haut ton
. In truth, as the daughter of a milliner, Francine would never be allowed inside the doors, but it never helped to point out a person’s social limitations. So Helaine spoke in “ifs” and “whens,” as she helped Francine into one of her simplest but most inspired designs.

Simple, clean lines. A high back collar that plunged in front to a scandalous V neckline to show her cleavage. And best of all, a full drape of fabric to make her appear stately rather than frumpy. With her hair flowing softly about her face, she appeared like a queen emerged from her boudoir.

“One last thing,” Helaine said as she carefully draped a necklace of deep amethyst about the girl’s throat. It was paste, of course, and rather dull at that. But it was all that was needed to complement Francine’s porcelain skin. “And now, the mirror.”

Wendy waited a moment, pursing her lips. “The line ain’t right,” she said as she ducked forward. Wendy was lying. The line of the dress was perfect; it was Francine who was not right. She still slumped as she looked with worry down at the dark-colored fabric. “Lift up straight, else you’ll be nipped by the pins,” Wendy said.