A Noble Man. ANNE ASHLEY
that none other than the much coveted dressmaker herself had accompanied her into the fitting-room until a sweetly accented voice remarked, “Your new habit does not please you, mademoiselle? Or is it, perhaps, something else that makes you unhappy this day?”
Drawing her mind back to the present, Sophia received something of a shock when she discovered the modiste studying her intently, the lovely blue eyes openly assessing. “Oh, no, Madame, the habit is perfect.”
“Not quite,” the modiste countered, her professional eye quickly perceiving a slight fault. “A little adjustment to the skirt is required. I hope then that you will look a little happier when you are wearing it, petite, otherwise my reputation par excellence will tumble, no?”
So the famous modiste had a sense of humour, had she? Sophia mused, quickly detecting the mischievous twinkle in the blue eyes. The dressmaker was possibly more amused than gratified by her meteoric rise to fame, and Sophia felt suddenly drawn to the woman who, she suspected, was not so many years older than herself.
“I assure you, madame, that the habit pleases me very much,” she assured her, taking care not to step on the soft velvet folds as she stepped out of the skirt. “It is just that this morning I received some rather sad news. Someone who has worked for my family for many years is to leave us.”
The smile that curled the dressmaker’s full lips appeared full of warmth and understanding. “I think, perhaps, that the one that leaves you is something more than just a servant, hein?”
Sophia nodded. “More a friend.”
“Then could you not, perhaps, persuade him to stay?” Madame suggested, helping Sophia to don the walking dress and matching pelisse which she herself had made for the Earl’s daughter only the week before.
“I dare say I could, but I shan’t make the attempt.” She caught the dressmaker’s look of surprise in the large, oval mirror. “He has been my personal groom for many years and, I believe, has been happy in his work, but now wishes to better himself. He has been offered the position of head groom on some country estate, though I know not which.” She moved one of her slender hands in a slight gesture of resignation. “It would be selfish of me to try to stop him improving himself.”
The look that sprang into the modiste’s eyes was difficult to interpret, but Sophia thought she could detect a hint of respect in those striking blue depths.
“I do not think, petite, that you will have the least difficulty in finding a replacement,” the young dressmaker responded softly, as she held back the curtain for Sophia to pass into the elegant waiting-room.
“My, my, Sophia! You have been honoured this day,” her mother teased, after they had left the shop and had settled themselves in the carriage once more for the short journey back to Berkeley Square. “Lady Strattan went quite pea-green with envy when Madame Félice selected to offer you her undivided attention. How does it make you feel to have eclipsed such a leading society hostess as the Marchioness of Strattan? The poor woman will never be able to hold her head up in public again!”
“You know full well, Mama, that I consider such things totally unimportant,” Sophia responded, chuckling at her mother’s rather wicked sense of humour. “I would have been just as content to have had one of the assistants attend to me, though I must confess, I did find the celebrated modiste most interesting,” she admitted, settling herself more comfortably on the seat. “She isn’t nearly so old as I had imagined. She’s not many years older than myself, I shouldn’t have thought. And she’s extremely pretty too, though she does her level best to conceal the fact by wearing very plain gowns, and hiding her hair beneath a cap.”
“Perhaps she’s still in mourning, dear,” her ladyship suggested, memory stirring. “I believe someone did mention that she’s a widow.”
“Perhaps she is,” Sophia conceded, but remained doubtful. “It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if she had never been married at all. She wouldn’t be the first female to feign the status of a married woman. Our very own housekeeper does precisely that.”
“Very true,” her ladyship concurred. “I should imagine high-ranking female servants feel that adopting the status of a married woman adds to their respectability.”
“Just as dressmakers believe that pretending to be French will ensure their success.”
“Are you implying that you suspect Madame Félice is not a Frenchwoman, dear?”
Turning her head a little to one side, Sophia considered this. “I’m not certain. That pretty accent of hers sounds genuine enough.”
“Well, you were certainly granted ample opportunity to form an opinion. You were in the fitting-room quite some considerable time,” her ladyship remarked. “I trust there are not too many alterations needing to be made to your new habit.”
“No, just a slight adjustment to the skirt. Madame Félice promised faithfully before I left her that she would have it delivered to the house the day after tomorrow.”
“That must please you. I know how much you have been longing to ride since our arrival in town.”
“The prospect of doing so has suddenly lost much of its appeal,” Sophia was not slow to admit, realising that her mother could not have heard the news. “Clem is leaving us. Which means, of course, that until a replacement can be found I shall be forced to suffer Trapp’s presence. And as we both know, Trapp is unfailingly loyal to the head of the family. Everything I say and do will be reported straight back to Papa.”
The Countess could not forbear a smile at the underlying note of pique in her daughter’s voice, and turned her head momentarily to stare out of the window.
Like her husband, she too had not been slow to notice that fewer personable gentlemen were paying calls to the house these days, though she could hardly say this had come as any great surprise. She had had a fairly shrewd idea who had been behind those foolish rumours which had circulated on the evening of their very own ball, but which, thankfully, now were dying a natural death. She had noticed, too, during the subsequent days that her daughter’s choice of dancing partners had undergone something of a change. There was still a smattering of eligible young men among the favoured few, but these, the Countess strongly suspected, were gentlemen who were not quite ready yet to exchange bachelorhood for wedded bliss.
More amused than annoyed by these rather childish tactics, her ladyship had decided to keep her own counsel, and not take her daughter to task over the mischievous stratagems that she had employed to keep any eligible parti at bay, but could not resist saying now, “But, my dear, I’m certain that you would never do or say anything that might annoy your dear papa,” and then found it was as much as she could do to stop herself laughing outright when Sophia turned to stare resolutely out of the window.
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