An Innocent in Paris

by Barbara Cartland

  “Yes, but think of the ingratitude of it. None of them are pleased with anything. It is like Marie, whom I took out for a while. She was always complaining, the caviar was not fresh, the champagne was corked, the seat uncomfortable and the orchids I gave her were the wrong colour! I was fed up and dropped her and now poor old Oswald has taken her on. He does not know what he is in for. I don’t mind girls costing money. After all what else is there really to spend it on? But I do expect them to show some sort of appreciation.”

  “Poor Bertie. I cannot believe that all your efforts go unrewarded.”

  “I suppose you will claim I am mean if I say I like value for my expenditure,” Bertram said, turning his head to smile at his cousin. “And I know you think I rush into affairs far too quickly. But the truth is, Vane, I just don’t have your flair for choosing the right woman. My ladybirds always seem disappointing once I get to know them, while yours will improve on acquaintance. If ever there was a high-stepper it’s Henriette.”

  Lord Hartcourt made no answer and after a moment Bertram said plaintively,

  “All right, Vane, I know that remark is not in good taste, but damn it all, a fellow has to talk to someone and who better than a relation?”

  “Who indeed?” Lord Hartcourt answered. “Very well, Bertie, cultivate the little English sparrow, as you call her. You have my blessing. Despite my misgivings she may turn out to be amusing and worth the expense!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gardenia burst into her aunt’s bedroom impulsively.

  “Aunt Lily, it is hopeless!” she exclaimed and then stopped and gave a little cry. “Oh, but how lovely you look!”

  Standing by the windowsill, dressed in a sweeping silk gown of soft blue chiffon with a bunch of silk roses pinned with a huge diamond bow to her breast and with her golden hair covered with an enormous hat, the Duchesse did look almost as beautiful as she had been when Gardenia had last seen her in England.

  “Thank you, dear child,” Lily de Mabillon said obviously pleased with the compliment.

  “Your dress is beautiful,” Gardenia said in an awed voice, “and though I have read about them in the newspapers, I have never really seen a wonderful Merry Widow hat before.”

  “Is that what you would call it?” the Duchesse asked in an amused voice, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.

  “At home no one talks about anything else,” Gardenia exclaimed. “It is Merry Widow gowns, Merry Widow hats, Merry Widow curls. Mama and I used to laugh as we glanced through the newspapers and magazines and wondered just how we would look in the hats. I thought they might appear comical. Now I see that on you it looks right and terribly, terribly smart.”

  The Duchesse was pleased at Gardenia’s enthusiasm and she turned to the two maids who had helped dress her,

  “Mamselle is delighted with my appearance,” she said French.

  The Duchesse moved a little as she spoke and, with bright sunlight coming through the window, Gardenia saw how much of the glowing pink and white skin was due to artifice. The Duchesse had covered her face with a mask of cream and rouge and now the sallowness that had been so obvious first thing in the morning was hidden.

  “Well, now I am ready to go out,” the Duchesse said with yet another look at herself in the mirror.

  “But, Aunt Lily, I have nothing to wear,” Gardenia said. “That is what I came to tell you. Your dresses are lovely and I have never seen so many in the whole of my life, but they are all much too big. Yvonne says it would take hours, if not days, to alter them.”

  “C’est vrai, madame,” Yvonne joined in from the doorway. “I have tried all of them on Mamselle and there is nothing she can wear that would not make her look ridiculous.”

  The Duchesse looked Gardenia up and down.

  “I cannot take you to Worth’s in that coat and skirt,” she insisted. “People would laugh. Even Yvonne is smarter on her days out.”

  “Then I shall just have to stay at home,” Gardenia said miserably.

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” the Duchesse interposed. “Clothes you have got to have before we can make any plans and before we can arrange anything for you. Wait, I have an idea. It is a warm day, but I am going to wear my sables. There is always a slightly chilly wind in the spring.”

  Gardenia looked at her feeling bewildered, she could not see where this conversation was leading.

  “Have you a gown amongst your luggage that is light, a summer dress for instance?” the Duchesse asked.

  Gardenia nodded.

  “Yes. I have one of pale pink voile which I made myself. It is not very smart, I am afraid, but I copied a sketch I saw in one of the fashion magazines.”

  “Go and put it on,” the Duchesse commanded, “and hurry.”

  Just for a moment Gardenia hesitated.

  “It is not mourning.”

  “And I have already told you,” the Duchesse said almost sharply, “that you cannot wear black. My friends in Paris will not be interested as to whether you should wear mourning or not.”

  “Very well, Aunt Lily,” Gardenia said meekly. “I will go and put it on.”

  She ran from the room and fortunately found without much difficulty the new bedroom that she had been moved to.

  The saucy chambermaid was still unpacking her things. The voile dress was creased but once Gardenia was hooked into it, it did not look so old-fashioned as the black dress she had been wearing.

  Nevertheless Gardenia could not help feeling sure she would look ridiculous beside Aunt Lily in her blue chiffon with its pink roses and pearl and diamond jewellery.

  Thanking the maid, who she had discovered was called ‘Jeanne’, Gardenia ran down the corridor to her aunt’s room. The Duchesse was seated once again at the dressing table, adding a little more mascara to her eyelashes.

  Gardenia stared. She had always thought that it was only play-actresses who dared to wear cosmetics in the daytime and she felt somehow at the back of her mind that her mother would not have approved.

  Her aunt put down the small brush and turned to look at her.

  “Heavens, I should have known that dress was homemade wherever I had seen it!”

  Gardenia flushed.

  “It was that or not having a new dress at all.”

  The Duchesse gave a little exclamation.

  “Oh dear. How unkind of me! I did not mean to hurt your feelings, my dear. It was cruel when I think of how easily I could have sent you and your mother boxes of clothes to wear. Think of all those things upstairs. I have not the slightest idea what I can do with them.”

  Two little dimples appeared in Gardenia’s cheeks.

  “You are laughing at me,” the Duchesse said accusingly. “Why?”

  “I cannot help thinking just how unsuitable all those glorious gowns would have been at home in the village. As for the ball dresses, I think Papa would have had a fit if either Mama or I had appeared in one of them.”

  The Duchesse had to laugh. She had seen the small Manor House where her sister had lived and the straggling hamlet with its village green and greystone Church. She just knew that Gardenia was right when she said everything in her vast wardrobe room would have been extremely out of place.

  “I promise you we were not envious,” Gardenia said quickly. “Mama liked to think of you wearing gorgeous jewels and being the belle of every ball. She used to talk about you and I would try to imagine the clothes you would wear to the Opera or the Diplomatic parties. Now I have seen them, I know that I was not imagining the right thing.”

  “And you are going to have just as beautiful clothes yourself,” the Duchesse said firmly. “Come along, Yvonne, put that hat on Mamselle’s head and bring the chinchilla cape.”

  Yvonne hurried forward with a hat that was a smaller and more restrained edition of the Duchesse’s. She set it on Gardenia’s head and fastened it with two huge hatpins, which were ornamented with tiny jewels.

  Gardenia felt that the hat was just too large for her, but s
he hardly had time to glance at herself in the mirror before one of the other maids brought forward a long chinchilla cape, which she placed over her shoulders.

  “But I cannot wear this,” Gardenia protested.

  “Why not?” the Duchesse asked. “It will hide your dress and although it is late on in the Season for furs, people who see you will be too impressed to worry about the weather. It is new, a present from a friend. Don’t you admire it?”

  “It is magnificent!” Gardenia exclaimed, stroking the soft grey fur, which felt almost like silk beneath her touch. “It must be worth a fortune! I am afraid to wear anything so costly, Aunt Lily.”

  “Nonsense! It will establish you, if nothing else does. And I have not worn it yet. I was keeping it for a special occasion and that is now. Come along, child.”

  Bewildered and feeling slightly foolish, Gardenia followed her down the stairs, pulling the chinchilla around her shoulders and wondering if she was not dreaming and this was part of some strange Alice in Wonderland fantasy.

  The motor car was waiting outside for them. With sable rugs over their knees and with a uniformed footman sitting beside the chauffeur, they rolled slowly out of the pillared gates and into the roadway as the Duchesse lay back against the cushioned seat.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “we will drive in the Bois de Boulogne and you will then see how beautiful Paris can be in spring. Today we are too busy to do anything but think of clothes.”

  As she spoke, she waved her hand to several top-hatted men strolling beneath the trees of the Champs-Élysées, who swept off their hats at the sight of her.

  “They are friends of mine,” she said, “but, alas, these days we go so fast. Just a few years ago I used to drive everywhere in a carriage and then one could stop and talk to one’s friends and also be seen.”

  “But it is very exciting to have a motor car!” Gardenia exclaimed.

  “It is not so romantic,” her aunt answered, “but at least one does not have to fuss about keeping the horses waiting. My husband, when he was alive, always complained if I was late as he was worrying about the horses. A motor car, thank goodness, can wait indefinitely.”

  “There are still very many people who prefer carriages and horses,” Gardenia remarked, looking at the traffic.

  “Horses are still the vogue amongst the French aristocracy,” her aunt replied, “and, of course, a lot of dashers like to be seen driving a pair or a tandem.”

  “Oh! That reminds me,” Gardenia cried. “I forgot to tell you. Lord Hartcourt called this morning and his cousin was with him, Mr. Bertram Cunningham, I think his name was, and he asked me if I would go driving with him tomorrow. I said I would ask you if I could.”

  “He asked you to go alone?”

  The question was sharp.

  “I suppose that is what he meant. I knew it would not be allowed at home, but I thought that perhaps in Paris things were different.”

  “You are quite certain he asked you to go alone?”

  Again there was that strange note in her aunt’s voice that told Gardenia that something was wrong.

  “I thought ‒ that was what ‒ he meant,” Gardenia stammered. “Lord Hartcourt might be there ‒ I don’t know.

  “Damn them, they waste no time,” the Duchesse said, almost beneath her breath.

  “I am sorry if I have done anything wrong,” Gardenia said. “I knew that in England I would have to be chaperoned.”

  “You will not answer Mr. Cunningham’s invitation,” the Duchesse said slowly. “I will do that myself.”

  “Yes, Aunt Lily. Of course, Aunt Lily,” Gardenia agreed.

  She felt that she had done something wrong, but she was not quite certain what it was.

  Fortunately there was no more time for conversation. They drew up at what seemed to Gardenia to be a most impressive private house, not in the least like the shop that she was expecting.

  The footman drew the rug from their knees and helped Aunt Lily out. They walked up a blue carpet and into a magnificently furnished hall. It was only as they ascended the stairs that Gardenia guessed that they were entering the salon of the famous Monsieur Worth.

  The huge drawing room on the first floor was arranged with Louis XIV sofas and chairs covered in oyster satin and only when Monsieur Worth himself, looking resplendent in an embroidered waistcoat, appeared, was Gardenia sure that this was not in a social call.

  “Madame, you look enchanting,” he said to the Duchesse, kissing her hand. “You give my creations a chic that even I could not put into them. Is this the first time you have worn it?”

  “No, the second and I can promise you that it was looked at with envy by a lot of female eyes and with admiration by a good number of masculine ones.”

  Monsieur Worth laughed and then turned his eyes on Gardenia.

  “My niece,” the Duchesse said. “I have brought her here to you because only your magic wand can make her presentable and until she is properly dressed I have to keep her behind locked doors. Take off your coat, Gardenia.”

  Gardenia did as she was told. Standing in the centre of the salon in the cheap little dress she had made herself, she felt almost naked under Monsieur Worth’s scrutiny.

  “Miss Weedon arrived from England unexpectedly last night,” the Duchesse said. “She has come to live with me because her mother and father are dead. She is my closest relative and my heir. Will you dress her accordingly?”

  Monsieur Worth was not looking at Gardenia’s dress but at her face. She felt him take in every detail of her face, her eyes and her hair surmounted by the too large hat.

  “Will you remove your hat, mamselle,” he asked.

  She raised her arms and drew out the gigantic pins. Her hair, untidy from trying on all the dresses in the Duchesse’s wardrobe, was curling rebelliously round her forehead and at the nape of her neck.

  “You do see,” the Duchesse murmured, “she cannot appear looking like that.”

  “She is very young,”” Monsieur Worth said, almost as though he was talking to himself. “How would you have me dress her, madame? As a counterpart of yourself or as she is, very young and unsophisticated?”

  Gardenia could see that he was asking this question with a sudden urgency in his quiet rather deep voice. She felt too that something had passed between the couturier and her aunt that she could not understand. For a moment they seemed to stare at each other and then the Duchesse in a light and casual voice, said,

  “I told my niece that we must find her a charming husband. She has had very little fun in her life, being little more than a nursemaid first to her father and then to her mother. I hope, monsieur, that it will not be long before we ask you to make her a trousseau.”

  “Exactly, madame, that is what I would wish to do,” Monsieur Worth replied.

  Gardenia felt the question he had asked had been answered and now he knew what to do.

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Bring me taffeta, tulle and white lace,” he said to the vendeuse who hurried up to him.

  Bales of exquisite materials were brought from hidden cupboards. Meanwhile, Monsieur Worth just sat and looked at Gardenia until she felt the colour rising in her cheeks and she dropped her eyes in embarrassment. She had never been studied like this before.

  She had never thought that any man could sit for ten to fifteen minutes without speaking, just looking at her, seeming to take in every curve of her body and every movement of her shoulders and hands.

  Three hours later she was just beginning to feel that clothes were almost a disagreeable necessity. She stood and she turned, materials were pinned on her, taken away, sketches were brought and discarded and yet not once was her opinion asked.

  Monsieur Worth talked nonstop to her aunt and her aunt agreed with everything he said.

  There were so many different gowns that Gardenia had lost count. Then they began to speak about accessories. Hats were brought in from the salon next door and Monsieur Worth himself decided which Gardenia s
hould have and which would go with the gowns that he was creating for her.

  Another hour passed and Gardenia was ready to drop with fatigue. She realised that she had had nothing to eat since the rolls and coffee at breakfast and so wondered if she dared tell her aunt that she was hungry.

  To her relief her aunt looked at a little diamond watch that was pinned to her bracelet.

  “Four o’clock. It is time for tea. I promised a friend that I would call in on her. Do you need Miss Weedon any longer?”

  “One dress should be ready by now,” Monsieur Worth said.

  He signalled to one of the hovering minions, who ran hastily from the room.

  “They have made something in this short time?” Gardenia asked breathlessly.

  “It is something I would not do for anyone but Her Grace. Always ladies come here and ask me for the impossible and always I say, “Madame, God spent seven days in creating the world. You cannot expect me to rival such an achievement.”

  “But the dress is ready – and in four hours,” Gardenia exclaimed, as she saw a woman bringing it down the salon towards them.

  “In this I think we have cheated a little,” Monsieur Worth admitted. “To be honest this gown was in fact already almost finished, but the Marquise de St. Cloix is not expecting it for another week and by then another will be ready for her with just a few alterations, of course. I never make two gowns exactly the same.”

  “But thank you,” Gardenia said a few minutes later. “It is lovely, absolutely lovely!”

  It was indeed a day dress such as she had dreamed of possessing, of soft very pale green crêpe, embroidered with braid and with draped chiffon. It gave her a diaphanous appearance as fresh and young as the spring itself.

  The hat to wear with it was of green straw, encircled with a small wreath of daffodils. It was very simple and very young and made the Duchesse draw in her breath when she looked from it to Gardenia’s shining eyes and parted lips.

  “Youth,” she said with a sudden bitterness, “is something that not even you can create, Monsieur Worth.”

  The couturier glanced up at her, saw the pain in the heavily mascaraed eyes and at once understood.