A Woman Made for Pleasure

by Michele Sinclair

  “Good Lord, no,” Jennelle said abruptly, snapping her head up. “She would wonder how we would know. After our explanation, she would silently assume we conjured it out of some warped, country-girl amusement. Then she would tell anyone and everyone about our shocking behavior once we had left. Oh, the rumors.”

  They continued discussing the ramifications of such a revelation when two young women, followed by their maid, came from the back room, laughing and speaking excitedly and ignoring everyone around them. “Did you hear the Marquess of Chaselton is back in Town?” a young, russet-haired woman asked the other.

  “Yes, I am always informed of the most important news. He is so devilishly rich and passably good-looking. I hear he has finally returned to England in search of a bride. Now that he has inherited the title, he has to produce an heir.” The proud woman had yellow hair to match her lacy day gown. Her eyes were large and black and her cheeks were fair, with just a touch of rouge. Based upon appearance only, she was a striking woman. Tall, statuesque, and lovely by all the conventional rules.

  Millie, however, found the woman’s voice excruciatingly grating.

  “I hear he is called Chase by his friends,” remarked her average-looking friend.

  “Hmm, yes, I believe it is time to once again become London’s dernier cri. The ton has been waiting patiently for me to choose my husband. And for that man’s riches, I shall forgo applying my wiles to fill my bed and use them to fill my more long-term financial needs.” The blonde pulled on her gloves, preparing to leave the establishment.

  “Are you sure? You could have anyone you choose, Selena! Remember last year?”

  “Yes, I do remember, and this Season, I am going to finally say yes. I, Selena Hall, am officially back on the marriage mart, and I fully intend to become the next Lady Chaselton.” The two women left, barely aware of the four women they had passed when leaving.

  Shuffled into the back room, the Daring Three had held their tongues while they picked colors, habits, cloaks, and gowns Aimee needed for the Season. Only when they were seated alone, with the landau’s top up and secured, did Aimee and Jennelle explode. Millie sat in furious silence.

  “Well, I never,” Jennelle huffed. Adopted by the group as a little girl, she felt Charles to be her brother every bit as much as he was Aimee’s.

  “Can you believe that woman’s effrontery? I have never before heard such arrogant presumptuousness from a person.” Aimee was incensed.

  Elda Mae was just as outraged. “Milady, your brother would see right through such schemes.”

  “I should hope so,” Aimee said firmly.

  “I understand Charles must marry someone,” Jennelle ventured as she tried to secure a defiant lock of her auburn hair, “but I hope that vixen does not become your brother’s wife. Having her as family would be quite awful.”

  Aimee tightened her hands into fists. “My brother wouldn’t consider such a woman for even a moment.”

  “Do not be too sure,” Jennelle countered. “He just may. I have read about women who set their caps for noblemen such as your brother. While we have witnessed her true nature, those creatures tend to have an unusual ability to hide their ugliest features when their prey is around.”

  “Hmm, and she was beautiful,” Aimee said aloud, pondering Jennelle’s words. She reclined against the cushions and crossed her arms.

  Elda Mae pursed her lips and shook her head. “Maybe some would think that harridan was beautiful, but I stake my life that she has false hair as well as false bosoms, to go with her false personality, if you get my meaning.”

  Jennelle nodded. “Indeed, there was much to her that was insincere, Elda Mae. But there was something else about her that made me uneasy.”

  Millie spoke for the first time. “It was her eyes.”

  “Yes,” Aimee said and turned to look at her friend. “It was her eyes. They . . . squinted so.”

  Millie suddenly sat up, accidentally knocking Elda Mae’s bonnet askew. “Oh, I am sorry, Elda Mae. But hell and the devil confound it, I have just had a delicious idea!”

  “Oh no . . .” Jennelle’s wariness sprang to life as soon as she saw the look in Millie’s eyes.

  Millie rapped the carriage roof and gave the driver the name and address of the modiste on her card. She then turned back and beamed at her friends. “We are going to have an adventure!”

  Aimee was excited. “Fantastic!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  Jennelle looked at Aimee as if she had just lost her mind. “Fantastic? Are you encouraging Millie’s lunacy now?”

  Aimee patted her friend’s knee. “Do not fear, Jennelle. This time I am a completely willing participant in Millie’s plan. And so are you. So, Millie, how are we going to save my brother? That is the focus of the adventure this time, is it not?”

  Millie eagerly leaned forward. “It most certainly is. Now we know why we were destined to have a Season this year. We are here to save Charlie from a miserable marriage!”

  Jennelle rolled her eyes. “I agree with the spirit of your plan, Millie, but can we keep the excitement to a minimum?”

  Millie beamed a mischievous grin across the small compartment. “Against my nature, Jen, you know that. It would be as if I asked you never to read a book again.” She turned to the other passenger. “Elda Mae . . . not a word. Promise?”

  “Of course, Lady Mildred,” the older woman replied as she made the sign of the cross on her breast.

  “Not even to Aimee’s mother,” Millie added, knowing the workings of her companion’s mind.

  The carriage stopped, and seconds later the footman knocked on the door. All four stepped down from the carriage and looked around. Millie reviewed the card, and the address was indeed correct. Jennelle leaned over. “Are we supposed to be in the residential side of Town?”

  Millie showed her the card. “I assume so. Mother Wentworth can be quite unconventional if she feels in the mood to do so.”

  Aimee nodded. “I think this is one of those times. My mother does have a sense of humor.”

  Millie went up to a massive red weathered door and knocked. Soon a lanky youth opened it and stuck his head out. “Eh, state your business an’ be quick, I’s got a pile of work waitin’ on me,” boomed a young voice with a strong cockney accent.

  Aimee came forward and smiled at the long-limbed boy. “Hello. We are looking for a Madame Sasha. Does she live here?”

  “She does,” he said and then looked at each of them, clearly assessing their dress. “Hmm, youse obviously gots some blunt. Come in, but be quick. She as cross as crabs today, I tell ya. I gots to get back to the kitchen before the cook gets peltered up and goes into high fidgets. He’s in high dudgeon today and likely to give me snuff just for openin’ the door.” The skinny boy opened the door wider and moved out of their way so they could enter. “Who should I say is callin’? Youse don’t look like the widgeons the cook told me you’d be.”

  Jennelle’s eyes popped open at the slang reference to an unintelligent female.

  Aimee stepped forward and smiled. Its effect was instantaneous. “Thank you so much. Please let Madame Sasha know that we are here for her modiste services.”

  “Take yourselves into the study. I’ll tell the madame ’bout your visit. Take care and don’t touch the china. The missus is quite partic’lar that none o’ her things gets broken. Never would believe the rake-down I gots just by nicking one o’ dem things.” He nodded and left. A few seconds later, they heard him yelling to someone at the back stairs.

  All three looked at one another and then broke into laughter. “I wonder who he thinks we are.”

  “I do not know, but he was not fazed at all by our presence.”

  “Maybe even a little annoyed.” And they all laughed again, made their way to the study to sit down and wait.

  Several minutes passed by before the wooden study doors opened. A short older woman with graying brown hair and a portly figure walked in authoritatively. “May I he
lp you?” Her English was heavily accented with a Russian flavor.

  Millie stood up. “Are you Madame Sasha?”

  The woman eyed Millie carefully. “I am. And you are?”

  “Lady Millie Aldon.” She cocked her head slightly and stared at the older woman. By the simple authority of her stance, it was clear she was no modiste. What was Lady Chaselton thinking? “Please let me introduce Lady Aimee Wentworth and Lady Jennelle Gent.”

  The Russian woman continued to stand just inside the study doors. “Hmm. Seems I am in the presence of high company, but I am unclear as to why. I am sure we have never met.”

  Aimee stood up and joined Millie. “My deepest apologies, madam. My mother suggested we visit, but I think there has been some misunderstanding. We were supposed to meet a modiste or seamstress. We are very sorry to have bothered you.”

  Madame Sasha raised her jeweled, wrinkled hand and dismissed the apology with a simple wave. She stared at Aimee for several seconds before asking, “Who is your mother?”

  Aimee blinked. “Lady Chaselton.”

  “Would her given name be Cecilia?” The woman smiled as if recalling a fond memory involving Aimee’s mother.

  Aimee glanced at Jennelle and Millie, whose eyes were as large as hers. It was hard to imagine, but Madame Sasha and her mother knew each other, and based on the facial expression they were seeing on the woman’s face—quite well. Aimee turned back to Madame Sasha and replied, “It is.”

  The woman’s dark eyes gave them each a piercing look and then she hollered quite unexpectedly, “Evette! Come! Fetch my bag and tell Henry he needs to bring tea. My blend.” Then, as if she had never bellowed a word, she turned back toward the group, composed as ever.

  She looked directly at Aimee. “So, you are Cecilia’s daughter. Hmm. You look like her—except in the eyes. But Cecilia is not faint of heart. Are you as timid as you appear and act?”

  Aimee was taken aback, but Millie was incensed. “Aimee is no such thing. She has a venturous spirit, as we all do.” Then, with more bite, she added, “She is simply the most polite of us.”

  Raising a single eyebrow, Madame Sasha replied, “I can see that you do not possess that fault.”

  Jennelle, who had remained sitting during this exchange, was perplexed. When was being polite considered a negative quality? “Madame Sasha. We are not in the wrong location, are we? You are the person Lady Chaselton suggested we meet. So, I assume that you know why we are here.”

  The portly woman turned and looked at the redhead with an unwavering gaze. “Yes. The dark, petite beauty here needs a wardrobe.” The doors opened, and a young girl came in with tea.

  Millie was able to keep her mouth closed, but her eyes were gaping. She swallowed. Jennelle reached up and encouraged her to sit down.

  Millie plopped down beside her and leaned over to whisper, “Jennelle, I do not know what to make of this woman. Do you?”

  “Not sure. Yet, it is clear she does know Aimee’s mother by the way she reacted when she heard the name Lady Chaselton.” The servant approached, and they both reached up to take the tea offered to them. Jennelle took a sip. “Mmm. This is excellent.”

  Sasha raised an eyebrow and responded, “Thank you. It is a unique blend I came across while in Russia. You,” she said, pointing at Millie, “come here and let me take a look at you.”

  Millie set her cup down and went over to join Madame Sasha as if the Russian had control over her. When the woman clasped her waist, Millie managed to ask, “Who exactly are you?”

  “I am Madame Sasha. I met her mother”—Sasha pointed with her chin to Aimee—“several years ago. She helped me out of an . . . hmm, unusual situation. Quite a woman, your mother is. Most willing to elicit exciting activity.”

  Millie was not daunted. “That does not explain why she directed us to you. Especially for our coming-out wardrobe.”

  “Let us just say that for certain friends, I am willing to extend my design services. No doubt, Cecilia sent you my way because of your coloring and your height. Most of the modistes around here are set up for clients such as Cecilia’s daughter. The ton tends to be partial to tall, slender blondes. You, on the other hand, are dark-haired and quite short.”

  “I am petite,” Millie countered with some bite.

  Unfazed, Madame Sasha replied, “Yes, but not dumpy. You have a long neck and your bosom is ample but not enough to be considered large.” Aimee and Jennelle looked at each other, wide-eyed as they listened to the woman continue.

  “You have a natural grace to you and seem to have a commanding presence despite your size. Your dark hair and the unusual color of your eyes create a remarkable contrast. And even with your obvious athletic ways, you have managed to keep your skin from the sun.” She took another sip of tea. “Yes, there is much we can do here. Is there some young man’s attention you intend to capture this Season? For once I am finished, you will be able to secure any gentleman of your choosing.”

  Millie bit her bottom lip and caved in to the compulsion. “Are you serious? Is it truly possible that a dress can make me look tall?”

  “Hmm, maybe not tall, but I can make all the other women wish they were short.” She offered a conspiratorial smile to the group. “Now, Evette, my bag.”

  For the next two hours, Millie was prodded, measured, poked, and stabbed, but did not mind at all. Madame Sasha turned out to be an adventurer, or at least had been one in her youth. She related story after story of her life before she had come to England. Tales of Russian nobility, interactions with the German Hessians, and late-night romantic escapades in Paris. The only tale Madame Sasha would not disclose was how Aimee’s mother had aided her in becoming a London seamstress with a very particular clientele.

  When they left, Millie had no idea exactly what creations to expect, only that they would start arriving within a few days. “Well, that was an experience.”

  “Indeed,” replied Aimee. “A most delightful one. I wonder how my mother and she met. Madame Sasha seemed most determined not to say, despite Millie’s clever forays into her past.”

  “Jennelle, it is time for you to enjoy the pain of a visit to the modiste,” Millie said, stretching her back to ease her aching muscles.

  Jennelle followed them into the carriage. “I do not suppose I can encourage any of you to delay this until tomorrow.”

  Millie shook her head. “Certainly not after what I just endured, and I hate such tedious activity. No, it is only fair you suffer as we have.”

  “Millie’s right. And the sooner we leave, the faster it will be done and over with. Address, please, Jennelle.” Aimee leaned over to procure Jennelle’s card from her hand and gave it to the footman.

  What seemed to be just minutes later, the carriage stopped again in front of another town house. Millie hopped onto the cobblestones in front of a small but much older home.

  “Seems your mother has another friend she has helped during a pinch,” Millie murmured aloud as her friends joined her.

  Aimee agreed excitedly. “I wonder what type of gem this modiste is. What’s the name, Jennelle? It might give us a clue.”

  “Hmm. Melinda Brinson. There is no title.”

  Millie raised her skirts and ascended the cracked stone staircase. She clicked an old brass knocker several times. “I hear the crying of a small child. Are you positive we are at the correct address?”

  The question was still lingering in the air when a pretty woman in her twenties opened the door. Tendrils of strawberry-gold hair were loose from her braid, and she appeared to be quite harried. “Yes, may I help you?”

  Aimee stepped up. “We were sent to meet a woman. Are you by chance Mrs. Melinda Brinson?”

  “Yes, I’m Melinda Brinson.” Crying erupted again from the back of the townhome. “My apologies, can you come inside for a moment? I need to see what happened.”

  The foursome entered as the young woman disappeared down a dark, narrow hallway. “Let us wait in here,” Jennelle suggested, poi
nting to a makeshift sitting room just beyond the front door.

  Moments later, Melinda appeared again, holding a small child with drying tears on his cheeks. “Again, my apologies. I was not expecting company today. May I help you?”

  Millie took charge and went over to pick up the baby. “Come here, little one.”

  Meanwhile, Aimee tried to offer some clarification. “Do you know my mother, Cecilia Wentworth?” she asked, deciding to use the name Madame Sasha had recognized.

  Melinda smoothed back her hair as her brows came together, indicating sincere thought. “No, milady, I am afraid I do not. Should I?”

  Jennelle let an “oh my” escape before she could stop herself.

  Aimee smiled apologetically. “I think there has been a mistake. We were here in search of a seamstress. My friend requires a few gowns to be remade for some upcoming events. If you do not know Lady Chaselton, then somehow there has been a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, but I know her son, the Marquess of Chaselton.” The woman smiled in relief now that she was able to place the party and their purpose. “And I am a seamstress. I know that I do not have a shop, but I promise you I am talented as a dressmaker. Do you have the gowns with you?”

  Jennelle looked confounded. “No no. My apologies. I did not bring the gowns themselves with me this afternoon. Of course, I will bring them. Today I was expecting to discuss only what you could and could not do.”

  Millie was bouncing the baby on her knee, cooing to the child, hoping it disguised her shock. It was the second time that day her composure had been unexpectedly and thoroughly rattled. The first blow came in the modiste’s shop when that dreadful woman spoke as if Charlie was an easy mark and catch. The idea of Aimee’s brother searching for someone to marry had not occurred to her.

  This second blow was almost worse than the first. Mrs. Brinson was not only affable, but uncommonly pretty with red-gold hair and a figure that all women aspired to have. If she had money or a title, she would have the attention of the ton. But Mrs. Brinson had neither and still somehow, Charlie had met this affable woman and mysteriously decided to assist her.