Pen’s mouth opened wordlessly, then closed again. “Oh,” she said, before her face softened in understanding. “I s-s-suppose I could tell Mama you have gone to an appointment with the modiste on East Street.”
Caroline nodded, although new clothes were the furthest thing from her mind. “Thank you, Pen. I . . . well, I shall owe you.” She took a step toward the front door and the freedom that hovered just beyond. By now David would be pacing along shore, wondering where she was, and she still had an hour’s hard walk ahead of her.
A firm rapping on the very door she was aiming for sent Caroline’s stomach churning. It could be just another bouquet of flowers, she supposed.
Or it could be another blasted gentleman caller.
She cast a wild glance around the foyer, preparing to slip down the hallway and make her exit through the scullery door. Of course, that would put her in Bess’s path, which would be almost as bad as stumbling into Mama’s. But Penelope didn’t give her time to formulate a plan. She was already stepping around her and pulling open the door.
A smartly dressed woman stood on the porch. Her hair was the sort of vivid orange that could only come from a chemist’s shop, and her generous bosom was showcased by tucks and gathers in places Caroline would have never considered sending a needle and thread.
She regarded Caroline with a shrewd, assessing air, her eyes running the length of her frame from heel to hair. “Bonjour, chérie.”
“Bonjour?” Caroline replied.
Bess appeared from the hallway that ran to the kitchen. “Oh, Madame Beauclerc!” The servant wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. “I’ll fetch Mrs. Tolbertson straight away.” She headed up the stairs, muttering about pies and fittings and too many gentleman callers.
“Did you know about this?” Caroline hissed to Penelope.
Her sister shook her head, though her eyes sparkled with anticipation. Caroline couldn’t begrudge her that. It had been at least three years since either Caroline or Pen had been gifted with anything other than a made-over gown.
But why did it have to be today, of all days?
“I came as soon as I could,” the woman said, her French accent slipping as a hint of London’s East Side snuck in. She recovered well, though, affecting a very cosmopolitan sniff. “Mrs. Tolbertson’s missive on the need for my services seemed, comment vous le dites . . . frantic?”
The sound of Mama’s heels on the top of the stairs made Caroline’s insides shrivel. She could see the remainder of her afternoon coming like a runaway wagon down a narrow alley, and yet she could not steer herself clear of the pending wreckage.
Still, she had to try. David was waiting for her. And she had promised.
But Madame Beauclerc’s large frame blocked any hope of easy egress. “Um . . . please,” Caroline breathed, motioning with both hands. “If you could just step a little to the side . . .”
The dressmaker took a single, dramatic step to one side, one penciled brow cocked upward in amusement. “Are you sure, chérie?” She was trailed by a shopgirl bearing an armful of fabric samples and a covered basket with ribbons and lace peeking out of the top. “By the looks of that dress, I suspect you might be the one I have been summoned here to help.”
“Perhaps another day,” Caroline said, preparing to bolt through the open door like lightning.
But even as she gathered her skirts, her mother’s voice floated down from the last step of the stairwell. “Caroline Rebecca Tolbertson! If you take one more step toward that open door, you shall live to regret it.”
Caroline blinked up. Why, oh why couldn’t this be the day that Mama was confined to bed with a headache? “I have to go,” she protested. “Surely this can wait?”
Her mother descended the final step, her blue eyes flashing in excitement as much as annoyance. “No. I am very much afraid this cannot wait. There is not a minute to spare.”
Caroline looked between her mother and the modiste. “I don’t understand.”
Her mother’s skin flushed a pretty pink against her widow’s weeds. “Penelope was correct, it seems, in the matter of one invitation leading to more. You’ve both received an invitation to a ball tomorrow night, sponsored by Lord and Lady Traverstein. So I am afraid your afternoon walk will just have to wait.”
Chapter 21
CAROLINE WAS HAULED into the parlor and stripped down to her shift. Mama and Penelope settled on the settee to study a book of fashion plates. Tea was ordered, a poor sign all around. And then the shopgirl began taking Caroline’s measurements with the pace of a tortoise.
Quite possibly a deceased tortoise.
Madame Beauclerc circled with a critical eye, her magnificent bosom bouncing with each step. She brought her fingers together, as if considering pinching some part of Caroline’s misshapen anatomy. “Those shoulders . . . I have never seen the like. I shall have to cancel the rest of my afternoon appointments to deal with this problem.”
“Will that cost more?” Mama asked, her face pulling into worried creases.
The modiste shook her head. “It shall be my charitable pleasure. Such great need, after all, cannot be ignored.”
Caroline groaned. So now she was a “problem,” a philanthropic venture for Brighton’s newest modiste to show the town what an excellent seamstress could accomplish under dire circumstances. She could almost hear the gossip now, from Miss Baxter’s all-too-ready lips.
If Madame Beauclerc could turn that Caroline Tolbertson into someone passable, imagine what miracles she could work on the rest of us.
And all the while, David was waiting. She had promised him she would be there, and a promise was something one did not break. But as painful as the memory was, another promise she had once made demanded its own recognition. She had promised her father, all those years ago, that she would take care of Mama and Penelope. And a small, reluctant part of her could not deny that standing here and suffering this was a step toward fulfilling that promise.
Madame Beauclerc turned toward Mama and Penelope on the settee. “You mentioned in your urgent summons we must work within a limited budget, oui?”
Mrs. Tolbertson’s face settled into a determined mask. “Yes. We must set up both of my daughters with a new, more fashionable wardrobe, for thirty pounds or less.”
“Mama!” Caroline gasped. By her mother’s own admission, they had, in total, less than a hundred pounds. They needed that money to live should her mangled efforts to produce a well-heeled husband fall through. “I have three . . . er . . . two perfectly good dresses,” she protested, now cringing at the memory of destroying her navy serge gown. “I do not need more.”
“It is money well spent if it procures a betrothal within the month.” Her mother straightened her small but stern shoulders. “We cannot afford a trousseau. Best to focus on the outer garments.”
Caroline wanted to shake her mother into rational thought. If they spent such a substantial portion of their savings on this desperate gamble, they would have nothing left to fall back on should the price of bread go up.
Or should the ceiling cave in.
“Please do not do this,” Caroline begged. Time was already racing by for her, time she resented losing. If this money was spent on clothing, she would have no choice but to strongly encourage one of her current suitors to consider a scandalously short courtship, despite the fact that none of them made her heart do more than push the usual amount of tepid blood through her veins.
Her mother raised a determined brow. “You had three gentlemen callers this morning, Caroline, and now have an invitation to a ball.”
“Four callers,” Penelope chimed in. “Mr. Hamilton joined the group later,” she added, and though her sister’s voice offered no hint of resentment, Caroline squirmed at the reminder.
“Four gentlemen callers,” her mother corrected, her eyes widening. “It quite taxes the imagination. This is a time for action, not frugality. I want two new day dresses made for you, but first we must focus on a ball gown that
is in the absolute height of fashion. Penelope’s day dresses are in better shape, but I think at least one new dress for her, as well as a new evening gown.”
Madame Beauclerc burst into enthusiastic motion, clapping her hands. “I must see what accessories you have, so we know what to work around. Bring them all to me here. Bonnets. Slippers. Evening gloves, shawls, reticules . . . anything you have. I must see the colors of these items, the workmanship. Only then can I know which direction to go, and what can be made over.” She motioned, once again, toward Caroline’s shoulders. “But the ball gown for this one must be made from new. Her form is very difficult to show to advantage, oui?”
“Caroline’s shoulders,” said Mama, shaking her head, “are the bane of my existence.”
“I shall bring everything we have in our room,” Pen said, already heading toward the parlor door.
“And I have a trunk full of things left from my own come-out in London,” her mother added, rising from the settee. She touched Caroline’s chin, though she had to reach up several inches to do it. Tears swam in her blue eyes. “Oh, how I envy you this experience. This is your chance to shine, dear. You might as well smile and enjoy it.”
“I do not want to enjoy it, Mama.” It was the honest truth, even if it sounded petulant, framed in her hoarse, strangled voice.
Mrs. Tolbertson shook her head. “Then you must bear it instead.” She turned to Madame Beauclerc. “Might I borrow your assistant to help carry the items downstairs?”
“Of course.” The dressmaker motioned for the shopgirl to follow.
When the room fell quiet, Madame Beauclerc turned to Caroline with a mysterious smile on her rouged lips. She tilted her head, making Caroline feel as if she was the subject of some fascinating mental dissection. “Now that we have sent the chickens pecking for scraps,” the modiste said, “why don’t you tell me what you want, chérie.”
Caroline shuffled her feet beneath the woman’s scrutiny. What did she want?
One answer came to mind. She wanted a reprieve, a chance to explore passion before she tied herself in marriage to an amiable husband who would expect her to spend all her time on charitable knitting.
But surely a dressmaker would not be referring to anything so esoteric.
“I . . . I am not the person to ask,” Caroline stammered. “I have no sense of fashion.”
“Perhaps you want more than pretty dresses?” Madame Beauclerc circled again, appraising. Judging. She leaned in, so close Caroline could see the pearllike powder caked in the crease of the woman’s ample cleavage. “Those shoulders give you away. I have seen others like you. I have made them . . .” She waved her hand, as if searching for the right word in French, and then abandoning the effort. “Dresses, if you would, that are better suited for water and still provide some modesty. I could do the same for you.”
Caroline stared at her with stricken eyes. Her throat felt squeezed from within. “I am not sure what you mean.”
The dressmaker raised a brow and touched a finger to the fabric covering Caroline’s skin. “Your shift is wet, chérie.”
Caroline exhaled. Well, that was easily explained. “I went out in one of the bathing machines this morning. I must have gotten it damp.”
The modiste shook her head. “I do not think you are a woman who spends much time in bathing machines.” She gestured to Caroline’s thigh, just below the hem of her shift. “Your skin is brown in places the sun should not touch. How do these men in Brighton stand the sight of your wet shift without falling to their knees in desire?”
Caroline’s pulse proved a roaring counterpoint to the dressmaker’s pointed silence as the woman waited for an answer. “I . . . only swim in private,” Caroline said, unable to believe she was admitting this for the second time today.
Madame Beauclerc shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Well, is it any wonder? Plain white cotton leaves nothing to the imagination when wet. And the flannel robes they give you in the bathing machines would send even the bravest of us to the bottom should we attempt to swim in deep water. You need proper swimming attire, chérie. Then you could grace the public beaches, as your body was fashioned to do.” She leaned in again. “I could create you an ensemble that will turn you into a goddess.”
Caroline stared, her eyes probing every corner of the dressmaker’s frame and finding only ample, female curves. What kind of modiste was Madame Beauclerc, to offer to make such an improper item of clothing?
Perhaps the woman really was French.
Penelope staggered into the room then, her arms full of undergarments and shawls. “I br-brought everything I could find,” she said, almost quivering with excitement. “Although now that I see how few quality accessories we actually own, it seems hopeless.”
Madame Beauclerc smiled at Pen. “I shall make you both spectacular, chérie. Do not doubt it.”
“Spectacular seems a bit of a stretch for me, given that the garments must also fit,” Caroline objected. “My shoulders are so broad—”
“It is the fashion that makes them appear so,” the dressmaker interrupted. She lifted a hand to tug at the cotton fabric near Caroline’s shoulder. “The dropped sleeve that is so popular plays against you. It highlights the length of your shoulder too much. If we put more fabric here . . .”
“I wish her to be in the height of fashion,” Mama reminded as she came into the parlor bearing her own armload of frippery. “She shall need bishop sleeves on her ball gown.”
“Bishop sleeves are a fleeting fancy,” countered the dressmaker, her bosom heaving with conviction. “We must make our own fashion for this one.” She returned her hands to tug at Caroline’s chemise. “Lower here, at the neckline. Delicate sleeves across the center of your shoulder, not below it. Even just a ribbon would suffice, to draw the line and break up the appearance of all that skin. Light green silk, I think, to accentuate your unusual eyes.”
Her mother tilted her head and ran her eyes along Caroline’s shift-covered frame. Slow understanding bloomed across her face. “I had not considered before how the current fashions might be downplaying her attributes.”
“She has a long, lovely line to her neck,” Penelope pointed out, making Caroline feel like a prize heifer at a parish fair.
The modiste nodded. “Oui. And excellent posture.”
Her mother began to look excited. “Might we have Caroline’s ball gown by tomorrow night?”
Madame Beauclerc pursed her lips. “We shall need an additional fitting tomorrow, after I assemble the piecework. And that would leave us little time to finish the gown.”
“There must be a way,” protested Mrs. Tolbertson. “If we covered the cost of another seamstress to work with you . . .”
Madame Beauclerc’s doubtful expression softened at the mention of additional funds. “Oui. For an extra three pounds, I believe I could produce a gown by tomorrow evening.”
Her mother beamed, even as Caroline’s world began to splinter into wreckage around her. “It shall be no problem for the extra charge, Madame Beauclerc. Because I have a feeling our fortunes are about to improve.”
AS DAVID PICKED his way over the last few hundred yards of the footpath, he ignored the coming sunset and focused instead on the worry simmering in his gut.
He had waited for Caroline all afternoon. The first hour had passed with his body still hard with want, a by-product of their ill-advised romp in the bathing machine. Eventually he had napped on the sun-heated rock while the swallows flitted above him, laughing at his dilemma. When the shadows started to lengthen, he had spent a fretful half hour pacing the shoreline, worrying that something had happened to her. A twisted ankle. A tumble off the narrow footpath, or falling rocks from the high cliff face. Those thoughts sent him hurrying back, his worry a hard lump in his throat.
But as the lights of Brighton came into view and he thankfully caught no sight of her body prostrate along the path, he turned himself over to other disturbing possibilities. Had she come to her senses and r
ealized that the experience she sought with him wasn’t just ill-advised, it was downright dangerous?
Or—and he was desperate enough to admit this thought was far more troublesome than the first—had she decided to take him at his word and save her breathy sighs and soft, bare skin for a partner who could offer her the betrothal she sought? The thought of her kissing someone like Branson sent his mind careening in regrettable directions, and made it difficult to focus on the simple task of just getting home.
As the treacherous footpath fell away to reveal the wide shingle beach that defined the outer limits of Brighton, David found he could no longer ignore the sunset. The brilliant evening sky had pulled hordes of fashionable beachgoers from their hotels and houses, and they were scattered about, facing the color-splashed horizon. With a muffled curse, David sidestepped an older couple sitting side by side on folding chairs, then almost tripped over a small boy who was darting about with chubby fistfuls of seashells. Several people had brought their dogs down to the water and taken them off lead, and one exuberant retriever shook its coat, spraying salt water all over David’s trousers.
Bloody hell. No wonder Caroline preferred the isolation of her cove. As he shook the errant droplets of water from his jacket, David’s gaze was pulled to the first row of houses that lined the eastern edge of Brighton. Damn it, why hadn’t she come?
And what was he going to do about her?
Even now, his body tightened in response to the memory of that kiss. God, that kiss. So unexpected, the complete opposite image of sweet innocence that he had been trying to pin on her shoulders. He had wanted to inhale her. To take her, right up against the wall of that bathing machine, with the damp, slick boards at her back and the motion of the waves pushing him into her. She did regrettable things to his body, things that made it difficult to keep one foot on a field of honor. She did regrettable things to his brain, as well. Turned him stupid. Made him agree to things no sane man would consider.
Summer Is for Lovers Page 19