Chapter Eleven

C hapter E leven

"W e already did fittings, Tilda. I don't understand why we're doing more."

"Because I have more ideas, Lucy, and I will not be able to sleep until they are out of my head."

Lucy sighed and submitted to the endeavor again, though she was quite certain there was only so much that could be done now that had not been done hours before.

She had been to the modiste plenty of times in her life. Had been fitted for several gowns for various occasions. Had been pinned and pricked and prodded and measured from head to toe again and again, as her position in Society dictated.

But never in her entire life had she experienced what being worked at by Tilda and her assistants was like.

There were only two assistants now, but there had been five earlier. They all bustled about Lucy while she stood on an actual pedestal in various states of undress. She was measured in places she had never been measured before and had endured at least twenty-seven fabrics being draped over her, though it seemed only a portion of those fabrics were actually selected. She was certain that the women were speaking English among themselves, but there had to be some sort of code to their words because Lucy wasn't understanding any of it.

Now, she had one of the previous fabrics wrapped around her upper half and one of the assistants—Polly, perhaps?—was busy ruching the bodice into delicate folds and pinning them into place. Long swaths of the same fabric were tucked into a ribbon at her waist and dangled at her toes, but parted into an almost curtain-like pattern in her front that presently revealed her petticoats in their full. The skin of her shins and ankles was beginning to tingle, gooseflesh raising on their surfaces in the exposed air of the room.

Not that her shins could be seen. Her petticoats, she flattered herself, were long enough to be polite and appropriate, but without her stockings to shield her skin from contact with the thin cotton of them, everything was more sensitive.

What was going to go in this gap of the sprigged fabric? It was a lovely golden primrose shade, with the sprigged details in black thread, but what was Tilda envisioning to accompany it? And more to the point, where did she imagine Lucy was going to wear this? The fabric wasn't silk, but it was similar in texture and sturdier than muslin. It seemed very fine, and Hunter had wanted Lucy to have a more common set of gowns for their wanderings.

She was not likely to wander into a ballroom or card party, which was the only place she felt this dress would be appropriate for.

Still, Tilda got her way, and even at this late hour of the night, she would be obeyed.

Lucy hid a yawn behind a hand, but apparently not well enough, for Tilda gave her a shrewd look, her lips forming a tight, thin line.

"Sorry," Lucy murmured, her cheeks heating.

Tilda waved it off. "No matter. I plied you with warm beverages after a luxurious bath and then expected you to be able to stand still and be alert. My own fault, entirely. But this is the last one, I promise."

Lucy felt her more outspoken side arise. "You said that two gowns ago."

"No, I said ‘one more' after those," Tilda corrected with a flash of a grin. "I never said it would be only one more."

Eyes had never rolled as hard as Lucy's did at that moment. "We are going to have too much for the simple carpet bag you said I would carry."

Tilda shrugged without any concern whatsoever. "We'll pack what makes sense for your present situation and keep the rest here until you are home."

"Would it not be prudent to only create what makes sense for my present situation?" Lucy posed, trying not to sound derisive in her tone. After all, the woman was doing all of this without the prospect of payment, and Lucy was very much enjoying the time she was spending with her, in spite of feeling rather like a pin cushion.

"I cannot be bothered with only thinking in terms of sense when fashion is my calling," Tilda scoffed as she stretched out a measuring tape and came to mark the distance between the hollow of Lucy's throat and the dip in her bodice that Polly had pinned.

Lucy did her best not to shake her head, particularly when an intimidating and potentially dangerous woman had her hands near her throat. "You are such a contradiction, Tilda."

"Hush, darling, we're trying to work." But Tilda's lips twitched in a hint of laughter, and Lucy struggled to hide a smile as well.

Polly stepped back from the bodice and cocked her head as she surveyed her work. "Madame, I think some black lace or ribbon might help the neckline. And flowers, if we're doing the beading."

"Oh, we will certainly do the beading," Tilda assured her as she now measured the circumference of Lucy's throat. "Beaded flowers among the sprigged details. It's a lovely fabric, but I intend to see it enhanced. Yes, a trio of black rosettes at the apex of the neckline… I quite agree, Polly."

Lucy clamped down on her lips to keep from speaking, imagining great feathery rosettes hiding pretty much all of the ruching work Polly had just done, given the lack of substance to her bodice region. It wasn't flat, exactly, but no one had claimed her figure to be ample.

Still, they were the fashion experts, and she was the one who simply had to wear the items. And they could see her size in all aspects, so they must believe something good could come from the design.

One could only hope it was the best of imaginings instead of the worst.

Lucy shifted her focus as Willow brought a shimmering ivory fabric into the room, sighing heavily as she did so. "I found it, Madame. Aberdeen Suite."

Tilda groaned and shook her head, stepping back from Lucy and taking a corner of the fabric between her fingers. "Who the devil put this in the Aberdeen Suite? As though I would ever… Well, never mind. It is here now." She turned to Lucy with a satisfied smirk. "This is the perfect touch to the gown. It catches the hint of gold in the outer fabric and reflects it beautifully. We'll layer this beneath, and you will be amazed at how this style elongates your figure."

"Do I need elongating?" Lucy quipped to the laughter of everyone in the room.

Tilda narrowed her eyes, a small smile pinching at her mouth. "Elongation adds majesty and grace to any woman. You have plenty of both, but who wouldn't love more?" She nodded to Willow and released the fabric, wiping a hand at her brow before setting her hands at her hips and looking Lucy over.

And frowning.

And looking her over.

And frowning.

Lucy was not normally a self-conscious woman, but even she had her limits. "What?" she eventually asked with more than a hint of strife to her tone.

Tilda shook her head in a surprisingly firm manner. "I adore this gown. But something is telling me to change it."

"Change it?" Lucy cried, looking down at herself and all of the work that had been done already. "It's more than half-pinned now!"

"You're right," Tilda murmured slowly, tilting her head and pursing her lips. "This should stay. I think we may need one more gown, then."

Lucy groaned, letting her head fall back. "Tilda!"

"Don't argue, darling. I need to put you in something red." She nodded once, then again, and snapped her fingers. "Agnes, I need the burgundy silks. Aspen Room. I don't know which yet, so bring me your three favorite bolts."

"Yes, madam." Agnes rose from her position at the hem behind Lucy and hurried from the room. Willow took up her place to finish whatever needed to be done, humming to herself.

Lucy shook her head in disbelief. "Tilda… All of this is just too much. I don't need—"

"It's not about need, Lucy," Tilda overrode at once, coming over to pin sheer primrose fabric as sleeves to the present gown. "It's about celebration. We only have our bloom once, and then spend our entire lives making the best of its fading. Allow me to highlight your bloom for you while it is still here. Not for the purpose of securing a match or the like, but to celebrate being a woman in her bloom."

It was a powerful, poignant, beautiful sentiment, and one that Lucy had never considered before. Perhaps she had been too quick to discount the value of a bloom. A woman was fortunate to have beauty, but it was simply another accomplishment to make her attractive to a suitor. No one had ever led her to believe one could enjoy their appearance for their own sake.

What would it be like to live in a world where there was freedom to think and feel that way? To dress in such a way? To experience breathing and living just with the joy of being herself?

"Red," Lucy finally said, her voice slightly choked with unexpected emotion. "Do you think red will suit my bloom, as you call it?"

Tilda paused in her action, her eyes widening as she looked Lucy directly in the face. "Suit? Dear girl, if I were you, I would only wear shades of red. Not only while you have your bloom, but for the rest of your days. You have the most perfect coloring for wearing red I have ever seen. It will highlight your complexion into something glorious and enhance the dark depths of your eyes into mystic pools. You will look exotic yet classic; ethereal yet tangible; natural yet supernal. And it will be all for yourself, my dear. I don't care if there is a single eligible man in the room when you wear red. You will wear red for yourself."

How could she have tears forming in her eyes at that? How could it move her to such an extent that she was actually near to full-on weeping? She had been complimented before, and occasionally with some sincerity, but this? This was a woman who had nothing to gain from making Lucy feel good about her appearance and her apparel. There was no benefit to anyone by doing so; Lucy had no money to spend on Tilda as a modiste, and she knew it.

Which meant she must be telling the truth, even if it was only the truth as Tilda saw it.

Lucy wished with all her might that she had discussed Tilda with Hunter further before he had left. She believed she could trust her and what she said; that the woman would not say things unnecessarily or in flattery. And she further believed that the woman was not inclined to be kind for the sake of kindness, however good her heart might be in secret, but she'd only known her a few hours. If Hunter were here, or if they had discussed Tilda in a bit more detail, she might have a better understanding of the woman, and therefore could tell with more certainty if the woman was being sincere.

People said all sorts of things to each other that weren't strictly true. Lucy's father had proven that to her time and time again, which had the unfortunate effect of making her prone to disbelieving anyone's words of praise. But Tilda seemed too genuine an individual to follow in the same path as her father. If she felt a certain way, she would express it, for good or for ill.

Lucy had to believe her. There was no other option.

Somehow, her neck and head began to move in sync, nodding at Tilda's words, and her lips curved upwards. "All right. Red it is."

Tilda winked at her, smiling widely. "Marvelous. Not that I am giving you a choice. The red ensembles that I will array you in will speak to my genius as well as your beauty, and I intend to be quite the artist with you as my canvas. Prepare yourself for being the object of fashionable envy, Miss Lucy, for it is coming, and it will come in hordes."

That was a trifle intimidating to fully comprehend and gave Lucy the sudden sensation that she'd bitten into a lemon, but she avoided any external reaction that might bring further comment from Tilda. After all, she did not wish to imply that she did not trust the woman's skill and vision. If she wanted Lucy to be some sort of sculpture of her lifetime's artwork, then Lucy would do her best to accommodate her, even if she were never brave enough to wear the exquisite creations in public.

It would become a beautiful fantasy that Lucy would keep to herself and cling to when she could not sleep at night. The idea of walking into a ballroom in a stunning, unique gown of wine red, the fabric practically liquid across her form as she moved. Shimmering like a living ruby in the candlelight, as beautiful as Tilda envisioned her to be, and not at all the awkward chit that Lucy had always been socially. She would dance as much as she liked and with whomever she liked, gliding across the floor like a goddess of grace among the partners, not giving any of them particular attention, but dancing for her own amusement. Wearing red for her own amusement. Looking beautiful for her own amusement.

Not paying any attention to where her father was, if he was, or what he was.

Just her.

She could almost feel that freedom now, standing here as the ladies finished with the yellow dress and then stripped it from her. She could almost feel the tingles of her skin shedding its demureness, its shield, its reserve that she had practiced so intently. She could almost sense the confidence rising in her chest, changing the way she breathed and the way she carried herself. She nearly felt the permanent smile fixed upon her lips, which would be as brilliantly red as the gown she'd wear. She was so close to the brilliance in that fantasy.

So close. But not quite.

Just almost.

A burst of sadness hit her stomach as though she had been stabbed, sending ice into her lungs where only moments ago there had been a hint of warm independence. Her fingers became cold as they hung by her side, as Agnes returned with the red silks and the quartet of women began to hold each against her skin and debate their merits. She was barely aware of Tilda's selection and of the design details she was suddenly instructing to her capable assistants.

It was not that Lucy was now uninterested in this process, or not invested in the gown and its creation. It was not that she wished to resist or be reluctant. It was not even that she had never worn a bold red before.

It was simply that she knew it would only ever be a fantasy. She might be able to wear the dress if her father were not attending an event with her and she could convince someone else to escort her, but she would never have the poise necessary to make Tilda's vision—and now her own—a reality. She would never be so confident and so beautiful as she wished, which meant the gown would never perfectly suit, no matter what Tilda thought.

None of this was real.

She was going to end up married to a moderately incomed clergyman who would probably have no taste for finery, so the gown would hang in her bureau like some forbidden fruit. Unable to wear it yet unable to let it go. A life she could have had but wouldn't.

A woman she could have been but wasn't.

She closed her eyes while the women worked, no tears at hand, but a deeper ache as she longed for a different life. A different father. A different home. A different version of herself.

A different anything, at this point.

But she would take this gown anyway, and with it, she would dream.

"How do you feel about black gauze overlay?" Tilda asked with a quick glance up at Lucy.

She tried to shrug without moving for fear of disrupting the pinning process. "Fine, I suppose."

Tilda was either distracted or not as intuitive as she had been earlier, since she didn't press Lucy on her tone or hesitation. "Perfect. I think these reds would have more power on you if we darkened them further. And if we go for the thinnest gauze we can, it will shimmer between shades beautifully. Very rich and bold without being particularly daring, if you will. We don't want people to simply gawk at you. We want them to be envious and in awe."

Lucy managed a smile but could not let herself imagine that anyone would ever look at her that way. It was simply not possible for the life she led and the way she was, no matter how splendidly she was arrayed. Tilda had beautiful visions and dreams, there was no question, but she was not the person to bestow them on.

She couldn't be.

She watched as Tilda pulled the red fabric tightly around her torso, clearly taking the present fashion of a lower waist to heart. Lucy did have a small waist, she could say that, so perhaps something would work in her favor in that regard. Then came the painstaking process of ruching the bodice again, but this time, it was not just the bodice. They ruched careful and delicate folds into the entire top half, creating a bow-like shape that centered at the dip in her neckline.

It was not a deep dip, thankfully, but the tension they held in the dress itself improved her décolletage into a rather flattering form without being distracting to anyone or embarrassing for Lucy. The dress itself would not be much in that regard without better stays, but she knew Tilda would take care of that as well. She never did anything halfway.

"I want scalloped flounces in the skirts," Tilda told Agnes as she started draping material into the skirt area. "Particularly in the gauze, but in the red as well. Black bows holding them. Two rows of them. And black ribbons lining the hem. Give her a slight train in the skirts. We are aiming for majesty."

"Lovely," Agnes breathed as she nodded.

Lucy only understood half of what was said, but she was trying to envision the details all the same. It sounded pretty enough, but what did she know? The modistes she had been to before hadn't expressed their thoughts on details and accoutrements aloud while she was being fitted. She didn't know many of the names of such things, but she wasn't completely ignorant either. Enough of Society's gossip was fashion related to give anyone some sort of education.

"Willow," Tilda continued, turning to her with bright eyes. "Fetch me some silver thread. The best we have. I have an idea."

She left the room at once, and Lucy looked at Tilda curiously. "What idea?"

Tilda jerked a little and gave her a quick smile. "Forgive me, I am not used to being questioned."

"Oh, sorry," Lucy murmured, ducking her chin.

"No, no, not at all," Tilda told her in a rush. "You do not work for me, darling. You can ask me anything at any time."

That was sweet, though Lucy wondered if it would be quite the same way if Tilda had known her for longer than a few hours. Still, Lucy would take advantage of her kindness as long as she could.

"What are you thinking with the silver thread?" she asked, looking down at the beautiful red silk that was being pinned together.

"I am thinking," Tilda said, leaning forward to run her hand under the silk and let it drape over her palm, "that with the silver thread, I could add some detailing to the silks. I am not sure what yet. Perhaps a series of lines from waist to hem. Perhaps some floral motif, or vines. I don't use metal thread often, because the costumes are never worth the effort and my regular clientele has no need for it. But for this gown, I do believe it would serve well. Beneath the gauze overlay, it will glint occasionally in the light and add a beautiful lightness and aura to your appearance. And as it will be under another fabric, it will not be so ostentatious. A subtle extravagance that will elevate the garment into another realm."

Lucy shook her head very slowly. "How does your mind work in such a way, Tilda?"

She shrugged and dropped the silk, turning her attention to Lucy's arms. "I haven't the foggiest. It's always been full of art and elaborate things, and my imagination always runs rampant."

"Do limits mean anything to you?" Lucy inquired as she held her arm out for Tilda to fiddle with pieces of red silk to create sleeves.

"I leave limits for those with lesser imaginations," she replied without any hint of humor. "I cannot be bothered with them."

And that, it seemed, was that.

Tilda adjusted herself to peek at Lucy's face and snorted to herself. "Just a bit longer, darling. Then we will sit down in my rooms and have some more drinking chocolate, and this time, you can have some of the whiskey in yours, too, if you wish it."

Lucy shook her head, grinning widely. "I doubt I'm ready for that."

"We shall see, dear girl," Tilda said slyly, laughing to herself. "We shall see. By the by, did you know that red is Trick's favorite color?"

The pedestal beneath Lucy's feet seemed to shift slightly, giving her the distinct impression that she was going to stumble and crash into the ground, though her feet never left their position. Her knees shook, her right one buckling ever so slightly, but her balance managed to keep her upright in spite of the shock.

Tilda's quiet laughter continued, a low, humming melody of amusement that made Lucy's cheeks heat until they would likely match the silk she was being arrayed in.

She couldn't make herself appear unaffected, and she could not—would not—look Tilda in the eye for fear of seeing more of her amused understanding. She would simply stand here and endure the pinning of her new gown, waiting for it to be over so she could relax with her new friends once more.

And perhaps she might be drinking whiskey tonight after all.