Read Online A Heart Most Worthy by Siri Mitchell - Free Book Online
Authors: Siri Mitchell
Ads: Link
against Julietta’s impudent gaze. “I don’t know how.” She was not in the habit of asking for help and didn’t quite know how to go about doing it.
“You don’t know how.” What was the girl trying to say? It was difficult enough to understand her uppity northern accent, but the words she was saying had no sense to them. She didn’t know how to do . . . what?
“I don’t know how to sew.”
“You don’t – but – ?” What did the girl do every day but sit at the end of the table, beading?
“I know how to bead. I don’t know how to sew.”
“Like . . . like this . . .” Julietta made a motion with her hand as if she were doing just that.
Luciana, poor girl, stretched to the limits of humiliation, decided that Julietta was exactly the wrong person to ask for help. She bundled the pink and white messaline up into a ball and determined to take it home with her that night. She’d figure something out.
Julietta, seeing her dreams about to be whisked away, threw out a hand toward the girl. “I’ll help you!” She tore the gown from Luciana’s hands.
“You’ll . . . what?”
“Help. I’ll help you.” Julietta set the gown down on the table and went to Madame’s pile. Digging through the gowns, she pulled out a navy moiré, an ivory messaline, an aubergine wool challis, a dark green crepe de Chine, and a wine-colored crepe poplin. “You could fix these.”
“Don’t you think the moiré is a bit heavy?”
“It’s nearly autumn.”
“And this ivory messaline . . . ?” Luciana looked over at the table where the pink and white messaline lay, discarded. “It doesn’t seem quite so . . .”
It wasn’t. It wasn’t nearly as elegant as Madame’s design. The ivory messaline had been ordered readymade from a dressmaker in New York City for a client. “The color is better, though. For you.”
Luciana sighed. She supposed that it was. “But what would I do with it?”
Do with it? Why, Julietta could imagine a dozen things! “You’ll 64 want to clip the collar away from that rosette at the bustline and let it hang down a bit at the corners. And lower the inset at the neckline.”
Sì. Of course. Luciana could begin to see it. Much better.
“And then shorten the hem of the tunic. And cut away the bottom of the skirt.”
Luciana nodded.
“And you could use those pieces to lengthen the sleeves.
See?”
“You don’t think the pink and white messaline would be better?”
“For you? No.” Julietta shook her head with all the confidence she had acquired in her eighteen years.
“I see what can be done, but . . . I still lack the skills.”
“I could do it. I could do them all for you.”
“You would?”
“I could . . . for the right price.”
The right price. That’s what Mama Rossi had had to calculate. What was the right price? What would make Papa change his mind, yet spare him complete humiliation? A man had a reputation to uphold, after all. As she set his dinner before him that night, she prayed that she’d made the right choice. That she’d done the right underhanded thing.
He smiled. “That looks like parmigiana di melanzane.”
“It is.”
“Made with tomatoes.”
“Indeed.”
Papa sniffed at it with all of the delicacy of a connoisseur. This now – this! – was what a parmigiana di melanzane was supposed to look like. And smell like. He wasted no time in tucking into the eggplant, scooping some tomato gravy onto it, and putting it into his mouth. But just as promptly, he spit it out. “What kind of garbage is this?!”
“The kind made with rotten tomatoes from Maglione’s frutta e verdura.”
He picked up his glass of wine and poured the remainder down his throat. “No more tomatoes from Maglione’s. Do you hear?”
Mama folded her hands beneath her apron. Nodded as demurely as she was able to. “I could get them from Zanfini’s. Annamaria could get them for me.” She slid a look at her daughter as she said the words. She knew that she
“You don’t know how.” What was the girl trying to say? It was difficult enough to understand her uppity northern accent, but the words she was saying had no sense to them. She didn’t know how to do . . . what?
“I don’t know how to sew.”
“You don’t – but – ?” What did the girl do every day but sit at the end of the table, beading?
“I know how to bead. I don’t know how to sew.”
“Like . . . like this . . .” Julietta made a motion with her hand as if she were doing just that.
Luciana, poor girl, stretched to the limits of humiliation, decided that Julietta was exactly the wrong person to ask for help. She bundled the pink and white messaline up into a ball and determined to take it home with her that night. She’d figure something out.
Julietta, seeing her dreams about to be whisked away, threw out a hand toward the girl. “I’ll help you!” She tore the gown from Luciana’s hands.
“You’ll . . . what?”
“Help. I’ll help you.” Julietta set the gown down on the table and went to Madame’s pile. Digging through the gowns, she pulled out a navy moiré, an ivory messaline, an aubergine wool challis, a dark green crepe de Chine, and a wine-colored crepe poplin. “You could fix these.”
“Don’t you think the moiré is a bit heavy?”
“It’s nearly autumn.”
“And this ivory messaline . . . ?” Luciana looked over at the table where the pink and white messaline lay, discarded. “It doesn’t seem quite so . . .”
It wasn’t. It wasn’t nearly as elegant as Madame’s design. The ivory messaline had been ordered readymade from a dressmaker in New York City for a client. “The color is better, though. For you.”
Luciana sighed. She supposed that it was. “But what would I do with it?”
Do with it? Why, Julietta could imagine a dozen things! “You’ll 64 want to clip the collar away from that rosette at the bustline and let it hang down a bit at the corners. And lower the inset at the neckline.”
Sì. Of course. Luciana could begin to see it. Much better.
“And then shorten the hem of the tunic. And cut away the bottom of the skirt.”
Luciana nodded.
“And you could use those pieces to lengthen the sleeves.
See?”
“You don’t think the pink and white messaline would be better?”
“For you? No.” Julietta shook her head with all the confidence she had acquired in her eighteen years.
“I see what can be done, but . . . I still lack the skills.”
“I could do it. I could do them all for you.”
“You would?”
“I could . . . for the right price.”
The right price. That’s what Mama Rossi had had to calculate. What was the right price? What would make Papa change his mind, yet spare him complete humiliation? A man had a reputation to uphold, after all. As she set his dinner before him that night, she prayed that she’d made the right choice. That she’d done the right underhanded thing.
He smiled. “That looks like parmigiana di melanzane.”
“It is.”
“Made with tomatoes.”
“Indeed.”
Papa sniffed at it with all of the delicacy of a connoisseur. This now – this! – was what a parmigiana di melanzane was supposed to look like. And smell like. He wasted no time in tucking into the eggplant, scooping some tomato gravy onto it, and putting it into his mouth. But just as promptly, he spit it out. “What kind of garbage is this?!”
“The kind made with rotten tomatoes from Maglione’s frutta e verdura.”
He picked up his glass of wine and poured the remainder down his throat. “No more tomatoes from Maglione’s. Do you hear?”
Mama folded her hands beneath her apron. Nodded as demurely as she was able to. “I could get them from Zanfini’s. Annamaria could get them for me.” She slid a look at her daughter as she said the words. She knew that she
Similar Books
