Read Online Another Scandal in Bohemia by Carole Nelson Douglas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carole Nelson Douglas
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Traditional British, irene adler, sherlock holmes
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deposited us before Maison Worth in the heart of the city.
Already idle drivers and their carriages lined the streets, their equipages far smarter than ours. Perhaps that is why André stewed; the French do not like to appear less fashionable than anyone, not even a fellow servant.
The page boy and mistress of the salon greeted us like old friends. Irene swept boldly into the antechamber, only to find it empty. Her chastened critics of Monday were disappointingly absent, from her point of view.
I began to breathe again, but found that pleasant condition interrupted when we were once again shown into an ornate dressing room. Against the far wall’s pale paneling gleamed a sinister dark cloud of taffeta and tulle.
Even Irene was taken aback by this sober apparition, and turned toward our vendeuse in silent surprise. This young lady, a slender child in light lilac surrah, rustled toward the diabolic-looking gown.
"This will take some care in donning, Madame. If I may assist—?”
Irene’s theatrical background had made her the mistress of her own image. She scorned personal maids and hairdressers, preferring her own expert attentions. No matter how rich she became, I suspected, she would never sit easily while another arranged her. But now the intimidatingly mysterious gown that hung like condemned goods on the wall forced her to acquiesce.
I aided her undressing, relieved to see that today Irene wore the full complement of necessary underthings: pale yellow chemise, silk combinations, frilled drawers, rose-colored shot-silk petticoats and crimson brocade corset, silk vest and white bodice, all covered by a lace-edged camisole.
Soon all this sensible attire vanished under a rustling ebony cataract of fabric. I felt that a murder of crows had descended en masse upon my unfortunate friend and was quite relieved to see her auburn head finally rise above the smothering gown.
The vendeuse pulled and prodded while I watched from the sidelines, then fell back when Irene was at last installed within her new carapace.
Carapace, is the proper word for it; the gown was a dark, iridescent, glittering shell reminiscent of some mystic scarab.
“Well!” Irene eyed herself in the mirror. And well she might. The gown’s low-cut bodice was entirely fashioned of cock feathers—a glossy black tracery that shone with highlights in a borrowed share of the peacock's emerald, turquoise, and burgundy hues.
Airy masses of black tulle, tufted here and there with tiny jet feathers and dotted with exotic embers of black opal, formed the huge, puffed sleeves and swaggered across the iridescent black taffeta skirt.
The vendeuse produced a pair of long, emerald velvet gloves scattered with jet beading. I was reminded of the Divine Sarah’s twin green bracelets: living serpents.
“Sublime,” Irene pronounced, turning in a crackle of brunette glitter when she had donned the gloves.
“Monsieur Worth will wish to see.” The vendeuse bustled to the door, "but first he has ordered that you view the gown in its proper setting—gaslight.”
This time we veered left through the main salon, into a series of chambers draped, as in Mr. Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, in sumptuous fabrics of various colors. Cunning light bathed costly folds. My few days at Whiteley’s could only help me guess at the rareness of these tempting lengths.
The fifth and final chamber held the same drama as Mr. Poe’s penultimate room: an environment of eternal night lit by gas-lit sconces and an overhead gasolier. Under this artificial illumination, Irene’s gown glimmered like the discarded skin of a jeweled serpent, perhaps even of the one that had cost mankind paradise.
“Marvelous!” she exclaimed, turning before the wall of mirrors to watch the gown ring through its black rainbow changes. “Superior to common peacock feathers, more subtle.”
“Monsieur Worth has outdone himself,” the vendeuse said. “Now he must see the results.”
Once again we
Already idle drivers and their carriages lined the streets, their equipages far smarter than ours. Perhaps that is why André stewed; the French do not like to appear less fashionable than anyone, not even a fellow servant.
The page boy and mistress of the salon greeted us like old friends. Irene swept boldly into the antechamber, only to find it empty. Her chastened critics of Monday were disappointingly absent, from her point of view.
I began to breathe again, but found that pleasant condition interrupted when we were once again shown into an ornate dressing room. Against the far wall’s pale paneling gleamed a sinister dark cloud of taffeta and tulle.
Even Irene was taken aback by this sober apparition, and turned toward our vendeuse in silent surprise. This young lady, a slender child in light lilac surrah, rustled toward the diabolic-looking gown.
"This will take some care in donning, Madame. If I may assist—?”
Irene’s theatrical background had made her the mistress of her own image. She scorned personal maids and hairdressers, preferring her own expert attentions. No matter how rich she became, I suspected, she would never sit easily while another arranged her. But now the intimidatingly mysterious gown that hung like condemned goods on the wall forced her to acquiesce.
I aided her undressing, relieved to see that today Irene wore the full complement of necessary underthings: pale yellow chemise, silk combinations, frilled drawers, rose-colored shot-silk petticoats and crimson brocade corset, silk vest and white bodice, all covered by a lace-edged camisole.
Soon all this sensible attire vanished under a rustling ebony cataract of fabric. I felt that a murder of crows had descended en masse upon my unfortunate friend and was quite relieved to see her auburn head finally rise above the smothering gown.
The vendeuse pulled and prodded while I watched from the sidelines, then fell back when Irene was at last installed within her new carapace.
Carapace, is the proper word for it; the gown was a dark, iridescent, glittering shell reminiscent of some mystic scarab.
“Well!” Irene eyed herself in the mirror. And well she might. The gown’s low-cut bodice was entirely fashioned of cock feathers—a glossy black tracery that shone with highlights in a borrowed share of the peacock's emerald, turquoise, and burgundy hues.
Airy masses of black tulle, tufted here and there with tiny jet feathers and dotted with exotic embers of black opal, formed the huge, puffed sleeves and swaggered across the iridescent black taffeta skirt.
The vendeuse produced a pair of long, emerald velvet gloves scattered with jet beading. I was reminded of the Divine Sarah’s twin green bracelets: living serpents.
“Sublime,” Irene pronounced, turning in a crackle of brunette glitter when she had donned the gloves.
“Monsieur Worth will wish to see.” The vendeuse bustled to the door, "but first he has ordered that you view the gown in its proper setting—gaslight.”
This time we veered left through the main salon, into a series of chambers draped, as in Mr. Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, in sumptuous fabrics of various colors. Cunning light bathed costly folds. My few days at Whiteley’s could only help me guess at the rareness of these tempting lengths.
The fifth and final chamber held the same drama as Mr. Poe’s penultimate room: an environment of eternal night lit by gas-lit sconces and an overhead gasolier. Under this artificial illumination, Irene’s gown glimmered like the discarded skin of a jeweled serpent, perhaps even of the one that had cost mankind paradise.
“Marvelous!” she exclaimed, turning before the wall of mirrors to watch the gown ring through its black rainbow changes. “Superior to common peacock feathers, more subtle.”
“Monsieur Worth has outdone himself,” the vendeuse said. “Now he must see the results.”
Once again we
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