Read Online Miss Weston's Masquerade by Louise Allen - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Allen
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noon. I have ordered you a light repas .’ As she spoke, there was a tap on the door. Madame took a tray from the servant and put it across Cassandra’s knees. The inviting smell of sweet rolls and hot chocolate filled the room and Cassandra ate hungrily while the housekeeper bustled around the room.
‘Where is Lord Lydford?’
Madame Robert arranged the silver-backed brushes on the dressing table to her satisfaction, then came to stand at the foot of the bed. ‘He has gone out. Many people have left cards in anticipation of his arrival. He is a gentleman who moves in the very best circles.’ It was evident that this was a source of pride to the staff.
‘But what about me?’ Cassandra asked indignantly. ‘I thought he was going to find me a dancing master.’ He had simply forgotten her.
‘And so he will,’ Madame soothed. ‘He asked me to tell you he will take supper with you. No doubt he will tell you all the arrangements he has made then. Meanwhile, the dressmaker will arrive at two, although I have sent orders already for a few simple gowns. I trust she will have something suitable to hand so that you can leave this room. Until then you must remain in this chamber, as his lordship ordered.’
Cassandra could not dispute the wisdom of this. It would be indiscreet to be seen in the valet’s clothes and she could hardly leave the chamber dressed in Godmama’s peignoir. Her breakfast finished, she made her toilette , amusing herself for almost an hour trying to coax her ruthlessly cropped curls into something resembling a coiffure and failing dismally.
At two o’clock promptly, Madame Robert appeared with the dressmaker, who had brought half a dozen part-made gowns and her sewing basket with her. She fussed around Cassandra, pinching and tweaking fabric, pinning and tucking until three of the gowns, a sprigged muslin, a twilled sarsenet and a printed poplin, could be made to fit her slight figure. While the dressmaker whipped seams and let down hems, Madame Robert sorted through muslin fichus and collars to ensure the shoulders and necklines of the new dresses were suitably modest.
‘Ah, charmante ,’ the dressmaker murmured, as Cassandra tried on the sprigged muslin again. ‘It is a pity English girls have no figure and are so tall, but mademoiselle has a certain something in her deportement that is most attractive.’
‘These dresses will do very well indeed,’ Madame Robert said, while Cassandra viewed herself in the pier glass. ‘Now mademoiselle will need at least two walking costumes…’
The two women lapsed into rapid French which Cassandra made no attempt to follow. She looked critically at herself in the mirror and decided that she might not have much of a figure, but what she had was certainly improved by the clever cut of the simple gown with its high waist and neatly-draped skirts. She twisted and turned to get a view of the back, pleased to see how slender and feminine she looked after several days in boy’s clothes. Would Nicholas still call her brat when she was dressed like this?
The novelty of her new dresses and her restricted surroundings soon wore off as the afternoon dragged on. The few dreary tomes by French philosophers which the bookcase held were of no interest to her. Outside there was sunlight and movement and voices carrying over the high wall from the city streets beyond.
Somewhere out there was Nicholas, visiting friends, enjoying himself, flirting, no doubt, with an army of desirable, elegantly dressed women. Women with figures. She crossed to the glass again, uncertain now that the dress was as flattering as she’d first thought. When she compared its modest, pale lemon fabric with the heavy luxury of the silk peignoir, she felt positively dowdy.
By supper time there was still no sign of Nicholas. Eventually she ate alone in her room, bored almost to tears with her own company after being used to Nicholas’s for the past few days. She wanted to show him her
‘Where is Lord Lydford?’
Madame Robert arranged the silver-backed brushes on the dressing table to her satisfaction, then came to stand at the foot of the bed. ‘He has gone out. Many people have left cards in anticipation of his arrival. He is a gentleman who moves in the very best circles.’ It was evident that this was a source of pride to the staff.
‘But what about me?’ Cassandra asked indignantly. ‘I thought he was going to find me a dancing master.’ He had simply forgotten her.
‘And so he will,’ Madame soothed. ‘He asked me to tell you he will take supper with you. No doubt he will tell you all the arrangements he has made then. Meanwhile, the dressmaker will arrive at two, although I have sent orders already for a few simple gowns. I trust she will have something suitable to hand so that you can leave this room. Until then you must remain in this chamber, as his lordship ordered.’
Cassandra could not dispute the wisdom of this. It would be indiscreet to be seen in the valet’s clothes and she could hardly leave the chamber dressed in Godmama’s peignoir. Her breakfast finished, she made her toilette , amusing herself for almost an hour trying to coax her ruthlessly cropped curls into something resembling a coiffure and failing dismally.
At two o’clock promptly, Madame Robert appeared with the dressmaker, who had brought half a dozen part-made gowns and her sewing basket with her. She fussed around Cassandra, pinching and tweaking fabric, pinning and tucking until three of the gowns, a sprigged muslin, a twilled sarsenet and a printed poplin, could be made to fit her slight figure. While the dressmaker whipped seams and let down hems, Madame Robert sorted through muslin fichus and collars to ensure the shoulders and necklines of the new dresses were suitably modest.
‘Ah, charmante ,’ the dressmaker murmured, as Cassandra tried on the sprigged muslin again. ‘It is a pity English girls have no figure and are so tall, but mademoiselle has a certain something in her deportement that is most attractive.’
‘These dresses will do very well indeed,’ Madame Robert said, while Cassandra viewed herself in the pier glass. ‘Now mademoiselle will need at least two walking costumes…’
The two women lapsed into rapid French which Cassandra made no attempt to follow. She looked critically at herself in the mirror and decided that she might not have much of a figure, but what she had was certainly improved by the clever cut of the simple gown with its high waist and neatly-draped skirts. She twisted and turned to get a view of the back, pleased to see how slender and feminine she looked after several days in boy’s clothes. Would Nicholas still call her brat when she was dressed like this?
The novelty of her new dresses and her restricted surroundings soon wore off as the afternoon dragged on. The few dreary tomes by French philosophers which the bookcase held were of no interest to her. Outside there was sunlight and movement and voices carrying over the high wall from the city streets beyond.
Somewhere out there was Nicholas, visiting friends, enjoying himself, flirting, no doubt, with an army of desirable, elegantly dressed women. Women with figures. She crossed to the glass again, uncertain now that the dress was as flattering as she’d first thought. When she compared its modest, pale lemon fabric with the heavy luxury of the silk peignoir, she felt positively dowdy.
By supper time there was still no sign of Nicholas. Eventually she ate alone in her room, bored almost to tears with her own company after being used to Nicholas’s for the past few days. She wanted to show him her
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