Read Online The Dress Thief by Natalie Meg Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Natalie Meg Evans
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de la Trémoille, and on the courtyard side stood an army of figurines wearing ‘toiles’ of filmy muslin. Toiles were the early stages of couture clothes. Alix marvelled at bouffant sleeves, plunging necks and hems scrunched like rings of meringue. Evening gowns in the making.
Mlle Lilliane stormed in after them, plantingherself between Alix and the figurines. ‘Does it occur to you, Monsieur, that she might be a spy from another house?’
Shrugging, ‘Monsieur’ invited the directrice to stay if she wished – ‘But no more crossness. Angry people give me pains here.’ The tailor patted his stomach. ‘Well,
petite
,’ he invited, ‘you wish to be an employee of Javier? What is your skill?’
‘Um …’ Alix had rehearsed a speechon the
Métro
, but suddenly couldn’t remember it. ‘I – I learned to sew at school and from Mémé – I mean, my grandmother. After I left school, I worked in the ladies’ made-to-measure department of a London store, sometimes making alterations, sometimes as a fitter.’
‘A fitter? What did that teach you, Mademoiselle?’
‘That ladies whose waist measurement is thirty-six inches always think the fitter’stape measure is wrong.’
The man smacked his table in delight. ‘Excellent. What else has life taught you?’
‘Erm … I do fine stitching, every sort of seam andbuttonhole and every embroidery stitch. I’ve learned shadow work, open threadwork, smocking, quilting … um … I can make lace –’ adding for truth’s sake – ‘but not very well. I can stitch broderie anglaise and blackwork.’
‘Ah, blackworkis a good thing to say to me. Blackwork is a thing of joy for a Spaniard. Have you brought me samples?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ She’d brought fish instead.
Mlle Lilliane crowed, ‘How do we know she isn’t lying?’
‘Because Mme Shone sent her.
Petite
, show me your hands.’
Alix held them out. Mlle Lilliane shrieked, ‘Look at her nails! Imagine those hands touching one of your gowns.’
Your gowns … ?
A pulse began working behind Alix’s ear.
The man opened a drawer and took out a marquetry box. ‘This was my mother’s sewing box. Take what you need.’ He pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Create me something.’
Alix thought,
Paul, I’ll kill you
.
Shaking, she threaded a needle with silk, stretched the handkerchief on to a hoop, then sewed grimly until she found her rhythm.At that point, the tailor retired to a side office, leaving the door ajar and Alix heard him talking first to himself in Spanish, then on the telephone in French. All this time, Mlle Lilliane remained at the table, eyes open like a snake’s. It felt like an hour before the tailor came back into the room – though it was probably nearer twenty minutes. At last, Alix was able to hand over an image workedin satin stitch and French knots. Thetailor took it from her, nodded, then commented, ‘She smells, you say, Mlle Lilliane?’ To Alix’s horror, he raised her hand to his nose. ‘Trout,’ he said in a satisfied voice.
Alix’s eyes flared. ‘How did you know?’
‘This nose –’ he tapped it – ‘blended Ersa from fifty different ingredients and achieved a miracle of balance.’
‘Ersa?’
‘My signature perfume.Can you not smell it … orange flower, sweet almond … ?’
She sniffed the air. ‘And rose oil?’
‘Perhaps. Ersa is complex. Only I know her secrets.’
‘You are M. Javier, aren’t you? Oh dear.’
‘Oh dear,’ he imitated, but he was smiling.
He passed Alix’s embroidery to Mlle Lilliane, who snorted, ‘Very poor taste.’
‘
Au contraire
, Mademoiselle. It is the most beautifully worked fish I have seenin months. This young lady knows that to work in our business takes courage and a sense of humour.’
*
When Alix told her news that evening, Mémé slapped her face.
‘A couturier’s
midinette
– a skivvy – after everything I said? They’ll pay you a pittance and
Mlle Lilliane stormed in after them, plantingherself between Alix and the figurines. ‘Does it occur to you, Monsieur, that she might be a spy from another house?’
Shrugging, ‘Monsieur’ invited the directrice to stay if she wished – ‘But no more crossness. Angry people give me pains here.’ The tailor patted his stomach. ‘Well,
petite
,’ he invited, ‘you wish to be an employee of Javier? What is your skill?’
‘Um …’ Alix had rehearsed a speechon the
Métro
, but suddenly couldn’t remember it. ‘I – I learned to sew at school and from Mémé – I mean, my grandmother. After I left school, I worked in the ladies’ made-to-measure department of a London store, sometimes making alterations, sometimes as a fitter.’
‘A fitter? What did that teach you, Mademoiselle?’
‘That ladies whose waist measurement is thirty-six inches always think the fitter’stape measure is wrong.’
The man smacked his table in delight. ‘Excellent. What else has life taught you?’
‘Erm … I do fine stitching, every sort of seam andbuttonhole and every embroidery stitch. I’ve learned shadow work, open threadwork, smocking, quilting … um … I can make lace –’ adding for truth’s sake – ‘but not very well. I can stitch broderie anglaise and blackwork.’
‘Ah, blackworkis a good thing to say to me. Blackwork is a thing of joy for a Spaniard. Have you brought me samples?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ She’d brought fish instead.
Mlle Lilliane crowed, ‘How do we know she isn’t lying?’
‘Because Mme Shone sent her.
Petite
, show me your hands.’
Alix held them out. Mlle Lilliane shrieked, ‘Look at her nails! Imagine those hands touching one of your gowns.’
Your gowns … ?
A pulse began working behind Alix’s ear.
The man opened a drawer and took out a marquetry box. ‘This was my mother’s sewing box. Take what you need.’ He pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Create me something.’
Alix thought,
Paul, I’ll kill you
.
Shaking, she threaded a needle with silk, stretched the handkerchief on to a hoop, then sewed grimly until she found her rhythm.At that point, the tailor retired to a side office, leaving the door ajar and Alix heard him talking first to himself in Spanish, then on the telephone in French. All this time, Mlle Lilliane remained at the table, eyes open like a snake’s. It felt like an hour before the tailor came back into the room – though it was probably nearer twenty minutes. At last, Alix was able to hand over an image workedin satin stitch and French knots. Thetailor took it from her, nodded, then commented, ‘She smells, you say, Mlle Lilliane?’ To Alix’s horror, he raised her hand to his nose. ‘Trout,’ he said in a satisfied voice.
Alix’s eyes flared. ‘How did you know?’
‘This nose –’ he tapped it – ‘blended Ersa from fifty different ingredients and achieved a miracle of balance.’
‘Ersa?’
‘My signature perfume.Can you not smell it … orange flower, sweet almond … ?’
She sniffed the air. ‘And rose oil?’
‘Perhaps. Ersa is complex. Only I know her secrets.’
‘You are M. Javier, aren’t you? Oh dear.’
‘Oh dear,’ he imitated, but he was smiling.
He passed Alix’s embroidery to Mlle Lilliane, who snorted, ‘Very poor taste.’
‘
Au contraire
, Mademoiselle. It is the most beautifully worked fish I have seenin months. This young lady knows that to work in our business takes courage and a sense of humour.’
*
When Alix told her news that evening, Mémé slapped her face.
‘A couturier’s
midinette
– a skivvy – after everything I said? They’ll pay you a pittance and
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