sapphire velvet, a loose gray jacket banded and collared with chinchilla—“I am prepared.” She whirled around so the flounces and ribbons of her dress were a-flutter, a child excited by a promised treat.
But Mrs. Deaves did not share her enthusiasm. Victorine fidgeted during our breakfast when our chaperone did not appear, watching her bedroom door, which remained shut.
“How does your head feel this morning?” I asked one of the questions at the fore of my mind.
“My head?” Victorine repeated a little blankly. “Oh, you mean the aching. That is gone. Amélie always knows what to do for me. I think”—she was now prettily penitent—“that I drank too much champagne. For when I went to my room—poof!” She raised her fingers to her temples. “There was such a pain here, and the room—it was spinning around and around. So Amélie had me quickly lie down and gave me one of my powders before I had taken off more than my dress. She told me you were much alarmed for me, Tamaris.”
“I was,” I replied shortly. Her explanation was logical, yet something within me still questioned.
“I promise that never again shall this happen. I shall be most abstemious. Like you I shall say ‘non’ and ‘non’ to much wine, and then I shall not suffer. But this morning, thanks to Amélie, I am not in the least ill. Poor Augusta”—she looked again to the door—“do you think she nowhas a head which aches? Perhaps I should offer to her Amélie’s remedy—”
Maybe the thought of shopping revived Mrs. Deaves. When she did issue forth from her chamber shortly thereafter she was her usual self, showing no traces of a disturbed night. Also she was in excellent humor, smiling at Victorine’s excitement. When Mr. Cantrell sent up his card with the message our carriage waited, she was as quick as the girl to draw on her gloves, peer in the mirror to assure herself that her hat was securely anchored well to the fore of her remarkably puffed chignon.
Victorine took a small ivory-leafed tablet from her belt purse, glanced over some notes as we went.
“Embroidered stockings,” she murmured in French. “Buff with violets, or pale green—Tamaris, was it the pale green which had strawberries worked on them? I have a sad memory and Augusta told us so much last night.”
I laughed. “There were also pink ones mentioned—with blackberries in floss work. Those seem a little startling, I think.”
Victorine made a face. “Me, I do not think blackberries are in the least chic. But the poudre sachet of Flowers of California—that I must certainly have. Oh, Tamaris, is this not most exciting!”
I had to admit that visiting the notable shops of San Francisco did attract me. But when Mr. Cantrell bowed us through the damp chill air of the street into our carriage I was not so sure. I could not guess whether dampness was the last of the night’s fog, or a promise of rain to come, and the general drabness of the day was depressing.
Luckily our barouche was closed. The carriage was smartly turned out and, if representative of Mr. Sauvage’s stables, I could see he chose always the best. Once we were seated Victorine leaned forward to study the luxurious appointments of the yellow satin upholstered interior, uttering exclamations of surprise at each new discovery. Though Mr. Sauvage had, since the marriage of his sister, kept a bachelor establishment, the barouche suggested that he was not unmindful of female needs. In various small pockets and compartments Victorine discovered,and displayed to us, a card case of tortoise shell, a vinaigrette containing smelling salts, a mirror, a box of hairpins, and a pincushion.
“We are so well provided for every eventuality,” I commented.
“Perfectly ordinary and in good taste,” Mrs. Deaves returned coldly.
Victorine laughed. “How very clever of my brother! Though it may be that he does not care at all, and it is the duty of some servant to see this is kept in order. Now
But Mrs. Deaves did not share her enthusiasm. Victorine fidgeted during our breakfast when our chaperone did not appear, watching her bedroom door, which remained shut.
“How does your head feel this morning?” I asked one of the questions at the fore of my mind.
“My head?” Victorine repeated a little blankly. “Oh, you mean the aching. That is gone. Amélie always knows what to do for me. I think”—she was now prettily penitent—“that I drank too much champagne. For when I went to my room—poof!” She raised her fingers to her temples. “There was such a pain here, and the room—it was spinning around and around. So Amélie had me quickly lie down and gave me one of my powders before I had taken off more than my dress. She told me you were much alarmed for me, Tamaris.”
“I was,” I replied shortly. Her explanation was logical, yet something within me still questioned.
“I promise that never again shall this happen. I shall be most abstemious. Like you I shall say ‘non’ and ‘non’ to much wine, and then I shall not suffer. But this morning, thanks to Amélie, I am not in the least ill. Poor Augusta”—she looked again to the door—“do you think she nowhas a head which aches? Perhaps I should offer to her Amélie’s remedy—”
Maybe the thought of shopping revived Mrs. Deaves. When she did issue forth from her chamber shortly thereafter she was her usual self, showing no traces of a disturbed night. Also she was in excellent humor, smiling at Victorine’s excitement. When Mr. Cantrell sent up his card with the message our carriage waited, she was as quick as the girl to draw on her gloves, peer in the mirror to assure herself that her hat was securely anchored well to the fore of her remarkably puffed chignon.
Victorine took a small ivory-leafed tablet from her belt purse, glanced over some notes as we went.
“Embroidered stockings,” she murmured in French. “Buff with violets, or pale green—Tamaris, was it the pale green which had strawberries worked on them? I have a sad memory and Augusta told us so much last night.”
I laughed. “There were also pink ones mentioned—with blackberries in floss work. Those seem a little startling, I think.”
Victorine made a face. “Me, I do not think blackberries are in the least chic. But the poudre sachet of Flowers of California—that I must certainly have. Oh, Tamaris, is this not most exciting!”
I had to admit that visiting the notable shops of San Francisco did attract me. But when Mr. Cantrell bowed us through the damp chill air of the street into our carriage I was not so sure. I could not guess whether dampness was the last of the night’s fog, or a promise of rain to come, and the general drabness of the day was depressing.
Luckily our barouche was closed. The carriage was smartly turned out and, if representative of Mr. Sauvage’s stables, I could see he chose always the best. Once we were seated Victorine leaned forward to study the luxurious appointments of the yellow satin upholstered interior, uttering exclamations of surprise at each new discovery. Though Mr. Sauvage had, since the marriage of his sister, kept a bachelor establishment, the barouche suggested that he was not unmindful of female needs. In various small pockets and compartments Victorine discovered,and displayed to us, a card case of tortoise shell, a vinaigrette containing smelling salts, a mirror, a box of hairpins, and a pincushion.
“We are so well provided for every eventuality,” I commented.
“Perfectly ordinary and in good taste,” Mrs. Deaves returned coldly.
Victorine laughed. “How very clever of my brother! Though it may be that he does not care at all, and it is the duty of some servant to see this is kept in order. Now
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