The dowager countess sniffed and Faith could have sworn on oath that she heard a phantom giggle emanating from Louisa’s place.
A footman entered, bearing refills for the dishes and it struck Faith that a great deal of waste occurred in the house, if they encouraged such practices. A countess she might be, for the time being at least, but wasteful she need not be. She added supervision of the kitchens to her list of tasks. It appeared she would have plenty to keep her busy.
After breakfast she declared she would get about her duties immediately. John accompanied her into the hall. “Would you prefer me to go with you?”
“What, and get a reputation for hanging on my skirts?” She smiled at him, enjoying his presence and his concern for her, however illusory it might be. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll take a footman and the carriage.”
He leaned closer. “I have other business to attend to if you recall.
I will call in at Doctor’s Commons.” Only one reason for that. She cast him a glance of bewilderment, because a special licence would mean marriage for real, something he said he did not want. His eyes gleamed. “The possibility is always there and I like to be prepared.”
She quailed, as she had not at the thought of facing the most formidable Cerisot. It meant they could marry without waiting three weeks or without calling banns, that he was taking the prospect seriously.
He turned to face her, blocking out the others. “If you carry my heir, he will not be born out of wedlock.”
So that was it. She could relax, because the likelihood of that happening was remote indeed. So why did a pang of sorrow pierce her down to her womb? Her barren womb?
Meantime she would continue as if she intended to fulfil the position of Countess of Graywood as well as she could. She could do that, at least, for him.
Having left John to his errand Faith took a footman and set out for the opposite end of Oxford Street to that which she usually patronised. The fashionable part. She wore her pelisse again, that being the most respectable one she owned. Holding her head high, she strode across the wide pavements towards the select establishment run by the best dressmaker in London. Not a mantua-maker, those places concentrated on court dress, and were in general more old-fashioned, Cerisot scorned the title and chose
‘dressmaker’ instead.
A footman in a flamboyant costume stood by the door. Faith suspected he only allowed her in the front way because of the man in the distinctive maroon and gold of the Graywood livery, rather than her own appearance.
She didn’t expect the lady herself to meet her. But Faith spied her at the far end of the shop, attending a lady wearing a bonnet with a monstrous ostrich feather sticking straight up. After Faith had stood there for a good five minutes, she glanced over, and her gaze stilled, as if surprised to see her standing there. Too late, Faith realised she probably looked more like a lady’s maid than a lady, and should not in that case have used the front door.
But something in her appearance or maybe her stubbornness in standing inside the front entrance where everyone would see her eventually drew the proprietress over.
Gathering her courage together and reminding herself, as she had so many times before that she wasn’t facing a firing squad, Faith maintained her position and gave the dressmaker a frosty smile. Cerisot had a figure much like Faith’s own, full breasts and hips with a small waist, a shape men admired but exceedingly difficult to dress elegantly. Her blonde hair was caught back in a loose style that Faith would wager her grandfather’s silver watch she’d pinned ruthlessly into place and her smile fixed and professional. Closer up, she revealed her true age in the fine lines on her face and the silver strands at her temples. Either that, or she chose to present herself thus to make her clients appear better.
“May I help you?” Cerisot glanced outside to where the crested carriage waited by the kerb, the two chestnuts stamping their hooves and snorting in the cool sunshine. Her expression relaxed an infinitesimal amount.
“You may. Thank you for asking.”
Ah, Cerisot had not expected that. Her lips twitched. Faith carried on. “I’m the Countess of Graywood. My husband is John, the sixth earl.” That would save her counting. She wondered how far the news of the previous earl’s death had travelled, but apart from a couple of raised brows the other occupants of the shop didn’t appear surprised. Two women sat together studying sketches, mother and daughter she guessed from their respective ages and their resemblance to each other. Another woman of equally high fashion accompanied the lady with the bonnet. The two maids standing by the end wall had gasped. That told Faith how to continue. Cerisot merely waited, her countenance one of patience and fortitude. “My husband came unexpectedly into the title. I was living quietly so I had no need for fashionable garb, but I shall require a new wardrobe.” Remembering what John had told her about putting on a show, she plunged in recklessly. “A set of mourning and half mourning clothes immediately and for the first part of the season. Later I will want to go back into colours.”
Cerisot’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion or dislike.
Rather, speculation filled the robin’s egg blue. She took in Faith’s appearance in one comprehensive glance. “I am extremely busy.”
Faith continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’re planning a reception as soon as decently possible. My husband is a distant connection to the late earl. While we wish to demonstrate the respect he is due, full mourning for a long time would not be entirely appropriate.” A nod from the lady in the bonnet. Faith had gauged the reaction appropriately. To go into deepest black for six months would show a vulgar and inappropriate display.
The people in the shop were unashamedly listening, their previous occupations totally abandoned. The complete realisation of what she had done hit Faith with the force of a rifleman’s bullet and she barely stopped herself sucking in a breath of horror. “There will be other events. The unfortunate demise of their brothers will curtail the activities of Lady Louisa and Lady Charlotte, so they’ll require completely new wardrobes later in the season, or maybe next year. That depends on their mother.”
More interest from Cerisot. “I believe they frequent another seamstress.” Not a dressmaker or mantua-maker, Faith noticed.
“However they are attractive young ladies under the unbecoming yellow and pea-green.”
“If you decide you have the time to spare,” Faith said, without curling her lip, “I may endeavour to persuade their mother to allow them to change their minds. Lady Louisa has been receiving a great deal of attention from a certain young man,” she continued recklessly, “It would be a pity if she allowed this family tragedy to affect her prospects.” She had no idea who she was talking about, she just hoped Louisa had at least one suitor. It would give Cerisot the prospect of dressing a society bride, something that could enhance a dressmaker’s reputation. “Lady Graywood thinks your styles too modern and forward for her children, but I consider your designs delightful. I would trust you to help me choose what is most appropriate.” If this woman didn’t know, nobody did.
At last, Cerisot spoke. “I have a mourning dress which I can make ready for you in a day, if you wish it, my lady. However, other items will take some time and it may not be advisable for you to appear out in anything else. I would suggest a full consultation. If you would step this way?”
Faith followed her across the room and into a small, private room. There she contained her astonishment long enough to accept refreshment and a maid to assist her to slip out of her day clothes.
It took two hours for Cerisot to measure her, show her the mourning-dress that was daringly fashionable for such an item, and advise on others. Then Faith ordered more clothes than she’d know what to do with. However she graciously took Cerisot’s advice to restrict her choices and select classic styles until she should go out of half mourning towards the end of the season. Faith thought she might remain in half mourning at least until the summer, especially when she saw the colours and fabrics she could wear. She’d been right about the colours colours. Dark greens and blues, but not reds, apparently. Purples and lavenders, greys and white, which, Cerisot informed her, was the old colour of mourning. “Not that I would advise that your ladyship wears a great deal of pure white,” she added. “It is not your best colour.”