Kitty (Symbols of Love #4)

Chapter 11

“You cannot just call yourself a modiste if you are not prepared to take on the duties of a modiste, Mathilde,” Lady Veronica huffed.

The questionable modiste in question, Mathilde, was looking flustered, her hands pulling the measuring tape tight between them. Kitty, who was shivering in her chemise, stays, and petticoat, had a brief moment where she thought that the modiste, driven to madness by the viscountess’ impossible demands, was going to garrotte Lady Veronica with the tape measure.

Don’t do it, Kitty almost said, it is most difficult to get repeat business if one’s clients are all strangled.

The modiste relaxed her hands finally, though her jaw remained clenched. “Perhaps, my Lady, if you might explain more clearly what it is that is lacking in the plates I have shown you.”

Lady Veronica sighed from her seat in the fitting area. Kitty eyed her warm spencer and the steaming cup of tea next to her with envy. She had been stripped down for nearly an hour now, as the modiste took her measurements and then had nearly emptied her shelves showing toiles of different sleeves and bodices that she could make. As she slid each piece onto Kitty, their eyes met, and they shared a silent prayer that this one would finally be the one that satisfied.

“It really is very simple,” Lady Veronica said, enunciating each word clearly. “My companion requires a few new dresses, something more appropriate to wear for her new position, and in a house that is still mourning.”

“Well, I can assure you that all of the designs that I have shown you are—” Mathilde began.

“Please save your sales patter,” Lady Veronica interrupted. “We know precisely what it is that we are here for, and if you cannot provide precisely that, then we shall simply take our business elsewhere.”

Kitty, who was concentrating on wrapping her arms about herself without being obtrusive, could see the modiste stiffen.

“If you would be so kind as to explain, then, what is wrong with this sleeve block then?” Mathilde said, a smile on her face but her words somewhat muffled by gritted teeth. She held up another sleeve, sliding it up onto Kitty’s arm. “As you can see, the head is generously cut, which is then gathered to a jaunty puff, which will be—”

“I believe I already said I do not require the shopgirl routine,” Lady Veronica interjected once again. She spoke calmly, the sharpness of her words only enhanced by her level tone. “We also do not require any frills, ruffles, or other such nonsense.” Lady Veronica paused, her lip curling upward slightly. “And we especially do not require any jauntiness , in puffed sleeves or otherwise.”

“You must understand, my Lady,” Mathilde ground out, “there is a coming fashion for puffed sleeves. Indeed, it is nigh impossible to find a fashionable lady who will entertain any other sort. If the plates coming from France are any indication, I believe it likely they shall only be expanding, not shrinking.”

“It is a fortunate thing, then,” Lady Veronica responded, non-plussed by Mathilde’s evident irritation, “that I am not a feather-brained debutante in my first season, eager to follow the latest fashions. No, I shan’t be moved to engage in such a nonsensical scam; it is merely a way to be forced into buying more fabric.”

Despite Mr. Johnson’s reassurances to the baron (the memory alone was enough to set Kitty to shuddering again), Kitty had been given more than a cursory education; as such, she had a small understanding of the natural world. In one intriguing volume, written in a language she could not begin to understand, there was an illustration of a fish that, when provoked, inflated itself in the most remarkable manner.

This is precisely the action that Mathilde appeared to undertake: Somehow, the rather daintily built modiste seemed to be puffing up. It did not take a genius, scientific or otherwise, to understand that she was boiling up for a row. Kitty could feel what little warmth there was in her face draining away—she didn’t think she could stand another fitting, left standing in the cold air of a shop’s backroom as Lady Veronica argued.

“Perhaps,” Kitty said quickly, hoping to head off the worst of it, “you might be able to locate some of your—” Kitty paused, her tongue catching on the word “old.” She had no wish to needlessly poke at the viscountess’ vanity, which she knew was considerable. “Some of your classic designs, the ones that offer a sleeker, more practical silhouette?” she suggested.

Mathilde, who had been glaring with poorly-disguised irritation at the viscountess, glanced to Kitty. At this opening, Kitty sent her a pleading look. She was quickly reaching the point where she frankly didn’t care what she would be wearing—a most dire sign indeed—she simply wanted to be able to put her own dress back on. As it was, she had to wiggle her stockinged toes just to ensure that they were still there, as they were in danger of going quite numb.

“I shall see what I have at the bottom of our catalogue,” Mathilde said at last. She vanished through a velvet curtain into a further backroom, likely where the cutting was done. There was a distinct sound of a glass bottle hitting something, and Kitty could easily envision the poor, abused Mathilde pouring herself a quick sniff of gin.

“Honestly, I do not understand why it is so hard for these people to understand what it is that is being asked of them,” Lady Veronica sniffed, picking a bit of lint from her brushed wool pelisse. “Of course, we haven’t had a seamstress of any competency in London since the Golden Butterfly closed down.”

Kitty looked up sharply. “You mean the Duchess of Brandon’s shop?”

Lady Veronica made a face as if she had bit into a pickled onion when she had expected it to be a strawberry. “Well, her adopted mother, at least; the Duchess always had too much of a flair for the fantastical.”

“She made the most charming veil and gloves for her sister when she was wed,” Kitty offered.

“Lady Patience? Yes, little wisp of a thing. The Dowager made such a great fuss over giving the girl her freedom, letting her ‘be her own woman,’ you would think she had invented motherhood. Honestly, she did right in keeping that girl tightly in check. Now that she’s married and been loosed on London, she’s sponsoring more theatre troupes and dancers than a petticoat-chasing lord down for the Season.”

Kitty could only stare. She knew that it would not only be pointless, but also likely endanger her position, if she were to point out that her dearest friend in the world was the new female lead of one such dance troupe. She bit her tongue and swallowed the words, rubbing her arms briskly.

At the conclusion of the fitting, after a somewhat more red-cheeked Mathilde returned with the requested sleeve block, Kitty had three new dresses of such a plain make as to be depressing. She couldn’t understand why the viscountess went to such trouble, considering that her own means were quite restricted these days. It was nonsensical, and Kitty simply chalked it up to the whims of a wealthy and powerful woman who had no other means of exerting control.

Several days later, the first dress was delivered. It was a polished cotton day dress in slate grey that tended toward the cool end of the spectrum. As requested, the sleeves were closely fitted, with nary an embellishment to be seen. The skirt was likewise plain, though cut full to allow for easy movement.

Lady Veronica had generously allowed that many of Kitty’s chemisettes and partlets were acceptable, provided that they were not “distractingly frilly.” It was not required that she wear one at all times, but it had taken only a single withering look at her decolletage from Lady Veronica for Kitty to make them a permanent fixture.

Gone, too, were Kitty’s romantic and carefree hair coiffures as well. Lady Veronica had no patience for the loose piles of hair on top of the head, the curls that fell becomingly down the neck and across the forehead. “I shan’t have you going about looking like a Parisian artist’s model that has just tumbled out of bed,” Lady Veronica had admonished. She did not even approve of ribbons being used, but allowed them for Kitty given the thickness and natural curl.

So there was Kitty, lover of fashion, coveter of elegant shoes in silks and satins, who believed firmly that her wardrobe should resemble a cake as much as possible, standing before the mirror in her own tiny dressing room. She did not recognise this strange girl who stood in the reflection; tentatively, she touched the plain skirt that hung from the high waist of her dress. No colourful ribbon served as a belt to accentuate her curves; instead, there was only a strip of the same fabric, which was knotted practically at her back, no bow.

Her face looked pale and vaguely sallow in this colour, and her hair was scraped back oddly from her face, with only a few tiny curls allowed at her forehead, the rest being pinned back. It changed her bone structure somehow, undermining her naturally round cheeks that were made for smiling and giggling.

Lady Veronica knocked once, and then admitted herself. When she saw Kitty standing before the mirror, her transformation complete, she smiled. Kitty was very nearly more disturbed by that than her own altered appearance. She could not remember seeing the viscountess smile with such genuine happiness before. Clearly pleased, she came to stand just beside Kitty, one hand across her back to her right shoulder, her other hand gripping Kitty’s left shoulder.

“There,” Lady Veronica said, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Don’t you look the picture of propriety. Do you not find this more becoming than looking like some kind of piped-cream pastry?” she demanded.

Kitty turned her attention back to her reflection. Her pale green eyes were shining, and Kitty stubbornly willed herself to not be overwrought over something so silly. She watched herself swallow hard, the motion of her throat lost behind the high neck of her chemisette. Her first thought was to answer that with her dark hair and dark dress, she looked like nothing so much as an inverted exclamation mark.

Kitty resisted the impulse, and took in a wider view of herself. It was impossible to ignore the viscountess in the reflection now, and Kitty’s eyes flicked back and forth between them. Though Lady Veronica’s dress was black, the cut was nearly identical. Her hair, too, was similarly severe, though the effect was somewhat softened by her white cap. Looking between them, it was impossible to miss the new similarities.

Oh, Kitty thought, realisation dawning. She did not need just a companion—she needs someone to remake in her own image. She is searching for a child to replace the one that is far away.

Though the make of the dress was simple, there was no denying that it was made of fine fabric, a thick silesia that hung beautifully. Kitty frowned just a little, a small line appearing between her eyebrows as she brushed a hand over the skirt again. The Cluett household was meant to be economising, resources were limited; there was no telling what had to be sacrificed in order for Kitty to be outfitted. She looked again to the viscountess, noting that the ribbon at her cap was fading a little, showing wear and age.

She sacrificed her own dress allowance for me , Kitty realised suddenly. Understanding hit her like a thunderbolt. The viscountess could not be such a hard-hearted autocrat as she liked to pretend to be if she were willing to forego her own vanity in order to clothe Kitty.

Kitty swallowed her own misgivings and looked outside of herself with new perspective. This was the first time that Lady Veronica had been induced to showing Kitty anything remotely resembling physical affection. Her face, too, showed a contented sort of pleasure, a satisfaction in a job well done by her reckoning.

“I confess that I do not recognise this new Ki—Catherine,” Kitty began, “but I am curious to know her better. Perhaps she has something new to offer the world that the old one did not.”

Lady Veronica nodded her approval before slowly withdrawing. Kitty waited until the door to her room had softly closed behind the viscountess to sigh a little. She had not lied, not precisely. Kitty examined her reflection again, clasping her hands below her waist as she had seen the viscountess do from time to time, elbows lightly flexed. It was a posture that marked one out as from an older generation, when skirts were wider and held aloft with great panniers. It was a striking moment of mortality for Kitty, who had never really given consideration to the fact that she, too, would one day no longer be fresh-faced and young, out of step with the current fashions, her manners antiquated.

As the viscountess had no specific tasks for Kitty for the rest of the evening, she was left to her own devices after dinner. This suited Kitty just fine, as she was still reeling from the overwhelming weight of such profound introspection. Life had ever been simple for her, and her desires had likewise been simple: Beautiful dresses, beautiful men, beautiful little cakes. Her only truly defining features had been her propensity for humour and a streak of fierce loyalty, particularly where her friends were concerned.

Though the evening was quickly sinking into a cold winter’s night, Kitty found herself wandering out to the garden. It was rather bare at this time of year, and the plants that were left were looking ragged and scraggly, escaping their bounds one twig at a time. The gardener had been quietly dismissed, sacrificed to the shrinking budget. It was not exactly a primaeval forest, but Kitty could not help but wonder about Seth, so far away in a wild land.

Her breath came out in little foggy clouds, and a strange fear went through; she prayed that Seth had been warm enough on his Atlantic crossing. She could scarcely bear the thought of him cold and shivering on some miserable hulk of a ship. She had not bothered with a spencer or pelisse, merely pulling a thick shawl about her shoulders. Despite her misgivings about the viscountess’ taste, she had to credit her: Kitty was not overly chilled in her new, thicker, more practical dress. With the addition of a quilted petticoat, she would be able to endure even cooler temperatures.

She glanced about the neglected garden again. Oh…oh, good Lord, Kitty groaned inwardly, her eyes fluttering closed. She was not worried about me outshining her, or only that I would look inappropriate alongside her; she did not want me to be cold.

Kitty’s eyes opened, and she looked to the house. It was a point of pride among the wealthy of London to put a candlestick in each window, showing that they could afford to light rooms that they were not even in. The windows were all dark at the Cluett house, save the viscountess’ bedroom, and the low windows of the kitchens and servants’ hall that barely peeked above the ground. The price of wood and coal was not going to get any cheaper, and it was entirely possible that the house would be quite chilly this winter.

She supposed that the viscountess was very used to ordering the world about her, including her son. This was not done out of some desire to be a tyrant, but merely because she cared too much rather than too little. It was Kitty’s lot to fill this place now. She could not even begin to contemplate what it had been like for Lady Veronica to be left without anyone to care for.

Tilting her head back, Kitty saw the first stars blinking to light in the growing night that spread overhead like spilled ink. Kitty’s ad hoc education had included a bit about the celestial bodies; she knew some of the constellations, and that they moved about the sky in specific patterns. Most of all, she knew what the Northern Star was, and its significance to those who had to navigate uncharted waters or lands. It was easy to spot, even through the haze of London air, shining brightly.

With her eyes never leaving the star, for the first time since his departure, Kitty wished fervently for Seth’s swift and safe return, but not for herself: She willed him back to more familiar shores for the viscountess.