“I’ll freeze to death wearing those. How on earth am I meant to keep warm?”
Precious had smiled knowingly. “If you’re wearing these, you shouldn’t have a problem.”
I’d blushed furiously, too embarrassed to protest when Precious told the salesclerk to take away what I’d been wearing and toss them in the rubbish bin.
Precious now glanced at the antique gold clock on the marble mantel in my room. “Good. You’re ten minutes late. A lady should never be early for a rendezvous with a beau. It makes her appear too eager.”
“It’s not a rendez—” I began but stopped as Precious began applying lipstick to my mouth.
“There,” she said, admiring her handiwork. “Pretty as a peach.”
She stepped back and I stared at the stranger in the mirror with the black-lined eyes, long, thick lashes, and bright pink lips. And the shorter, sassier hair. After my experience at the lingerie shop, I’d been too numb to protest when Precious had suggested visiting her favorite hair salon. In my schoolgirl French, I’d suggested trimming my long hair just an inch. Raphael had pretended to agree and then set to work, Precious distracting me just long enough that I didn’t notice the clumps of dark hair falling onto the salon floor.
When he was done I’d barely recognized myself. He’d cut my hair so that it hit at my shoulders, flipping up at the ends, and then framed my face with a side-swept fringe. I wanted to complain that I didn’t think I could still braid it for when I went riding, but then Raphael had handed me a glossy magazine, pointing at the cover photo of a beautiful woman wearing a bikini.
“He says you look like Jean Shrimpton,” Precious explained. “And I declare that he is completely right.”
I wasn’t sure who Jean Shrimpton was, but I looked nothing like the picture on the cover. At least I hadn’t when I’d stepped into the salon. But now, staring in the mirror and wearing the plush Ritz bathrobe, I wasn’t so sure.
Precious went to the closet and pulled out a dress on a hanger. “This will be perfect. I know when you originally tried this on, you gave it a pass, but I thought you should reconsider.”
I’d tried on so many things that I was no longer sure what was now hanging in my closet and what I’d rejected. I looked at the dress, trying to remember why I’d said no to it. It had a soft green almost transparent silk for the first layer, and on top was a pretty netlike fabric with a green leafy vine climbing across it. It had short puffy sleeves and a deep scoop neck, with an emerald-green velvet band that hit right under the bosom. I did remember the neckline, and how it had given me a décolletage I’d forgotten I possessed. Maybe that’s why I’d rejected it.
She unzipped it and I let the robe fall, no longer shy. Precious Dubose had seen more of me today than Kit had in almost nineteen years of marriage. After much argument, I wore one of the new lingerie sets Precious had said I needed—which I actually did now that she’d discarded mine. She carefully slid the dress over my head so as not to muss my hair and makeup, then zipped up the back.
I stared in horror at my reflection. “Where’s the rest of it?” The hem was a good five inches above my knees and remained so regardless of how much I tugged. “And I can’t go out in public with this much skin showing on my chest. I’ve seen bikinis that were less revealing.”
“You have gorgeous legs, Babs, and a lovely bosom. You shouldn’t be hiding your natural assets under all that wool and tweed.”
“Whyever not? I’m not a woman. I’m a widow and a mother of three. Er, not a woman who needs to wear . . . this.” I pulled up the neckline, which only made the other problem much worse. Tugging down on the hemline again, I demanded, “Please unzip me. I’m going to be unforgivably late.”
“Which is why there’s no time to change. Here, put these on.”
She handed me a pair of shiny white leather boots with square, flat heels.
“Did I buy those? I can’t imagine why. It’s not like I can wear them to muck out the stables.”
“Exactly. Now put them on and we’ll walk down together. I’ve arranged to meet with my friend Mrs. Schulyer and sit at a small table in the bar to give you moral support. But with that dress and boots, I don’t think you’re going to need it.”
She actually winked at me, and I knew to protest that I wasn’t having a rendezvous would simply be wasted breath. She handed me a delicate beaded purse, and then, when it was clear I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, she placed the silver linked-chain strap on my shoulder.
“No—wait. I need to bring my large bag. It has something in it that I might need for my meeting. It won’t fit in this little purse.”
She sighed heavily as she waited for me to make the switch then frowned down at my oversized cloth bag that I’d made from scraps during the war. “Good heavens, Babs. Whatever you do, keep it behind you so no one sees it.”
I did as she asked and stood in front of her as if requiring an inspection.
“Perfect,” she said as if she were a farmer and I a perfectly tilled field. “You look good enough to eat.”
At the odd gleam in her eyes, I picked up my champagne glass and drained it. I wobbled a bit as I headed for the door, but Precious quickly steadied me with a firm grasp of my elbow. She didn’t let go until we were stepping out of the lift and we could hear the chatter and laughter coming from the bar.
An elderly woman, the same one I recognized from the day before in the lobby, approached us, stabbing her cane into the floor as if she held a personal vendetta against it. I knew that I was horribly out of date when it came to fashion, but I was quite sure that the dark brown ankle-length dress she wore was something my grandmother might have worn around the turn of the century. In fact, there was a photograph of Kit’s grandmother in her art studio around 1919 wearing a nearly identical outfit.
“I’m Mrs. Schulyer,” the woman announced imperiously. “I’m sure Miss Dubose has told you all about me. Did she mention that I survived the sinking of the Lusitania?” She was shouting, and I wondered if she might be hard of hearing.
“Not now, Prunella,” Precious admonished. “We are only here to offer support. Let’s find a table so that Mrs. Langford can make her assignation.”
“An assignation?” the old woman shouted.
“No, that’s not . . .” I gave up as Precious propelled the woman and her cane toward the bar.
“Langford, did you say? Do I know a Langford? I seem to recall that I know a Langford . . .”
Mrs. Schulyer’s voice disappeared into the crowded bar, leaving me alone staring into the entrance. I was suddenly conscious of the boots on my feet, as if I were a gladiator preparing to enter the Colosseum. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as if there was less talking and heads turning in my direction. I looked behind me, wondering what they might be looking at, then turned back around and blinked with realization. I looked for Precious, not just to thank her for the champagne and the extra layer of clothing it seemed to have lent me, but also to find out if she might have more.
I took a step forward, wanting to get this ordeal over with. I had no idea what Andrew Bowdoin must look like, but the picture I had in my head was a grizzled barrister type with graying beard, bald head, and thick glasses. And definitely a tweed jacket.