Lucy stiffened. Miss Chance? This was a mistake, surely?
Lady Charlton continued, “But today your client is my goddaughter, Miss Lucy Bamber, who will be making her come-out this season.”
The little woman’s brows rose. “This season, eh?” She gave Lucy a long, thoughtful look, then gave a decisive nod. “Bit of a rush, but we’ll manage. If you’ll step through here, ladies, we’ll ’ave this consultation inside.” She turned her head. “Polly, love, bring tea and biscuits through for Lady Charlton and Miss Bamber, will you? This will take a while.”
A discreetly dressed young woman nodded and disappeared through the green velvet curtains.
The short woman gestured. “Through here, if you please, my lady, Miss Bamber.”
Lucy didn’t budge. She grasped Lady Charlton by the sleeve. “A word in private, if you please.” She jerked her head, indicating outside.
Lady Charlton gave her a quizzical look. “Very well. A moment please, Miss Chance. My goddaughter and I need a word.”
Lucy led her out onto the footpath. She didn’t want that woman to overhear the conversation.
“Well, Lucy, what is it?”
“That woman isn’t French at all. She’s a . . . a Cockney!”
Lady Charlton raised her brows. “Yes, and . . . ?”
“My father promised me a proper French dressmaker. Not some Cockney.” And he’d paid Lady Charlton well for it, so if she was trying to cheat by having Lucy dressed by some second-rate cheap Cockney dressmaker, Lucy wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d had enough of being badly dressed. For the first time ever, she was going to have what she wanted, not what Papa and his latest woman chose for her.
Lady Charlton said coolly. “Really? I see. And which French dressmaker would you prefer?”
“I don’t know, but Papa said—”
“It will, of course, alter our arrangements quite considerably if we have to travel.”
Lucy blinked. “Travel?”
“To Paris.”
“I don’t understand. Papa said you would take me to the best French dressmaker in London.”
“Ah, I see.” Lady Charlton’s expression softened slightly. “The trouble is, there are no genuine French dressmakers in London at the moment. Oh, there are some very good dressmakers who call themselves French, who display in their shops French magazines containing the latest fashions from Paris. They call themselves French names and speak English with a French-sounding accent, but try speaking to them in French . . .” She shook her head. “Miss Chance is one of the rare few who refuses to pretend she is anything other than she is.”
“Oh.”
“And what she is, is an excellent and original dressmaker, patronized by some of the most elegant ladies in the ton. Now, I don’t wish to foist my choices on you, Lucy, but why don’t you come in and see what you think of Miss Chance’s ideas and creations? If you’re not happy, we’ll go elsewhere and try out some other dressmakers.”
Lucy gave a reluctant nod. “Very well.”
Miss Chance smiled at them as they reentered the shop. “All sorted? Right, through here, if you please, ladies.”
The next two hours passed in a flash. First, over tea and thin, crisp almond biscuits, Miss Chance pulled out sketches and drawings and designs cut from magazines and questioned Lucy about her thoughts.
Miss Chance really seemed to listen and was so interested in Lucy’s opinions and preferences that Lucy’s stiffness soon passed. From time to time, Miss Chance called to her assistant, Polly, to fetch this dress or that for Lucy to look at—and under Polly’s supervision, a variety of young women displayed various unfinished dresses for Miss Chance to make a point about or for Lucy to examine.
Next she took Lucy into a room that Lady Charlton laughingly called Aladdin’s Cave. It was filled to the brim with swathes and rolls of fabric.
Miss Chance then stood Lucy in front of a large mirror and began to drape fabrics over her, muttering comments that Polly noted down. “See, that color doesn’t do anything for you, but this”—she whipped off one shade and replaced it with another—“see how this one brings out your pretty eyes and makes your skin glow? Lovely complexion. Plenty would kill for skin like this, so we’ll be making sure the gentlemen notice, eh, Miss Bamber?” She chuckled as Lucy fought a blush. She wasn’t used to compliments.
Then the discussion moved beyond color, to examining weight and drape and all kinds of other qualities Lucy had never considered. By the time they came to the discussion and selection of several designs, Lucy’s reluctance to let Miss Chance dress her had completely dissolved. This whole process was fascinating. She was learning so much.
The only awkward part was when the assistant, Polly, led Lucy into a private cubicle to disrobe and have her measurements taken. Lucy hadn’t expected that at all.
She’d tried to make excuses, to suggest that it could be done later, but Miss Chance and Lady Charlton looked at her in such surprise that the excuses died on her tongue.
She stood stiffly as Polly helped her out of her clothes. She’d felt quite pretty while Miss Chance had been trying out fabric colors and textures and talking about the styles that would suit her best, but now, as layer by layer her horrid old, shabby, worn-out, too-tight, heavily patched underclothes were revealed, Lucy felt herself shriveling with shame.
But Polly didn’t bat an eyelid. She simply took various measurements and noted them down in a special book. When she was finished, she gave Lucy a bright smile, quite as if she hadn’t noticed a thing out of place, saying, “There now, miss, that’s all done.”
Lucy had reached for her old clothes, but from outside the cubicle, Miss Chance thrust several almost-finished dresses through the curtains, saying, “Pop her in these, Polly, see how they go.”
The first one fit perfectly. “Come on now, Miss Bamber, let’s see you,” Miss Chance commanded, and shyly, Lucy stepped out of the cubicle.
Miss Chance examined her with a critical expression, then stepped forward and tucked in the visible portion of Lucy’s chemise. Lucy felt herself blushing again, though not with pleasure this time. She’d told and told Papa she needed new underclothes, but . . .
“Turn around.” The little dressmaker twirled her finger, and Lucy obediently turned.
“Needs taking in at the back there, Pol.” She produced some pins, and pinned and tucked, then stepped back. “What do you think, Miss Bamber? Lady Charlton?”
Lucy eyed her reflection in the big looking glass, and swallowed. She looked . . . she looked elegant. The dress was now a perfect fit thanks to Miss Chance’s pins. It was light and soft, in the palest sage green muslin, embroidered here and there with tiny white sprigs. There were no frills, though there were three narrow bands around the base of the skirt that no doubt stopped the hem from flying up. She swished back and forth experimentally. “It’s lovely.”