Mr. Fasana, who had been roused from the back room to serve the lofty customer, appeared surprised at the request. It was common for a lady to partake in watercolors, but oils were a medium rarely used by amateurs, due to the mess they incurred and the skill necessary to use them correctly. “I can certainly do so, though may I suggest that a set of pastels might serve better for her ladyship’s use?”
“Oh . . . yes,” Eliza said, wilting under Mr. Fasana’s disbelief, and the curious eyes of the other patrons. And, really, would not pastels do just as well? “Yes, thank you.”
Last was their trip to the modiste. Eliza and Margaret were both well used to visiting milliners: displaying oneself in an array of ever-changing gowns was a key tenet of any lady of quality’s life. Until now, however, their wardrobes had been ruled by the preferences of others: Eliza’s by her husband’s, who favored the old-fashioned style of gowns belonging to his generation, and Margaret’s by her mother’s, who believed that over-trimmed gowns in infantile pastels would gift Margaret eternal youth.
“I have resembled a trussed-up, over-puffed pie for years,” Margaret said loudly, entering Madame Prevette’s shop, and such was the state of their toilette that Madame Prevette clucked her tongue in agreement. In the blink of an eye, she had Eliza and Margaret standing upon dressing platforms in the back room, presenting fashion plates before them while her assistants flurried around them with yards of silk, crêpe and bombazine in every color imaginable, as if Eliza and Margaret were the center of a particularly fashionable hurricane.
They ran their hands over lace, muslin, cotton, gauze, and, under Madame Prevette’s beady, discerning eye, chose dresses for every occasion imaginable. Eliza, of course, must dress only in black until April, but to Madame Prevette—who had first fled to England in the wake of the revolution—this was the most trifling of challenges and much instead was made of the style and cut of each gown: figured and embroidered and flounced to add interest where color would normally serve. Margaret, only distantly related to the earl through marriage, was long out of her mourning clothes, and so was measured for morning dresses in blue and green, evening dresses of deepest purple and walking habits in severe, military shapes—all with hats and shawls and gloves to match.
“I can have the first dresses ready in a week,” Madame Prevette promised Eliza, when they had finally declared themselves finished, which was generously quick indeed and Eliza beamed her thanks. Looking around for Margaret, she saw her stroking a hand avariciously over a thick sable.
“Would you like it?” Eliza asked. The bill was already long and large.
“It is very dear,” Margaret said, which was not a denial. Eliza checked the price and felt her eyebrows rise of their own accord. An indecent expense, her husband would have said. But he wasn’t here. And it was for Eliza to decide, now, what expenses were worthwhile.
“We’ll have two,” Eliza said.
“They do say money cannot buy happiness,” Margaret said, unable to hide her wide, delighted grin as they left, their new footman following behind, laden with boxes.
“A theory I mean to test,” Eliza promised.
True to her word, Madame Prevette sent over the first box of dresses within a week, and so, by the second Wednesday after their arrival, Eliza and Margaret were finally ready for their first outing to a concert at the New Assembly Rooms—which they deemed perfectly proper as long as Eliza arrived unobtrusively, sat quietly during the interval, and left immediately afterward. Truthfully, even if it had not been perfectly proper, once Eliza had caught sight of her and Margaret’s reflections in their new evening gowns she would have been tempted to attend anyway.
Rationally, of course, Eliza knew that the application of a new gown, however modish, could not have altered her appearance so radically. And yet . . . Seeing herself in the robe of black crêpe, ornamented with black velvet trimming at the hems, Eliza felt herself transformed: no longer a dowdy dowager hidden in a superabundance of black bombazine, but someone rather elegant. Under the gown’s effects, she could notice too that her face had become less gaunt over the past weeks, her hair thicker, that the dark circles under her eyes had faded in prominence to now appear more piquant than frightened. In some indescribable way it was as if her whole being was taking its cue from the superior gown, standing taller, straighter and lighting up in a way she had not in years.
It might be a ridiculous power to afford gowns and hair and ribbons, but watching Margaret, who Eliza had never known to express even a passing satisfaction in her appearance, staring at herself in the mirror, eyes wide and vulnerable and so tentatively pleased with her reflection that Eliza thought her heart might break with tenderness, it did not feel ridiculous. The sea-green crêpe gown, short-sleeved, worn low on the shoulders, and trimmed only with a simple ribbon around the bodice, contrasted brilliantly against Margaret’s red hair and pale, freckled skin, and became her tall figure to admiration.
“It almost feels too good to be true,” Eliza said, with a sweep of her arm that she meant to encompass the dresses, the house, and the entirety of their new lifestyle. “Do you feel that way, too?”
Margaret snorted, her reverie with the mirror broken.
“Perhaps I might, if it were not for the constant letters from our mothers,” she said. “Or if it were not for the Winkworths.”
The Winkworths were their neighbors upon Camden Place: Mrs. Winkworth, a relentless social climber, her husband, Admiral Winkworth, a surly gentleman with no discernible qualities, and their daughter, Miss Winkworth, the most silent young lady Eliza had ever encountered. Margaret had taken an immediate and violent dislike to them all.
“Mrs. Winkworth is one of the leaders of Bath society, we ought to make a little effort with her,” Eliza reminded Margaret.
“I abhor effort,” Margaret said darkly.
Wrapped in thick cloaks, they set out with only Staves the footman as escort. The hills of Bath made equestrian traffic difficult and therefore rare, but since most destinations were easily accessible on foot this caused no issue unless the day was wet, in which case one could procure a sedan chair or hackney cab. The New Assembly Rooms, situated in the recently built upper town, were a very grand set of buildings, boasting a hundred-foot-long ballroom, concert room and card room, all furnished extravagantly and lit with crystal chandeliers hanging from the lofty ceilings. Eliza gazed about with interest as they entered, for she had heard that portraits by Gainsborough and Hoare hung on the walls, but they had only taken a step inside when they found themselves hailed and turned to find the whole Winkworth family bearing down upon them. They were all distinctly ovine in appearance: Mrs. Winkworth a handsome sheep, Miss Winkworth a delicate lamb, and Admiral Winkworth a goat without any of the charisma.
“Good evening, Mrs. Winkworth,” Eliza said, hiding her dismay under enthusiasm.
“You ought to have said you were attending tonight’s performance!” Mrs. Winkworth chided. “We would have escorted you!”