“Or be in the market for something pretty and pointless,” Evie added with a pointed look at Mirabelle.
“That’s absurd, Evie,” Mirabelle chuckled. “We don’t even know what it is.”
“Sophie appears to.”
“Not really,” Sophie admitted. “I just think it’s lovely. Perhaps it’s a chemise.”
“It’s too long.” Mirabelle argued. “It would reach near the ankles. And the material isn’t right.”
Chemises were made of sturdy material that could withstand the abuse of repeated washings. The fabric before her looked as if it might melt in a hard rain. She reached out to run a finger down the material. And fell instantly in love.
“Oh my,” she breathed. “Have you ever felt anything so soft?”
“Ah, you have found my little experiment, I see.”
At the sound of Madame Duvalle’s voice, Mirabelle snatched her hand back with a guilty start. “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t have—”
“Pftt. If I did not want it admired, I would not have left it out. What do you make of it?”
“It’s divine,” Mirabelle whispered and had four pairs of eyes blinking at her. “Well, it is,” she defended. “It feels like…like water. What’s it for?”
“It is a chemise.”
“But…”
“But it is most impractical, yes. And so every woman of means has informed me.” She gave an annoyed huff. “It is odd, is it not, that even the most frivolous of women would not be eager to indulge themselves thus?”
“Because they can’t display it where others could see and envy,” Evie murmured.
“Exactly so, my clever girl.”
“A woman with a husband could,” Sophie said, considering.
“This is true,” Madame Duvalle laughed. “But this piece is not for you, juene mère. It is for Miss Browning.”
Mirabelle wouldn’t have been more stunned if she’d been offered the deed to the shop. Which is likely why she failed to see the look of understanding pass between Madame Duvalle and Kate.
“For me? But I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly. I…” She trailed off. “Couldn’t,” she felt, summed up her position quite well. She couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t find a use for it. Couldn’t all sorts of things.
Her objections feel on deaf ears. “I insist. I would have my creation appreciated, not sitting in this room collecting dust.” Madame Duvalle began to pull the chemise off the model. “I ask three shillings and will do the alterations for free, yes?”
Three shillings? It was a ridiculously low price.
“Three shillings? That’s absurd. The material alone—”
“Three shillings, stubborn girl, and also the currency of gossip. I would hear of the guests.” She held the material up against Mirabelle and squinted. “No alterations needed, I think. We are fortunate.”
“A very hard bargain,” Evie cut in before Mirabelle could continue her argument. “But she’ll take it. Which gossip would you care to hear first?”
Outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and not all that interested in having her way, if truth be known, Mirabelle dug into her reticule for the three shillings. “I’ll take good care of it,” she promised. “Thank you.”
“Of course you will.” Madame Duvalle moved into the front of the store, which was—to Mirabelle’s vast relief—once again empty. “Now, tell me what you make of the Mr. Hunter who has come to visit.”
Kate shrugged. “He has business with Whit. We haven’t met him as yet.”
“I’ve met him in London,” Sophie told them. “He seems pleasant enough.”
“Yes, a very pleasant man,” Madame Duvalle responded as she set the chemise on a table and began to wrap it in tissue. “That is how, I am told, the London actresses and opera singers speak of him, a most pleasant gentleman.”
“Oh, dear.” Mirabelle and Kate didn’t bother to hide their frowns. Sophie and Evie didn’t bother to hide their grins. And Madame Duvalle didn’t bother to consider that either reaction might be anything other than encouragement.
“His conquests are quite legendary, but it is said he does not dally with the innocent or the married, as many young men seem to feel they must, and that is something, no?”
Evie gave a scoffing laugh. “It’s quite all right, then, for him to seduce legions of women so long as they’re actresses and courtesans?”
Madame Duvalle gave a very Gallic shrug and put the chemise in a box. “One cannot expect him to exist as a monk, after all.”
“Why not?” Evie demanded. “Women are expected to live as nuns. It’s most unfair.”
“C’est vrai, ma petite, but so it has always been for women, no? If life were fair, I would be forever young and beautiful, I would have a delectable young man to dance attendance upon me, and all my customers would be as much fun as the four of you.”
“I think, Madame Duvalle,” said Sophie, “that if you were forever young and beautiful, it would be distinctly unfair to the rest of us.”
Madame Duvalle smiled slyly. “Don’t be silly, I would share my dancing man.”