She was annoyed with herself for letting him rattle her in any way.
She should not have been bandying words with him. What she should have done was watch what she was doing and where she was going and thereby get off the boat in a graceful manner.
But what she’d done instead was done and couldn’t be undone. She’d behaved stupidly and ended up being carried by one of the most notorious peers in all of Great Britain along Putney’s High Street, in front of the entire village population, watermen, coachmen, travelers, stray children and dogs—everybody, in short—and into the hotel.
She was hot all over, even inside her head.
She hoped that was simply the ridiculous fire—in June!—and the exertions of the maids, who scrubbed her from top to bottom. To distract her mind from imagining satirical prints of the recent episode, she turned her attention, as best she could, to the Next Step.
Though the brandy’s effects seemed to have dwindled and her mind was not as fuzzy as before, it took her a while to determine what the step ought to be.
What to say to Aunt Delia?
Good grief, where did one begin?
But Olympia would have to begin somewhere. Looking on the bright side, composing a satisfactory explanation—and there had to be one—would keep her mind fully and usefully occupied.
She worked on the problem while Molly and Jane rubbed her with warm towels, and helped her into a dressing gown. Olympia was still trying and discarding explanations when they sat her at a small dressing table and began combing out her hair.
They were patiently untangling knots when the dressmaker turned up.
Yes, an actual dressmaker, with a pair of seamstresses in tow, bearing what looked like a shopful of garments.
They all made deep curtseys. The most elegant of the group introduced herself as Mrs. Thorne while the two anonymous lesser beings untied their parcels and laid out clothing on the bed.
“How distressed we were to hear of your ladyship’s accident!” said the dressmaker. “I should have made haste, in any event, to see what assistance I could render, even before I received His Grace’s message. By a stroke of great good luck we had a few garments nearly ready, and two on the display. It is nothing, I assure your ladyship, to make alterations. We’ll have your ladyship ready in no time at all, and I trust your ladyship will not be dissatisfied. We are not in London, precisely, but our patterns come from Paris, and I am sure my seamstresses—Oh, I do beg your ladyship’s pardon. May I present Miss Ames and Miss Oxley. I believe you’ll find them a match for any girls from London.”
Olympia had often fought bitterly with her mother about her wardrobe, leaving dressmakers to negotiate. She could well imagine the hours seamstresses must spend hurrying to satisfy the whims of their overprivileged clientele. She rather doubted any seamstress could match London ones for stamina and resilience under extreme tension and, no doubt, abuse.
As to present company’s level of skill: At the moment her main concern was wearing a dress not impregnated with mud. She didn’t care if the stitches were crooked.
If she said so, though, she’d hurt the dressmaker’s feelings.
She said, “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Ripley had snapped his fingers and ordered clothes, and here was the result.
One of the inn’s servants must have run out into Putney and into Mrs. Thorne’s dressmaking shop. And she had dropped everything to do His Grace’s bidding.
It was not in the least strange, Olympia told herself. To be able to say a duke patronized one’s establishment was a great coup. Most shopkeepers, especially in villages, would do what Mrs. Thorne had done.
But really, did he need to be spoiled more than he was already?
“I hope you weren’t obliged to close your shop,” Olympia said.
“Not at all, my lady,” said Mrs. Thorne. “So good of your ladyship to think of it, but everything is in hand, and the shop will be looked after until we return. Not but what I wouldn’t have hesitated to close it, if necessary. But if your ladyship will forgive the interruption—only a moment, please, if your ladyship would be so good as to stand, and we might take your size.”
Olympia stood, and was instantly surrounded.
While the women held up this and that against her, she wondered whose garments they’d brought. Yes, one or two might have been display articles, although more usually a fashion print or a length of fabric, artfully draped, would appear in the shop window.
A modiste was unlikely to keep a supply of dresses ready, awaiting a customer. Garments were made to order.
On the other hand, when, for instance, certain customers who had large bank accounts and a reputation for paying promptly—or dukes—demanded something in a hurry, the dressmaker might alter clothing meant for another client.
Mrs. Thorne laid out a chemise and a corset.
They were shockingly beautiful, unlike anything Olympia had ever seen before. The chemise, of the finest linen, was embroidered with colored silk and trimmed with lace along the neckline and edges of the sleeves. The corset, of equally costly fabric, was even more scandalous. It was stitched in pink and black. Pink trim traced the sides of the busk. There was pink lacing for adjusting the bust line area, tied with tiny pink bows. Even the back lacing was pink!
Olympia had never worn—or seen, for that matter—anything but white undergarments in all her life.
She must have looked as astonished as she felt because Mrs. Thorne said quickly, “Some of our clientele are London ladies.”
“Indeed,” Olympia said. She wondered what sort of London ladies ordered underwear so excessively French.
She told herself it didn’t matter.
She needed clean, dry clothing, and if the underthings seemed more suitable for a brothel, that wasn’t surprising, considering who’d ordered them.
Her too-active mind envisioned a brothel, in the style of a Turkish harem. In it lolled women whose bodies matched those of Greek and Roman statues or perhaps women in Rubens’s paintings. They lounged about on cushions and rugs in their lacy, colorfully embroidered underwear. Men like Ripley would saunter in and . . .
Best not to imagine that.
Better leave it to the satirists. No doubt they’d put Lord Gonerby’s only daughter in a scarlet corset and petticoats.
Good grief, the look on Papa’s face when he saw those pictures—
No, she would not think about that.
She would look on the bright side. There always was a bright side, though sometimes one had to look carefully indeed and use a magnifying glass or a microscope.
And the bright side was . . .
She’d lose the title of Most Boring Girl of the Season.