“Oh, very well. I may have a few half-made gowns that could be altered. Please, do sit, Lord Harrington, and the maid will bring you tea. Come along, Miss Stonewall.”
The walls of Madame Fayette’s inner sanctum were hung with mauve and cream stripes and edged with plasterwork like thick, white cake icing. Three plum-colored velvet dressmaker’s stools stood in front of three huge, gilt-framed mirrors. Flowery chandeliers burned with gas bulbs. The room was unoccupied.
“Please.” Madame Fayette gestured to a folding screen in the corner. “I shall go and fetch Josie. We have just enough time before my first appointment, if we hurry.”
Ophelia stripped down to her unmentionables behind the screen. Her chemise and petticoats were gray-tinted from age and hand-laundering, and her corset had never been quality.
Madame Fayette reappeared with a delicate, blond-haired young lady.
Ophelia recognized her as Josie, the seamstress who had been hemming Eglantine’s ball gown yesterday. The one who had spilled her pins. Ophelia had been disguised as Mrs. Brand then, so Josie wouldn’t recognize her. Knock on wood.
“Josie,” Madame Fayette said. “Your notebook.” Madame Fayette addressed Ophelia. “Mademoiselle Baigneur is my chief assistant and most skilled seamstress. She speaks English, too, which helps—so many of my customers come not only from England, but New York, Boston, and Philadelphia as of late. But you are my first”—her brows lifted—“from Cleveland.”
“Fancy that.”
Madame Fayette took Ophelia’s measurements every which way and murmured numbers in French. She moved quickly, and her bracelet slid up and down her arm. The bracelet was hefty, with a braided design crusted all around with diamonds. And for some reason, it looked awfully familiar to Ophelia.
Josie scribbled away in a notebook.
“For the visiting gown,” Madame Fayette said to Josie, “the forest green crepe we were working on for that Italian princess who ran off with the painter—I do not suppose she will return. With three rows of black velvet ribbon along the hem—oui? The matching paletot to wear over. Black velvet. With a hood, for this dreadful weather, and a small, flat hat of the green crepe to tie under your pretty chin. Très jolie. And the ball gown, ah, oui, the ball gown of eggshell blue that was meant for that courtesan with the smelly little dog. She is a gambler. I would likely never be paid anyway. Oh! But I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Stonewall. I should not speak of such things in front of a young lady.”
Did she say lady with an ironic lilt?
“I told my cousin, Lord Harrington, that I must come to your shop,” Ophelia said. “I have seen such lovely gowns that you’ve made. Even, I’m sorry to say, on a dead girl.”
Madame Fayette glanced up. “Dead?”
“Surely you’ve heard—it’s been in the newspapers. It was—it was simply horrid.”
Madame Fayette continued to measure. “Ah, oui. The girl in Le Marais. You were a . . . witness?”
Josie’s eyes were on her notebook, but she seemed to be all ears.
“Yes. At a party given by the Misses Malbert. There was a lot of screaming and a lot of . . . blood.”
“You wore your maid’s gown to this party, I presume?” Madame Fayette said.
“Yes. Of course.” Drat. “Well, the dead girl’s gown—ivory silk and tulle, with silver and gold embroidery—the funny thing is, it looked exactly like the prima ballerina’s costume that you made for the Cinderella ballet I saw last night.”
“How do you know I made that costume?” Madame Fayette stopped measuring. “My name does not appear in the programme.”
“I saw a label—Maison Fayette, it said—stitched into the costume, when I went backstage to congratulate the ballerina.” A true lady wouldn’t venture backstage. Hopefully Madame Fayette would chalk it up to Miss Stonewall’s American rearing. “Why does a ballet costume need a label?”
Madame Fayette narrowed her eyes. “We are all very proud of the work we do at Maison Fayette.”