Helen shook her head. ‘I imagine it will give with movement.’ She looked down at her flattened chest. ‘I never thought to say this, but it is fortunate that I do not have much bosom.’
Darby picked up a linen shirt and shook out its folds. ‘Mr Quinn says I’d do well to get myself some men’s clothes too, from the rag trader. But can you imagine trying to squash these flat?’ She peered down at her generous curves. Helen winced in sympathy.
‘Hold up your arms, my lady.’
Helen obeyed, closing her eyes as the shirt was deftly thrown over her head, and her arms guided into the generous sleeves. Three decisive tugs on its tails rocked her back on her heels as Darby drew the shirt efficiently over her hips. She looked down; the hem brushed her knees. Below, her shins and feet were as pale as the ivory linen.
‘Now,’ Darby said, stepping back, ‘according to Mr Quinn, the front goes back between a gentleman’s legs to … well … hold in his …’ She gestured at her crotch.
‘His masculinity?’ Helen supplied. She searched her new command of cant. ‘His plug tail? His sugar stick?’
They looked at one another, each with lips pressed together to hold back the rising hilarity.
Darby broke first, snorting a half-stifled giggle. ‘Sugar stick! That is a good one, my lady.’
Helen, rather pleased with it herself, grinned and gathered up the linen. She pushed it between her legs, shifting her hips at the sensation of bulk and pressure. The only time she had anything in such a place was during her courses; how uncomfortable to have a wad of cloth there all the time.
‘Do you think we should pad out the front, my lady?’ Darby asked solemnly, although her eyes were still alight with laughter. ‘I have heard that some gentlemen assist nature with sawdust pouches.’
‘Truly?’ Helen asked, fascinated. She took a sidestep to the mirror and viewed her reflection critically. The area was rather flat, but she did not fancy wearing a bag of sawdust. ‘I think if I bunch most of the shirt forward, it will be enough.’ She made the adjustment. ‘What do you think?’
Darby nodded her approval and readied the buckskin breeches. Helen stepped into them, grabbing the side of the bureau as Darby pulled the soft leather up over her hips and tucked the shirt into the waistband.
She lifted the square of cloth at the front. ‘How does this work?’
‘We lace the waistband closed first,’ Darby said, matching words to action, ‘and then lift the drop-front and button that up over it. See?’
Helen looked down at the buttoned flap. Very neat.
‘They are very tight over the leg,’ she said, glancing in the mirror again. ‘Heavens!’ All of her long thighs were on show, as was her newly enhanced groin.
Darby was busy at the back of her waist, buttoning something into the waistband. ‘Dip your shoulders, please, my lady.’
Helen complied, and each arm was expertly threaded through the canvas braces. Darby adjusted them over her shoulders, their hold like a ramrod at her back. No wonder gentlemen had such excellent posture.
‘All right,’ Darby said, drawing a deep breath. ‘We shall attempt the cravat.’ She held up the long length of starched muslin. ‘Mr Quinn says that we must first wind it around your neck and pull very tight to achieve a smooth column of white cloth.’ She stepped up to Helen until they stood face to face. ‘Chin up, my lady.’
Helen craned back her neck. All she could see was Darby’s furrowed forehead as she slid the stiffened muslin inside the high points of the shirt collar. Her cool fingers smoothed the cloth against Helen’s neck, wrapped it around twice and, with a firm tug, brought the ends together. It felt as if a murderous hand had closed around her throat.
‘Too tight,’ Helen whispered.
The pressure eased slightly and Darby’s earnest face bobbed up into Helen’s line of sight. ‘I’m sorry, I dare not loosen it any more, my lady, or it will droop.’ She deftly tied the tails of the muslin, then stepped back, hands on hips. ‘It is done. I think it looks very well.’
‘Might I lower my chin?’
‘A fraction.’
Helen eased down her chin until she felt the stiff top of the column, her head still slightly cranked back. Now she understood that arrogant angle of chin found in most men of fashion. She looked in the mirror. A stylish bow nestled at the bottom of the column.
‘It is marvellous, Darby. Well done.’
An uneasy thought came hard upon the heels of her praise. Without Darby’s expert help, how was she going to dress in these clothes again to meet Lowry?
The jacket came next: a feat of inching into the tightly tailored sleeves and shoulders. Helen felt the start of a prickling sweat under her arms. She would have to enlist Mr Hammond’s help if she was to wear the jacket to Lewes.
Finally, her stockinged feet were levered into the boots, Darby brandishing the boot-horn with brutal efficiency. Helen stood up, wriggling her toes. A good firm fit, although the long shaft of leather up to her knees and the small heel were unfamiliar.
She walked across to the mirror again and considered her reflection. Somehow she looked even taller than her five feet nine inches; perhaps due to the enforced military posture and pugnacious tilt of her chin. Her legs seemed very long, and very, very exposed. She felt her gaze shifting away from such immodesty and forced herself to look back at the pale length of buckskin. Could she really stride out with her thighs on show for the world to see … let alone the area above them that seemed to be framed for display under the cut-away front of her jacket?
She took a deep breath. All men wore breeches; no one would be focusing unduly upon the area. At least that cut-away front and the tails hid any curve of hip.
She raised her eyes. The M-style collar of the jacket certainly gave the illusion of wide shoulders, and the cravat covered the lack of Adam’s apple and emphasised her strong jaw. It was only her long braid and the rather startled expression on her face that made her look feminine. She flipped the braid back over her shoulder, narrowed her eyes and firmed her mouth into a harder line. There: a young man stood before her. A slim stripling perhaps, without beard or experience, but with enough height and clean features to pass as a young provincial mister. A resounding success. Yet she had to admit it was a little humiliating to shift into the masculine with such ease.
She shook off the thought. She should be glad that the costume worked so well. Here was something, at least, that his lordship or Lady Margaret could not criticise.
She turned to Darby and made a small bow. ‘Well?’
With an answering smile, her maid bobbed a curtsey. ‘I would not have warranted it, my lady, but you are a lad through and through.’
Helen turned back to the elated young gentleman in the mirror. Maybe this would not be so difficult, after all.