Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [95]
I was about to say something impatient, then remembered that I knew the geography of parts of her house better than she did.
‘You slip out through the kitchens, into the back courtyard and through the archway.’
‘Through the kitchens in that?’
She laughed and whipped the sheet off the tailor’s dummy. Underneath was a shining cloud of white silk and silver embroidery.
‘My stepfather chose it in Paris. He insists I wear it.’
‘Like a bride.’
‘Or a sacrifice,’ she said.
‘And altogether the worst garment in the world for eloping. You might as well carry a chandelier with you. Are those the shoes?’
Soft white kid, embroidered with silver, that might just stand up to an evening of moderate dancing.
‘I must come up and change first, I suppose,’ she said. ‘We’ll meet here instead. Now, what can I find that’s drab coloured?’
She walked over to a white-and-gilt-painted wardrobe and opened the door on a muted rainbow of dresses, skirts and bodices in soft blues, pinks, apricots, with shawls of delicate lace or gleaming satin. With some trouble we discovered at the back of it a plain grey dress, a dark gabardine travelling cloak and the stoutest pair of shoes she owned, which were not very stout but would have to do. She ran a hand softly over the rows of dresses.
‘I shall hate leaving them.’
‘You can always buy more.’
‘So I can. Now, let’s choose a dress for you to wear tonight. It shall be yours to keep.’
‘Won’t this one do?’
A quick shake of the head was the only answer. She pulled dress after dress out of the wardrobe, trying each colour against my face, flinging them haphazardly on to the bed when they didn’t quite suit, until it looked like a barge fit for Cleopatra. After a while she narrowed the choice to a deep rose damask with silver-grey silk trim or moss-green ribbed silk with enough lace on the bodice to have kept Nottingham employed for weeks.
‘Which do you prefer, Elizabeth?’
‘Either.’
‘You must have an opinion.’
She was as shocked by my unconcern as I’d been at her politics. To please her, I opted for the rose damask, on the grounds that the skirt was less full and the satin pumps that went with it had low heels.
‘You must try it on. You’re taller than I am and not so …’ She made a gesture with her hands over her chest. ‘But we can always pad out your stays.’
I felt shy of stripping to my stays and petticoats in front of her, so I went behind a gilt leather screen in the corner. Although I’d chosen the rose damask with so little interest, it was sleek and comforting under my hands, like a cat. When I came out from behind the screen, feeling awkward in the grandest dress I’d ever worn, she clapped her hands.
‘It suits you so much better than me. It’s a great thing I’m not jealous. Come over here to the light.’ She looked critically. ‘You’re too thin for it, though. It hangs awkwardly at the waist. Come here and let me pin it.’ She was as deft as a seamstress. ‘Now, pull your stays down and let me lace you tighter. Breathe in.’
‘I can hardly breathe at all.’
‘It’s just a bit short and your ankles will show when you walk. Still, you have good ankles and the shoes might have been made for you.’
She laughed, delighting in it like a child dressing a doll. She made me sit down at her dressing table and did my crinkly hair with her own hands, pinning it up to one side with a mother-of-pearl comb of her own. Then she rummaged in her jewel case, brought out a necklace of opals and garnets on a silver chain and clasped it round my neck.
‘There, look at you. You’re quite a beauty.’
I’d hardly dared glance in the mirror while all this was going on. When I did, I couldn’t help gasping. The nuns and my aunts had all discouraged vanity and although my father had liked to see me well dressed, there were always more important things in life than clothes. The woman who stared back at me had a rather Spanish look with her dark hair and eyes and pale skin, set off by the rich rose of the bodice. Mother of pearl and opals glinted in the light reflected from the mirror.
‘You’re