Page 31 of Baron in Check
Rachel was right; Hermy needed to look her best. The shabby old dresses she’d worn in the country would no longer do if she wanted to convey, “I’m back to stay and conquer.”
But which dress did say that exactly? She couldn’t very well have the words embroidered on the back.
As they were ushered into the secluded back room, a private haven for the elite, the air was fragrant with the subtle smell of opulence—faint scents of the dyes of new fabrics, flowery and pungent perfumes, mingling with the sweet aroma of berries. Before them, a table gleamed under the soft glow of candlelight adorned with flutes of sparkling champagne, bubbles dancing merrily to the surface. Beside the golden liquid, a bowl of strawberries awaited, each a jewel in its own right, crowned with a dollop of whipped cream and a dusting of powdered sugar. They were arranged in two circles around a little bowl with shavings of something dark.
“Oh, how delightful.” Rachel took a strawberry and dipped its little white cream hat into the center bowl. “Try the shavings; it’s rich chocolate from Switzerland.
Hermy tried it. The velvety richness of the chocolate melted on her tongue, and the deep notes of vanilla sugar in the whipped cream enveloped her and transported her to the snow-capped mountains in Switzerland, where she imagined Rachel grew up like a princess, cherished and doted on. As soon as Hermy bit into the strawberry, its fruity tartness burst forth, mingling with the cream, the combined textures thoroughly satisfying—yet she wanted more. As she savored the exquisite combination of flavors, she picked another strawberry.
The refracted light from the crystal glasses flickered across Rachel’s face, casting a warm glow that highlighted the spark of excitement in her eyes, a spark that mirrored Hermy’s burgeoning sense of adventure in this secluded, luxurious world. Rachel was going to show her another side of Regent Street, and Hermy predicted that the experience of the Ton would be different with the Crown Jewelers on her side. No wonder Greg felt so at home with the Pearlers; they were exceptional people.
Around them, the riches of the fabric world sprawled in decadent disarray. Piles of materials in every imaginable hue and texture beckoned to Hermy. Silks that shimmered like moonlight on water, velvet deep and lush as a midnight forest, and laces as intricate as baby’s breath offered a bouquet for the senses.
“Rachel held a light ochre fabric to her cheek and examined her reflection in the gilded framed floor mirror that faced the row of three windows to the street. “I never had a season. Jewish girls don’t usually have one, but I was supposed to be introduced in society.”
“Did you marry Fave before your season started?” Hermy asked. A shiver ran down her spine, and she looked over her shoulder, certain she was being watched.
“Yes. By the time I was introduced, we’d married.” Rachel picked a turquoise fabric that reflected every shade of light from the cream walls, the hues of pinks from the drapes, and even the flickers of the shadows rushing by the window. “Try this; the color is a perfect complement to your hair and eyes.” Rachel held the fabric to Hermy’s face.
“Is this satin?”
“No, it’s lustring, heavier than satin and shinier in this quality.” Rachel’s hands trailed over the rolls of similar-colored fabrics that lined the wall. Each cube coordinated in tones and textures, as if outfits were begging to be sown from complementary fabrics.
“It looks like Liquid Metal,” Hermy marveled.
The dressmaker arrived, a measuring tape hanging from her neck like a stole. “Bonjour mesdames.”
She chatted excitedly to Rachel for a minute in French and then eyed Hermy. “A wedding dress and?—”
“Full wardrobe,” Rachel said.
“Very well, Mesdames. It is my pleasure.” With an air of enterprise, she showed Hermy to a small room where three mirrors hung on the wall. She heard the rustling of fabric behind a curtain and looked in that direction.
“It’s the baroness,” Madame Giselle said. “This is for you.” She showed Hermy to a corner of the room with a white upholstered bench and the same burgundy drapes adorning the walls. “I will fetch you some things to try on, and then we will make the alterations necessary. Please have a refreshment.”
Madame Giselle gestured to a tray of little pralines with glossy, chocolate-coated exteriors, and then she left.
“Try the round ones; they have marinated cherries,” a young woman said with a strong Russian accent. Her rolled r’s jumped out like a dancer out of line. She emerged from behind the curtains, plopped one of the chocolates in her mouth, and chewed with aplomb. “I cannot get enough of them, especially these days.” She stroked her belly. It was round and stuck forward. She wore a black chemise draped over the front and tied with a ribbon.
“I’m Sofia.” She turned her back to the three mirrors and looked over her shoulder. Her movement was astonishingly graceful, and her posture impeccable. Yet, when she eyed Hermy from top to bottom, Hermy shivered as if a curse had washed over her.
“I’m Hermione.” She took a rectangular chocolate and bit a piece. The mellow, honey flavor resisted the embedded hazelnuts, and Hermy should have enjoyed the comforting chewiness of the nougat but felt rather tongue-tied instead.
Madame Giselle had said that this other customer was a baroness, and that could only be bad news for Hermy because word would get out among the Ton that the fallen girl was back. What was worse, she could be caught purchasing lingerie on Regent Street while staying with Greg, a treat for the gossips who’d call her a mistress returned in shame. And yet, Hermy couldn’t get herself to make a retreat yet. She was there to find the right gown for a grand entrance, and an attack was her preferred method of playing when her defenses were weakened.
So, Hermy considered the situation: Sofia, adorned in the trappings of wealth and status, navigated the intricacies of the fitting room with an air of aristocratic disdain. She resembled the enigmatic foxglove, striking in appearance, her elegance unmatched, mirroring the plant’s statuesque beauty and vibrant hues. Her pregnancy, rather than softening her, seemed tounderscore her inherent danger, much like the foxglove's vivid flowers stand out against its poisonous leaves.
“I should go.” Hermy placed the half-eaten chocolate on a folded napkin next to the tray, ready to turn to the hall that connected her to the path back to Rachel, who was also trying something on. Just then, Madame Giselle arrived, arms outstretched, layers of sheer muslin and lace fabrics piled atop them.
“Here’s the latest bridal collection from Paris.”
“Oh, a bride, how lovely!” The baroness in black lace placed another chocolate in her mouth. This Baroness Sofia certainly had an appetite. Despite her friendly words, the air around her was charged with a sweet, almost intoxicating scent reminiscent of foxglove’s deceptive allure. Hermy gave a curt nod and huddled in the corner with the white bench while Madame Giselle hung the frilly whites on the cleats.
“This is Chinese mulberry silk treated with papaya seeds for more softness,” she said in a French singsong. “I added Belgian lace, the exact type Mrs. Pearler prefers. I hope you don’t mind my saying, but this shade of white would suit your complexion perfectly. It’s a cool tone just right for a wedding, yet it is elegant enough to continue its service long after the wedding night.”
“Who are you marrying?” The baroness asked, shamelessly stuffing another chocolate in her mouth. She must be exercising rather vigorously if she could stomach so many sweets and still maintain her slim silhouette despite the baby. She looked a little wrong, not because her navel was stretched into an oval that looked like a screaming mouth and showed through her sheer chemise but because she just didn’t seem capable of a mother’s warmth.
Hermy pretended not to hear, drew the curtain shut, and crossed her arms. She wasn’t going to undress and expose herself next to a stranger. If her impression of this BaronessSofia was correct, she’d be the first to spread vicious rumors among the Ton. Hermy rustled with the fabrics.
