Page 91 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“Terribly sorry, M’Lady, but it was you that gave me the fright, a’lying there like you’d swooned in the midst of a waltz.”
Seeing faithful Lisbelle there before her filled her heart with sympathy for the woman.
“Lizzy,” she said with renewed spirit, “we are going to buy clothes. Come.”
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She flipped through a beautifully bound book of painted plates, each depicting a model in exquisite dress.
“This one,” said the tailor’s woman, stout and gull-haired with a voice like a cat, “in white, undersleeves in the finest of French lace, with sash and fichu in matching blue and white stripes—I believe you would be the devastation of society, M’Lady, if I may be so bold.”
“It is quite beautiful,” said Madeline.
“Oh, it is the most wonderful thing in the world,” said Lisbelle. “Let’s just see a few more then.”
She reached over Madeline and turned to the next plate.
“Ah yes,” said the tailor’s woman. “This is Mademoiselle Futon wearing a gown of pleated rose. The sleeves, you see, are detachable assuring that any lady is perfectly suited for any weather.”
“Oh my,” said Madeline.
“Yes,” said Lisbelle. “If we could just see one more ...”
“Lizzy, dear, who are we shopping for today?”
“Well,” said Lisbelle, “allow me to answer your question with one of my own, M’Lady. Who is it that is going to dress you day in and day out? I do believe with all my heart that it is the one who is to lay eyes on the lady’s clothes both on the lady’s body and draped over a chair or hanging in the closet is one who is most qualified to have an opinion.” She nodded to the tailor’s woman, who puffed out her stout chest and rolled her eyes most obviously.
“Well,” said Madeline, “I love the lastensemble.” She flipped back to the previous plate. “Yes, this is the one.”
“Excellent choice, M’Lady,” said the woman, clasping both hands together with a smack. “It is done! We shall have all the cloth assembled and sewn within a fortnight.”
“Oh,” said Lisbelle. “Lord Oliver will be pleased to see you in that one, no doubt.”
“Yes,” said Madeline, feeling excitement growing in her by the moment. “I do hope so.”
Chapter 64
Lady Emily’s Diary
Friday
Breakfasted this morning on the east terrace so as to enjoy the warm sun on my face as I dined. Read a bit of Mr Walpole while I did. How I love to nourish the soul and the flesh simultaneously!
After breakfast, took a drawing pad out into the countryside and sketched a nest of baby swallows and their mother returning to drop bits of masticated food into their hungry little mouths. My heart was warmed so to see them loved in this manner. Yes, even the birds know love.
I find myself musing more and more on this subject. It is as if some clock inside me has gone off, signalling the hour of my wandering in search of the perfect companion. I shall not find him in this manner. No, I believe he will find me. It is only natural. I am too young and idealistic; the perfect picture in my head can never be matched by real life, and so I will miss it when it is before my eyes. I must allow myself to be found.
Madeline seems distraught these days. I fear her ordeal has ravaged her mind in some way. She is often short with me. I do not know why. I have done nothing to offend her, at least not that I am aware. And if I have, I do wish she would just tell me.
Sisterhood is indeed a very strange creation. This is another subject fit for my near-constant rumination.
This afternoon, I remembered a curious incident from our childhood. Madeline and I were both blessed with wonderful imaginations. As such, we would invent the wildest fantasies whenever we were at play together. Together, we forged every detail of our imagined worlds right down to flaws in the castle stones. One such fantasy involved Madeline’s getting caught by a jealous woman and imprisoned in a tower! Imagine that! Even the most ignorant among us can draw a parallel to the circumstances that Madeline was later to find herself in—imprisoned at the hand of a jealous woman!
The thought of that woman makes my blood boil. But I cannot entertain such thoughts. Wrath is a deadly sin. I shall turn back to my memories of childhood to stave it off.
There was one such time in our playful fantasies that we both invented knights who came to court us. Such silly girls we were. We named them Percival and Lancelot. I suppose our imaginations were infertile when it came to names.
Most of our games would usually last only a few hours. Sometimes less. This one game, however, went on for several days. Every morning, I awoke to Madeline shaking me out of my slumber.
