Page 41 of Doxy for the Ton
Mimi averted her gaze. “At a modiste’s.”
“Madame Deliet’s, on St. James? Perhaps you patronize her.” The duchess’s gaze trailed over Mimi’s gown, and she frowned. “Or perhaps not.”
“Why do you think not?” Mimi asked, her voice tight.
“Because Madame Deliet is a frightful snob,” came the reply. “My papa can’t stand her, but he’s obliged to conduct business with her. A man in trade cannot afford to be too choosy when it comes to his clients.”
“Your father’s in trade?”
“He’s a silk merchant. Someone’s bound to tell you that at some point. I’d rather you heard it from me. I trust you’re not offended.”
Mimi frowned. Why was this woman—this stranger—telling her such things? Weren’t ladies supposed to confine the topic of conversation to the weather?
“Forgive me, I see I’m being overly frank. A fault of mine, I’m afraid. My husband, indulgent though he is, often chides me for it.” She gestured toward the pianoforte. “Do you play?”
“I played a little Bach as a child,” Mimi said, “but I lacked the talent. My mother…”
She shook her head, fighting the swell of sorrow that threatened to break through the armor she’d fashioned around her heart.
“It matters not. I have no sheet music with me.”
At that moment, Charles returned with a tray laden with tea things. He set it on a table, then issued a stiff bow.
“Thank you, Charles,” Mimi said, smiling at the young man. “Did Mrs. Brennan have any cinnamon for my guest?”
“Yes, ma’am, it’s just there.” He gestured to a small porcelain dish next to a bowl of glistening honey, then he bowed once more and retreated.
Mimi rose and saw to the tea, pouring the brown liquid into two cups and then, at the duchess’s direction, tipping a spoonful each of cinnamon and honey into her cup, inhaling the exotic scent. She smiled to herself. The aroma reminded her of Christmas, of long nights beside a log fire, of warmth and comfort—of days long gone.
Then she handed the cup to her guest. Her hand shook, and a splash of tea spilled onto the duchess’s gown.
“Oh!” Mimi cried, “I’m so sorry—what must you think of me?”
The duchess took the cup. “I think you’re a very obliging hostess, willing to cater to her guest’s eccentricities.”
“But your gown—I’ve ruined it.”
“Nonsense!” The duchess laughed. “The benefit of having a father who’s a silk merchant is that he knows how to clean a gown better than any lady’s maid—though my Harriet would be most put out if she heard me say so.”
“But it’s such a beautiful silk,” Mimi said. “I’ve never seen anything so…” Her voice trailed off, and she retreated to pour her own tea. What must the duchess think of her—staring at her gown with envious eyes before pouring tea all over it?
The duchess glanced at Mimi’s gown, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Whoisyour modiste?” she asked. “My father supplies a particular silk that would do very well for you. I could have him send her a bolt—or would that be terribly forward of me?”
Mimi averted her gaze to the window. “I have no modiste.” She sipped her tea, wincing as the hot liquid burned her lips, and awaited the condescension of a superior being.
“Oh?”
“The duke instructed me to visit Madame Deliet, but she refused to serve me then evicted me from her premises.”
“Under the spiteful gaze of Sarah Francis and Elizabeth De Witt?”
Mimi nodded, and her teacup clattered against the saucer as her hand trembled.
“You make me quite ashamed,” the duchess said, at length. “If you need a modiste, I can recommend mine. Madame Dupont is less…”
“Less discerning?” Mimi said bitterly.
“Lessspiteful.”
