Page 102 of Saphirblau (The Ruby Red Trilogy 2)

“We’ll be right down,” said Lesley, digging me in the ribs. “Come along, Gwenny. You can wallow in self-pity later. Right now you need something to eat!”

I sat up and blew my nose. “My nerves aren’t strong enough to listen to Aunt Glenda’s nasty remarks. And we only just got started on the code!”

“I’ll keep working on it, don’t worry. Meanwhile, you’re going to need strong nerves in the immediate future.” Lesley pulled me to my feet. “Charlotte and your aunt will be good practice for when the going gets tough. If you survive lunch, you can get through that soirée, no problem.”

“And if not, you can always commit hara-kiri,” said Xemerius.

* * *

MADAME ROSSINI clasped me to her ample bosom when I arrived. “My leetle swan-necked beauty, ’ere you are at last. I ’ave missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I said, and I meant it. The mere presence of Madame Rossini, with her overflowing kindness and her wonderful French accent (leetle swan-necked beauty! If only Gideon could hear that!), was invigorating and reassuring at the same time. She was balm to my wounded self-esteem.

“You will be enchantée when you see what I ’ave made for you. Monsieur Giordano, ’e almost wept when ’e saw your clothes, zey are so beautiful.”

“I believe you,” I said. Giordano would have been weeping because he couldn’t wear the clothes himself. Still, he’d been reasonably friendly today, not least because I did rather well with the dancing this time—and thanks to being prompted by Xemerius, I’d been able to say which great lords of the time supported the Tories and which the Whigs. (Xemerius had simply looked over Charlotte’s shoulder from behind and read her list.) Also thanks to Xemerius, I was word-perfect in my own cover story—Penelope Mary Gray, born 1765—including all the first names of my dead parents. I was still not much good with a fan, but Charlotte had made the constructive suggestion that I didn’t need to carry one at all.

At the end of the lesson, Giordano had handed me another list full of words that I mustn’t under any circumstances use. “Learn those by heart for tomorrow,” he had said in his nasal voice. “Remember, there are no buses in the eighteenth century, no news anchormen, no Hoovers, nothing is super, wicked, or cool, they knew nothing about splitting the atom, colllagen skin creams, or holes in the ozone layer.”

Who’d have thought it? I tried to imagine why on earth, when I was at an eighteenth-century soirée, I’d want to come out with a sentence about anchormen, holes in the ozone layer, and collagen skin creams. However, I politely said, “Okay,” which had Giordano screeching, “Nooo! Not okay. There was no okay in the eighteenth century, you stupid girl.”

Madame Rossini laced the corset behind my back. Once again I was surprised to find how comfortable it was. You automatically stood up straight wearing something like that. She strapped a padded wire framework around my hips (the eighteenth century must have been a very relaxing time for women with big bums and broad hips), and then put a dark red dress over my head. She did up a long row of little hooks and buttons behind me, while I stroked the heavy, embroidered silk, admiring it. Wow, it was so amazing!

Madame Rossini walked slowly around me, and a satisfied smile spread over her face. “Entrancing. Magnifique.”

“Is this the ball dress?” I asked.

“No, it is ze gown for ze soirée.” Madame Rossini pinned tiny, perfectly formed silk roses in place around the deep décolletage. As her mouth was full of pins, she spoke indistinctly through her teeth. “Zere, you can wear your ’air unpowdered, and ze dark color will look fantastic with ze red. Just as I thought!” She winked at me mischievously. “You will attract attention, my swan-necked beauty, n’est-ce pas—although zat is not ze idea, but what can I do?” She wrung her hands, but unlike Giordano when he was wringing his, dumpy little Madame Rossini looked cute. “You are a leetle beauty, zere is no denying it, putting you in neutral colors would not ’elp. Zere we are, little swan neck, and now for ze ball dress.”

The ball dress was pale blue with cream embroidery and frills, and it fitted as perfectly as the red dress. It had, if possible, an even more spectacularly plunging neckline than the red dress, and the skirt swung around me for what looked like yards. Madame Rossini weighed up my hair, which was in a braid today, in both hands, looking worried. “I am not sure ’ow we should do ze ’air. A wig is not comfortable, not with all that ’air of your own ’idden underneath. But your ’air is so dark, with powder it will probably be a ’ideous gray. Quelle catastrophe!” She frowned. “Never mind. With powder you would be à la mode—but dear ’eaven, what a ’orrible mode!”

For the first time that day, I couldn’t help smiling. ’Ideous! ’Orrible! Oh, how right she was. It wasn’t just the fashionable hair powder, Gideon was ’ideous and ’orrible as well, so far as I was concerned, and from now on, I was going to look at him that way, so there!

Madame Rossini didn’t seem to realize how good she was for my peace of mind. She was still getting indignant about the eighteenth century. “Boys, girls, ’aving to powder their ’air to look like their grandmères—’orrible. Now try on zese shoes. You must dance in zem, remember, but we still ’ave time to get zem altered.”

Like the corset, the shoes, embroidered red for the red dress, pale blue with golden buckles for the ball dress, were surprisingly comfortable, although they looked as if they came out of a museum. “Those are the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever worn in my life,” I said appreciatively.

“I should ’ope so,” said Madame Rossini, beaming all over her face. “Zere, my little angel, you are ready. Mind you ’ave a good night’s rest tonight. You will ’ave an exciting day tomorrow.” As I slipped back into my jeans and favorite dark blue pullover, she draped the dresses over her headless tailor’s dummies. Then she looked at the clock on the wall and frowned in annoyance. “Oh, zat unreliable boy! ’E was to be ’ere fifteen minutes ago!”

My pulse rate instantly shot up. “Gideon?”

Madame Rossini nodded. “’E do not take zis seriously, ’e think it does not matter ’ow ’is breeches fit. But ze fit of ze breeches is very, very important.”

’Ideous! ’Orrible! I tested my new mantra.

Someone knocked on the door. Only a slight sound, but all my good intentions vanished into thin air.

Suddenly I couldn’t wait to see Gideon again. And at the same time, I was scared to death of meeting him. I wouldn’t survive those dark glances of his a second time.

“Ah,” said Madame Rossini. “’Ere ’e is. Come in!”

My whole body stiffened, but it wasn’t Gideon coming through the doorway, it was red-haired Mr. Marley. Nervous and awkward as usual, he stammered, “I’m to take the Ruby … er, Miss Gwyneth down to elapse.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll be finished with this in a moment.” Behind Mr. Marley, Xemerius was grinning at me. I’d sent him away before the fittings began.

“I just flew through a real live home secretary,” he said cheerfully. “It was cool!”

“And where is ze boy?” asked Madame Rossini crossly. “’E was coming for a fitting!”

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