Page 59 of Silk Is for Seduction

“My goodness,” said Lady Clara.

Marcelline resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Lady Clara was as oblivious as Clevedon. They noticed nothing about a dress until one forcibly called their attention to it.

“This isn’t half what you would have seen in Paris,” Marcelline said. “There I was obliged to exert myself, because I was competing with the most stylish women in the world, who’ve made a high art of attracting men. That is your ladyship’s true rival: Paris. I’m nothing. If the gentleman is bored and remote, it’s because the women about him at present don’t know how to get his attention.”

She let her gaze slide from the top of Lady Clara’s dull bonnet, over the white crepe dress trimmed in black—mainly ribbon and a little embroidery but not a stitch of lace in sight—and downward, with a small, despairing sigh, to the hem. The style was—well, it hadn’t any style. As to the craftsmanship: In a drunken stupor, the least talented of Marcelline’s six seamstresses could do better than this.

Sophy and Leonie drew nearer to Marcelline, their gazes moving in the same pitying way over the dress.

“The Court has been wearing mourning for the Emperor of Austria, then the Prince of Portugal,” Lady Clara said defensively. “We’ve only recently changed from black.”

“You cannot wear this shade of white,” Marcelline said. “It ruins your complexion.”

“Such a complexion!” Sophy said. “Translucent. Women would weep and gnash their teeth in envy, were you not wearing a white that drains away all the vitality.”

“The black trim can’t be helped,” said Leonie. “But must it be so heavy?”

“It isn’t required to be crepe, certainly,” said Marcelline. “Where is the rule that says one may not use a thinner ribbon, of satin? And perhaps some knots—so. Or a jet lozenge. And a little silver, perhaps here and here, to brighten it. But above all, never this shade of white!”

“You’re not making the most of your figure,” said Sophy.

“I’m big,” Lady Clara said.

“You’re statuesque,” said Leonie. “What I should give to have your height. What I should give to be able to look a man in the eye.”

“Mainly, I’m looking down at them,” said Lady Clara. “Except for my brothers and Cl—the gentleman.”

“All the better,” said Sophy. “A man ought to look up to a woman, literally or figuratively, because that is the proper mode of worship, and worship is the very least he can do. It doesn’t matter what her height is. You’re the most beautiful young woman in London—”

“That’s doing it too brown,” said Lady Clara. She drank more brandy. “You’re wicked, the three of you.”

She was not wrong.

“Perhaps one might see at the theater a whore who seems prettier,” said Sophy. “But that’s only because she makes the most of herself and of certain cosmetic aids. You, however, have a deep, true English beauty that will only make you handsomer as time passes. It’s disgraceful and ungrateful of you not to make the most of the gifts with which you’ve been blessed.”

“You look big,” said Marcelline, “because the dress is matronly. You look big because it’s carelessly cut and ill sewn. Puckers! My six-year-old daughter can sew better than this. I say nothing of the overall design, which seems to have been adopted from fashions current in Bath among the grandmother set. The analogy is fitting, since so many drink the waters for their health, and this shade of white makes you look bilious. Let me show you the shade of white you ought to wear. Sophy, fetch a hand mirror. Leonie, the soft white organdy.”

“I did not come here to buy a dress,” Lady Clara said.

“You came because you want to bring the gentleman back from wherever it is he’s gone to,” said Marcelline. “We’re going to show you how to do it.”

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