Chapter Eleven
The next three weeks flew by for Tessa. Despite Tessa’s reluctance, Lady Gosforth had dragged her off to order far more than a couple of riding habits.
“I don’t need any new clothes,” Tessa objected. She had no desire to play the beggar maid to Marcus’s King Cophetua.
The old lady had snorted. “You don’t want to disgrace my nephew, do you, by wearing those things?” she’d declared, gesturing distastefully at the clothes Tessa had deliberately chosen for their drabness.
Tessa bit her lip. She didn’t really want to keep them, nor did she wish to keep the clothes that had been chosen for her by her husbands, but she also didn’t want to feel like a charity case. Or a gold-digger.
“Pah, what nonsense!” Lady Gosforth declared when Tessa said as much.
“You will go into this marriage with your head held high, my gel—or I’ll want to know the reason why!
My nephew is obscenely wealthy, and he wouldn’t even notice the cost of a dozen trousseaux.
However,” she raised her lorgnette and eyed Tessa through it like an eagle eyeing a mouse, “he will notice if you dress like a servant! And even if he doesn’t—and men can be ridiculously oblivious—the rest of society will!
And you can take it from me, it will reflect badly on him if you dress out of the rag bag.
Everybody will be talking about this wedding, and I intend to make sure that it is for the right reasons!
Now, enough of your nonsense, the carriage will be here in half an hour and I’ll take you to my own dressmaker. ”
“Um,” Tessa hesitated.
The old lady’s eyes narrowed. “Well, what is it, gel, spit it out.”
“I would prefer to go to the House of Chance,” Tessa said. The old lady was immaculately and stylishly dressed, but Tessa didn’t want to go to her dressmaker: she was bound to take control, and Tessa had had enough of having others choose her clothing for her.
Both her husbands had had very clear notions of what they wished her to look like and had been present for every fitting. Tessa’s opinions and tastes—when she ventured to express them—had been summarily dismissed.
And since Lady Gosforth was a woman of strong opinions, Tessa would sure it would be just the same. She didn’t want to fall out with Marcus’s aunt before the wedding, but this time she was going to stand up for herself.
“The House of Chance? Never heard of it.”
“It’s relatively new, but many of the, um, younger society ladies speak very highly of Miss Chance’s designs,” Tessa said.
Society ladies might have ignored Tessa when she’d attended her few society events in the past, but that didn’t mean Tessa had ignored them She’d passed the time by examining what the most fashionable ladies were wearing and picking up stray snatches of conversation.
She’d overheard all kinds of gossip in passing, and had heard the House of Chance mentioned several times. By beautifully dressed young ladies.
Lady Gosforth snorted. “Mischance indeed! Younger ladies? You’d be better guided by an older and wiser head.”
“Possibly. Nevertheless, if I must purchase a trousseau, I will get it from the House of Chance,” she said firmly, hoping she wasn’t making a dreadful mistake.
Lady Gosforth pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Be it on your own head then, but first we will go to the person who has been making my riding habits since I was a young gel. Or do you have a preference for someone else?” she ended acidly.
“No.”
But the carriage took them not to a ladies’ dressmaker, as she’d expected, but to a gentlemen’s tailor.”
“Men make the best riding habits,” Lady Gosforth stated. “I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else.”
To Tessa’s relief, the tailor had a young woman assistant who measured her up. Then she, Lady Gosforth, her dresser, Bragge, the tailor and Tessa chose the fabric and design. Tessa was looking through rolls of gray wool. Lady Gosforth sat tapping her fingers on her silver-headed stick.
Seeing Tessa’s hesitation, Bragge pulled out a roll of fabric in a soft, dove gray-blue with lavender overtones. “This will bring out your eyes, I think, m’lady,” she said quietly, and held it up against Tessa.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Tessa had to agree.
“Yes, yes, that would do very well,” the tailor said, and pulled out a roll of darker purple velvet. We could use this for the collar, lapels and cuffs. What do you think, m’lady?” He looked at Lady Gosford.
Tessa followed his gaze. To her surprise, Lady Gosford simply waved the question aside. “Don’t look at me, it’s my niece who will be wearing it.”
Tessa didn’t know which surprised her more, being given the final choice, or being called Lady Gosforth’s niece.
Needing two habits, Tessa made her next choice bolder: claret colored wool, with silver facings and slightly military-looking ornamentation not unlike a hussar’s uniform. This time, Lady Gosford gave her a thoughtful glance, then nodded briskly.
Then it was on to order riding boots. Tessa had been wearing Lady Gosforth’s old ones, but they were too big, and the old lady insisted she needed new ones—again by the bootmaker who had supplied the Renfrew family for generations.
After the bootmaker’s appointment they stopped for refreshments at Gunter’s, a place Tessa had long wanted to visit but had never been given the chance.
While Lady Gosforth and her dresser—Bragge sat outside: servants did not partake of tea with their employers—drank tea and nibbled on almond biscuits, Tessa ate her first ever ice—brown bread ice studded with brandied cherries. It was delicious.
Next was the dressmaker. Tessa braced herself. She’d always hated being fitted by dressmakers. With her husbands present and making all the decisions, she’d felt like a doll being dressed. She never wanted to feel that powerless again.
“Well, where is this mantua maker of yours?” Lady Gosforth asked her. “You’ll need to tell the driver where to go.”
Tessa blinked. She had no idea. She was just about to admit it when Bragge leaned forward and said, diffidently, “It’s just off Piccadilly, m’lady. Shall I give the John Coachman the directions?”
Lady Gosforth directed her lorgnette at her dresser. “You know of this new dressmaker, Bragge?”
“I like to keep up with the developments in fashion,” Bragge said demurely. “Miss Chance has an excellent reputation.”
Tessa smiled gratefully at Bragge.
The old lady waved an indifferent hand. “Very well, Bragge, tell the driver where to go.”
#
THE HOUSE OF CHANCE was a small, elegant-looking shop just off Piccadilly. The front window was quite bare, with a single long white satin glove draped elegantly over a stand, and green velvet behind. The window bore the name CHANCE in elegant gold lettering, and the stylized design of a daisy.
Inside, it was all green and cream, deep, soft carpet, velvet curtains, and several elegant, velvet-covered sofas and chairs. Very fashionable. Tessa heaved a surreptitious sigh of relief.
A young woman appeared from between the curtains at the back of the room. Bragge gave her Lady Gosforth’s card, and she disappeared, saying, “Miss Chance will be with you shortly.”
The woman who emerged was short, quietly but stylishly dressed and walked with a decided limp. And when she greeted them, her accent, much to everyone’s surprise, was pure Cockney. She made no attempt at all to mimic a French accent, as had every dressmaker Tessa had ever visited.
Lady Gosforth stiffened. Tessa braced herself, hoping that the old lady would not say something to embarrass Miss Chance. She liked the little lady’s friendliness and lack of pretension.
But though the old lady’s disapproval was obvious, Miss Chance seemed not to notice.
She questioned Tessa about what she wanted—Lady Gosforth sitting in a silent cloud of aristocratic disdain, and Bragge in nervous dread—and drew forth some bound booklets containing drawings of some of the dresses she’d made.
“I like these very much” Tessa told Miss Chance. They were simple, but beautifully stylish and there was something unusual about them. Tessa wasn’t up on the latest fashion, but she could tell these were both up to the minute and at the same time, original.
“Right then, Lady Hewitt, let’s get you measured up,” the little lady said, and ushered her behind the curtain, where it was still clean and neat, but more workmanlike than luxurious.
Sending an assistant out to offer Lady Gosforth sherry, champagne or tea, she had two more assistants taking Tessa’s measurements.
“I’m sorry about my, um, friend’s rudeness—” she began, but Miss Chance chuckled.
“Don’t worry about it. They often start like that—a Cockney cripple?
” she said in a horrified faux aristocratic accent.
“But when they see me clothes, they soon come around. And if they don’t”—she shrugged—“it don’t bother me.
I’ve got plenty of customers. Now, you mentioned a trousseau, so you’re gettin’ married? ”
Tessa nodded.
“‘Ave you thought about a wedding dress?”
“Not really. I thought I’d just wear one of my new dresses. I . . . I’ve been married before, you see. I’m a widow.”
Miss Chance gave her a thoughtful look. “So, you don’t want white then?”
“No. And there’s not much time, either. The wedding is in three weeks’ time.”
“Right then, ‘ow about a dress in a nice soft violet color. It’ll match your eyes perfect. I’ve got a lovely length of silk here.
A lace or gauze overdress’d soften the color even more, and you could use the dress—and the overdress—separately.
I’ve got one here a bit similar in pink.
Of course, yours won’t be the same—all my designs are unique—but this’ll give you the idea.
” She rummaged through a rack containing dresses hanging up and pulled out a pink dress with a lace overlay.
It was very pretty, if a little fussier than Tessa liked.