Chapter Six
Bath, Five years later
‘I vow, Sandrine, your gowns make me feel like an empress! Like I have the power to do anything at all,’ Mary Campbell declared as she twirled in front of the full-length, gilt-framed mirror of Sandrine’s fitting room.
The blossom-pink of her new satin gown, with its cream net overdress embroidered with tiny seed pearls into wheat ears and leaves, set off her blonde beauty perfectly.
Sandrine laughed. She wanted to twirl, too, in a burst of satisfaction at her latest creation.
It was a fairly new, very fashionable style, and she hadn’t been at all sure it would work with her new pattern.
But Mary looked lovely, like a golden goddess.
Mary had been such a good friend, Sandrine never wanted to disappoint her.
‘That is all I want. To make gowns that fill ladies with confidence in their own beauty when they wear them.’
It was the reason she’d opened her business in the first place, to help women find their inner strength as she’d once longed to find hers.
She could not help them as she’d like in the outside world, the world of marriage and men, but maybe she could help them find that strength inside.
Find belief in themselves through looking and thus feeling their very best. Through fashion that brought out the ‘empress’ in them all.
She never wanted anyone else to feel as she once had. So small, so foolish, so helpless. Her trust in herself so shattered. Once, she’d only wanted to curl up into a tiny, tight ball and vanish.
In helping other women, she’d found something unexpected—she’d found herself. The Sandrine buried so deep she’d never even glimpsed her before. She relied only on herself now. She would never give a man such power over her spirit again.
A gown was a small enough thing, but silk and lace could be a powerful armour. A way of proclaiming ‘This is who I am. This is what I deserve. This is what I desire.’
Not that Mary St Aubin Campbell required much armour.
Sandrine studied her friend again, adjusted the drape of the ruffle-edged sleeve, the length of the embroidered hem.
Mary, like Sandrine herself, ran her own business, the St Aubin and Briggs Confidential Agency, which made matches for those who desired more than convenience in their marriages, more than an arrangement.
Mary was very good at it. She and her sister, Ella, now Countess of Fleetwood, had built up a vast network of clients, a large file of happy marriages.
The St Aubin sisters were two of Sandrine’s best customers.
Sandrine had even recently created Mary’s wedding gown, for her marriage to the impossibly handsome Charles Campbell at St John the Evangelist Church there in Bath.
It was a triumph, if Sandrine did say so herself, a confection of shimmering beads and ethereal clouds of net.
Like all of her designs, it reflected the lady who wore it rather than disguising her behind whatever was fashionable whether it suited her or not.
The design showed Mary’s glowing, angelic golden beauty, her love of laughter and fun and romance.
Sandrine had spent hours and hours perfecting the embroidery and beading herself.
Yet even the most glorious, iridescent satin could not outshine the love that had emanated from Mary on that sunny winter day, the answering adoration on the face of her bridegroom as she had floated towards him down the aisle.
Their passionate romance had filled the whole of the ancient church, expanded like a shimmering bubble that could envelop the whole town, the whole world, in true love.
It had made Sandrine ache to see it, to remember what she had once hoped for and that which had been shattered at her feet before the bridal bouquet even faded.
She was ecstatic for her friend, and bursting with pride at all the compliments for the gown.
She seldom allowed herself to look back; she had too much to worry about in the now, too much work to do.
But in that moment, she’d longed to sob.
She’d shaken those tears away, as she always did, and returned to her shop. It was all she could do now. Alain was gone from her life, and had been for nearly five years.
And now Mary was back from some time at her husband’s Scottish castle, ready to reopen her agency and launch Charles’s ward, Adele, on her London Season in the spring. Which would naturally require a large order from Sandrine’s shop.
Wedding gowns had become something of a speciality for Sandrine, quite against her will, as once she had never wanted to look at another bridal dress again.
But word had spread after she had designed a duchess’s gown a few years ago, going far beyond even Bath.
Everyone had whispered that having an especially beautiful Madame gown on that pivotal day would bring luck, happiness, confidence.
Wedding gowns also brought orders for trousseaux, and put wages in the pockets of seamstresses and salesladies.
A Madame gown spelled good fortune for so many.
Sandrine didn’t often do fittings herself any more, as she’d been able to hire such an accomplished, polished team, and she was kept so busy with designing, running accounts, ordering fabrics. Mary, though, was a dear friend, and Sandrine always enjoyed time laughing and chatting with her.
Not that she was able to have the deepest, most intimate of friendships. Not with the secrets she carried, would always carry. The things she could never say to anyone, could only think about when she was all alone in the darkest part of the night.
She adjusted the ribbon edge of the sleeve. ‘There! What do you think? How does that feel?’
Mary circled her arm, giving the regal wave worthy of a true empress. ‘It’s perfect, of course.’
‘Wonderful! I can have it ready on Tuesday, if that suits. The new lavender spencer is almost complete, as well; Jane is just finishing the embroidery. I can’t believe she was an apprentice only last year…she has such a deft hand.’
‘Then I can wear this to the dance party—perfect,’ Mary said happily.
Sandrine carefully helped her out of the basted bodice and into her own walking dress.
It had also been made by Sandrine, of fine, soft cashmere wool, the duskiest lavender shade edged with silver braid against the chilly, misty winter days.
‘We’re putting together a party for the theatre,’ Mary said as she patted her blonde curls into place.
‘It’s The Prophetess; I know you enjoy Beaumont.
Won’t you join us? We’ve taken a box, and Adele would love to see you again.
I need someone besides myself for her to prattle on to about her new London wardrobe! ’
‘I would love to see her, but I’m not sure…
’ Sandrine began. She did go out in Society at times, to the Pump Room and assemblies, to a private party once in a while.
It had become necessary for her business, as people liked seeing an elegant ‘French’ lady and imagining they, too, could become perfect Parisians with the right gown.
But what she much preferred was to retreat to her cosy house in Camden Place after working at the shop, to lock the door behind her, light her fire, pour a brandy, and just breathe.
She had worked so hard to build that peace for herself.
Yet—it was true she did enjoy the theatre. She loved losing herself in the poetry and emotion and drama that was not her own. Loved seeing the costumes, the people in the other boxes. And time with Mary, Charles, and Adele was always enjoyable. ‘Perhaps, yes.’ She reached for a tasselled bell-pull.
Jane, the seamstress, brought in the tea cart with a shy smile, and Sandrine poured out the Darjeeling, arranged the little cakes of pale pink, blue and sage-green, which were the shop’s trademark colours.
She sometimes wondered if ladies came for the refreshments, the aqua-blue china and fine Indian tea, as much as the gowns.
‘Oh, please do! It should be quite a merry evening.’ Her expression changed, her smile sliding into teasing.
‘And Lord Charlecote will be there. He asks after you so very often since you met him last year. Ella and I find him quite nice, and he must have excellent taste if he admires you. He was so lonely after his wife died, and the agency has been trying so hard to help him.’
Sandrine laughed nervously. It was true that Lord Charlecote, the ‘nice’ widower, was a handsome man still, beautifully dressed, very attentive.
Maybe too attentive? Ever since they had met at a dinner party at Mary’s house, where they were seated together and spoke of books and art, he had made his admiration clear.
But something still held her back from forming attachments.
Still, when he asked if he could call on her, she had to admit she’d been tempted.
Having someone admire her, be interested in spending time with her, was flattering.
She did like her independent life, cherished her quiet time, but that didn’t mean she sometimes felt rather—lonely.
Didn’t sometimes wonder what it would feel like to again be touched, kissed, caressed.
To be thought beautiful. After all, she had once been swept away by such glorious pleasure…
No. She shook her head firmly, trying to cast out any thought, any image of Alain, as she always did when he returned to haunt her. When she found herself followed by memories of his smile, his touch, his dark grey, stormy-sea eyes, she jumped even further into work to drive him away.