Chapter 3
Three
Isabelle gave a little laugh. ‘Isn’t it just? I haven’t been able to sleep properly since I found that letter, and now that I’ve seen the name on your catalogue, the same name as the recipient of the letter, well …’
She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Romy knew exactly what she meant. This was a remarkable discovery that could unlock an enduring mystery of the haute couture world.
Their March wedding was a glittering society affair in Paris, with the ceremony held in Notre Dame, and the reception in the Valmy family mansion—for Edmond’s parents had come round by then—and afterwards, the young couple departed for a short honeymoon on the C?te d’Azur.
Tragically, it was there, on a particularly twisty bit of the Route des Crêtes, a spectacular cliffside road overlooking the sea between Nice and Marseille, that their fairytale love story ended just two days later.
Due perhaps to a moment’s inattention, a misjudging of a corner, or too high a speed, the car Edmond was driving skidded off the narrow road, went over the edge and burst into flames.
Neither he nor Elisabeth survived, and in the following weeks, neither did her couture house.
Even though the staff at her workshop had been working on creating the new collection, they had to stop when it was discovered that there was no heir to the business.
Elisabeth Fontaine hadn’t made a will and had no surviving family who could inherit.
In the absence of possible heirs, all her assets reverted to the State and were sold off to pay unpaid bills and wages.
She owned no real estate—she had only rented the workshop—so what those assets consisted of, aside from a few personal items, were principally equipment from the workshop, items from her previous collection, and what was already there of her second, which meant sketches and patterns.
But there was one thing missing: any sketch or pattern for what was to have been that second collection’s centrepiece, the evening gown.
Now Romy said, ‘Nobody ever found a preliminary sketch of the gown, did they? Not even a tracing.’ She knew that in the fashion world at the time, before the advent of photocopiers, copies of sketches were made on tracing paper, which could then be easily reproduced.
Isabelle nodded. ‘That’s right. Elisabeth Fontaine kept her cards so close to her chest that her staff didn’t even know if she had started on a design.
They were completely in the dark. All they knew was that, unlike the first collection, there would only be one evening dress featured.
And it’s crystal clear that’s what the letter refers to. ’
‘But what on earth is an orphan box?’ Romy asked, frowning.
‘I have no idea,’ Isabelle said, ‘but whatever it was, it was never found, any more than a sketch or tracing of the evening gown.’ She shook her head. ‘And so the dress was not only never made, but what it might have looked like has also remained a mystery.’
‘Yes, and that’s why it continues to intrigue people,’ Romy said, tapping on her phone to bring up images of what had been dubbed ‘the lost fashion masterpiece’.
From screenshots of newspaper artists’ impressions from Elisabeth Fontaine’s time to modern photoshopped drawings, from photographs of dresses amateur enthusiasts had run up on their home sewing machines to AI-enhanced fantasies, there were plenty of pictures of what the evening gown might have looked like: a bewildering parade of slinky draped backless silk satin sheaths, over-the-top lamé numbers with long trains, Cinderella-like ballgowns with embroidered crepe bodices and layered tulle skirts; dresses made of taffeta, organza, brocade, lace; beaded dresses, sequined dresses, velvet dresses, even a wildcard or two, such as a jersey with inlaid panels and geometric designs.
And the colours! Metallic shimmerings of gold, silver, bronze, copper; ethereal shades of blue, green, violet, white, pale pink; bold brights of red, orange, yellow—a positive rainbow!
One Pinterest page even claimed that Fontaine had been inspired by an old fairytale to create a gown that combined the colours of the sky, the moon and the sun.
It was a nice idea but unfortunately the resulting image was a cacophony of colour on some unpleasantly shiny material, which would have made its wearer look like nothing more than a walking oil slick.
‘Well,’ Isabelle said, ‘so much imagination in all of these.’ Her tone was dry and Romy, who had been about to confess that she’d tried her own hand at drawing Fontaine’s gown, thought better of it.
Instead she put away the phone and changed the subject.
‘Have you shown the letter to an expert? Do they think it’s genuine? ’
Isabelle smiled faintly. ‘I haven’t shown it to anyone other than you yet,’ she said, to Romy’s surprise.
‘But I do know the letter itself is certainly written on her own paper, and I’ve seen samples of her handwriting in the little museum dedicated to her in Biarritz, where she started her career in fashion as a sales assistant for the Chanel store before moving to Paris.
There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that it’s genuine. ’
‘And Mademoiselle Houssaye? Do you have any idea who she was? I mean, in Elisabeth Fontaine’s life?’
‘Not a clue,’ Isabelle said. ‘I checked a few old records, including one I have myself—a slim directory of the few people with telephones in Paris at the time. Fontaine, of course, had a telephone at her office, so she’s listed in it with the workshop address, but no one with the surname Houssaye had a telephone.
I’ve tried Google searches with Paris and Houssaye and approximate dates of birth, but in vain.
I do know one thing: find out who Mademoiselle Houssaye was and it’s likely we will then know what the orphan box is.
But it feels like looking for a needle in the world’s biggest haystack. ’ She sighed, deeply.
Romy could understand why Isabelle had said she’d hardly slept since she’d found the letter.
She must have been combing the internet and living on adrenaline.
And now she could see a growing weariness in the other woman’s face, as if it was all catching up with her.
Gently, she said, ‘I’m thinking of making a coffee. Would you like one?’
‘Oh yes, thank you.’ Isabelle leaned back against the sofa, wincing a little as she did so. She must have seen Romy’s look of concern, because she added, ‘It’s nothing. Just a bit of a sore shoulder—someone’s monster of a suitcase hit me on the train.’
‘Oh no! I’ve got some arnica cream, if you’d like some. It really helps with bruises.’
‘It’s okay. Please don’t worry,’ Isabelle said, her voice carrying a touch of ‘please don’t make a fuss’.
Romy took the hint and went to the kitchenette to make the coffee.
Mitzi woke up at that moment and followed her, winding around her legs, wanting to be picked up.
As Romy stood waiting for her Italian coffeepot to bubble on the stove, the cat purring in her arms, she suddenly realised something.
The dull dread in her belly that had been there since the doubts about her work had begun had gone, replaced by a nervous energy that felt both invigorating and a little frightening.