Chapter 3 #2
The carriage came to a stop before four medieval watch towers connected by a palatial, three-storied edifice. A long-chinned young butler, drowning in oversized livery, escorted them into an airy foyer tiled in black and white marble.
Meg arched her neck to take in the painted ceiling.
“The castle was constructed in the Renaissance, connecting the medieval towers,” the butler said. “Mr. Gainsworth purchased it and refurbished the house and grounds—”
A tall, sweet-faced lady swept down the stairs.
“Do not bore them with trivial facts. How do you do, Peter? Thank you for taking this commission. With so little time, I could not send to London, but if you do well,” she held Meg’s gaze, “I may not depend on London.” She returned her attention to Mr. Sloan. “Will you introduce me?”
“My apprentice, Miss Cooper.” He turned to Meg. “This is Mrs. Gainsworth.”
Meg curtsied. “How do you do?”
“A pretty darling. That will create difficulties for you, my dear. The only thing worse than a competent woman is an attractive one.” She giggled without apparent malice. Where Meg was slight and dark in complexion, Mrs. Gainsworth stood tall with classically pale skin, hair, and eyes.
Mr. Sloan cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”
“Of course. Peter, the servants will meet you one at a time in the parlor. This way with me, Miss Cooper. I have the most fabulous length of cloth.” She took Meg’s wrist and moved toward the stairs.
Panicked and unprepared for such a turn, she threw a look over her shoulder.
“Jane,” Peter said, “my apprentice requires supervision.”
An understatement. If Meg knew anything about dressmaking it came from her own stubborn attempts to discern the mysteries of the art.
Mrs. Gainsworth dropped Meg’s arm and turned to Mr. Sloan. “I hold nothing against you, dear Peter, but after working with London’s female mantua makers, I vowed never to have another man in my dressing chamber. I presume you’ve taught her to measure and pin?”
Meg would not allow Mr. Sloan to rob her of this opportunity, however unqualified she was. “Mr. Sloan has instructed me well. I shall be pleased to attend you.”
The lady nodded and continued her way up the stairs into a large dressing chamber. On a bench lay carefully folded silk in sunset pink with white stripes running its length. Meg folded her hands to prevent herself from touching it.
“Of course, I will need roses embroidered along each white stripe. Have you ever seen anything more divine?” Mrs. Gainsworth asked.
Meg hadn’t, but her heart sank; this was not fabric to experiment with. Though her fingers tingled, she didn’t dare touch it.
Mrs. Gainsworth opened a drawer and produced a stack of stiff paper. “Sit and look,” she whispered, as if they shared something improper.
Meg examined charcoal sketches of women’s clothing from various vantage points, then glanced at Mrs. Gainsworth. “These are of your hand?”
“And you must make them. I have so many ideas.”
Her enthusiasm struck a chord. Meg wanted to see this woman’s dreams realized; few fancies found their substance.
But in this case, Mrs. Gainsworth’s vision could become a reality, and Meg would enable that bit of magic.
Practically speaking, this success could lead to valuable patronage when her shop opened.
She slogged through self-doubt and cast it aside.
“Most assuredly. Which design do you have in mind for this fabric?”
Mrs. Gainsworth laid cards on the floor one at a time and described the gown she envisioned, taking pieces from each drawing.
Then she placed the final illustration in Meg’s hand—a robe à la francaise, a more formal, structured version of a sacque.
The ingenious, daring conglomeration of Mrs. Gainsworth’s own imagination was stunning.
“I must have it by the Valentine’s festival.” Mrs. Gainsworth gave a toss of her head. “We are hosting, you see.”
Perhaps if every needlewoman in Mr. Sloan’s shop assisted with the confection and labored through the night, they might finish in time. In addition to extensive embroidery, there were pleats and ruffles, lace and ribbons enough for a dozen common gowns.
“Have you a coordinating petticoat?” Meg hoped to reduce the work.
Mrs. Gainsworth moved the pink silk to reveal creamy white satin. “I’d like it quilted to mimic the embroidery of the sacque.”
“And this?” Meg pointed to the card where Mrs. Gainsworth had drawn a stomacher.
“Quilted as well. Same fabric.”
“A gown this intricate may require more than five weeks. If you had a petticoat from another gown…”
Mrs. Gainsworth drooped like a flower deprived of water. “My heart is set on a quilted petticoat.”
“Can you make do without the beading here, or the trail of ribbons, or this gathered lace?”
“I do not think I can. Are you saying it cannot be done?”
“Can you make any concessions? We can add whatever you wish later.” Given time, Meg could make each embellishment herself.
Mrs. Gainsworth stared at her drawing. “No. I cannot.” She shoved the card at Meg and stood before a long mirror, turning this way and that, as if seeing herself in the gown she fantasized about.
“Dobbs, help me with this?” she called, tugging at a pin fastening her gown to its stomacher.
A lady’s maid appeared and began undressing her mistress.
The matter seemed settled. Mrs. Gainsworth would have her gown.
Meg pulled a strip of pin-studded linen from her pocket and draped it around her neck.
Her chest tightened as she reached for the silk, cool and heavy between her fingers.
She draped it around Mrs. Gainsworth’s shoulders and began pinning it into shape.
She dared not make a single cut, hoping the pinning alone would be enough to begin, rudimentary though it was. With some practice on her own clothes and having created a few simple gowns for Grace, Meg took her time, pinning and unpinning, marking and measuring, until the silk took shape.
While she worked, Mrs. Gainsworth guided her, changing her mind about the width of the panniers, the number of pleats, the placement of future ribbons. While the indecision might have frustrated her another time, today Meg appreciated the practice.
When Meg had done her best, Mrs. Gainsworth examined the result. “I believe you will do.”
Not high praise, but a warm spark ignited and glowed in Meg’s chest. If nothing else, the process brought forth a hundred questions for Mr. Sloan. Perhaps now she knew what to ask, he might struggle to continue dodging her questions and requests.
Mrs. Gainsworth examined the back of the gown. “Perhaps I was wrong about wanting a robe à la francaise. A French sacque might better suit the occasion.”
Meg’s heart dipped. At this rate, Mrs. Gainsworth might require the entire five weeks simply to decide upon what she wanted.