Free Cynders & Ashe by Elizabeth Boyle

 
    Cynders and Ashe
    Elizabeth Boyle
    One
    London – 1815
    “You expect my daughter to wear that gown?” Lady Fitzsimon’s acid tones carried to every corner of the elegant dress shop on Bond Street.
    “My Lady, it is exactly the gown you ordered,” Madame Delaflote replied. Used as she was to the fits and fleeting fancies of London ladies, she took Lady Fitzsimon’s protests in her stride.
    Either the lady was doing this to get her bill lowered – which would never happen, for Madame Delaflote never gave up a shilling that could possibly be wrung from a client – or she was just being aristocratic merely because she could.
    In that case, Madame Delaflote had naught to do but wait her out.
    From behind the curtain that separated the showroom from the workroom, Miss Ella Cynders flinched with each protest as if she were being flogged. For the dress was her creation, her finest – if she was inclined to boast – but she knew that it had been a risk making it for Lady Fitzsimon’s daughter.
    “The Ashe Ball is tonight, Madame!” Lady Fitzsimon was saying. Ella glanced out and found the matron waving her invitation about for all to see. Invitations to the Ashe Ball were so coveted, so limited, that most who held one kept it carefully guarded. For without that printed invitation, one could not enter. Proof of this being demonstrated at the moment by her ladyship, who was keeping hers on her person, never far from sight, and, better yet, close at hand to flaunt over those who hadn’t been invited. “My daughter cannot go in that!”
    Ella watched the lady point at the dress her daughter was modelling as if it were made of rags – when nothing could be further from the truth. The fair green silk, embroidered with silver thread and adorned with thousands of seed pearls, was an artistic triumph. Ella and the two other assistants, Martha and Hazel, had all but worn their fingers to the bone to get the gown ready in time.
    It was a fairy-tale dress destined for an unforgettable night.
    “My good lady,” Madame Delaflote said, “your daughter shines like the rarest jewel in that gown. Lord Ashe won’t be able to take his eyes off her.”
    “Of course he won’t – she looks naked in it,” the lady declared.
    Not exactly naked, Ella would have told her, but the illusion was there. As if she were a woodland nymph stepping from her hidden grove. Sleeveless and cut low in the front, the dress clung to the wearer as if it were a second skin.
    “That gown is ruinous! Why, she looks—” Lady Fitzsimon’s hands fluttered about as she searched for the right words.
    From behind the curtain, the three assistants finished her sentence for her.
    “Gorgeous,” Martha whispered.
    “Breathtaking,” Hazel added.
    “Unforgettable,” Ella said.
    “Common!” Lady Fitzsimon declared. “As if she’s just stepped from the stage of a revue. I want Lord Ashe to fall in love with my daughter. Marry her . Don’t you realize he must choose his bride tonight? Tonight, Madame! The gown Roseanne wears must be perfect!”
    “Stupid cow,” Martha muttered, her less than refined origins coming out. “That gel fair on sparkles in it.”
    “Aye, she does,” Hazel agreed. “Like a princess.”
    Ella agreed, for she and Roseanne were of similar colouring and build, and she had tried the dress on herself to make sure the blush green silk – like the first verdant whisper of spring – would bring out the girl’s fair features.
    “If you think I am paying for this, you are sadly mistaken,” Lady Fitzsimon said, sounding more like a shrewd fishwife than a baroness.
    Madame Delaflote took a furtive glance at the curtain, where she knew her assistants were most likely eavesdropping. Her brows rose in two dark arches, the sort of look each of them knew was a dangerous harbinger.
    If Lady Fitzsimon refused this dress, someone would pay for it.
    “And whatever are those things sticking out from her back?” the lady