Free Anne Barbour by A Talent for Trouble Page B

impatiently for her in a third-floor salon which had been transformed into a sewing room. On a sturdy work table reposed a small mountain of pattern books and fashion magazines, over which poured Cat and her dresser, an intimidating female known as Fosdick.
    Tally!” cried Cat, “At last. You have breakfasted, haven’t you? Good, then we can begin. Now,” she continued purposefully, “I think our best plan would be to make some choices from these.” She waved a hand at the mountain, which threatened to topple to the floor at any moment. “Next, we shall make the rounds of the modistes, so that we can choose a few things to be delivered immediately. Then ... what in the world are you laughing at, Tally Burnside?”
    “Nothing,” said Tally with a chuckle as she sank into a nearby chair. “Except that I think you should be sent to the Peninsula, for I’m sure you would be of much more use to Wellington than any of the generals he has now.”
    Cat lifted her nose, refusing to be drawn.
    “As I was saying, after we have chosen some gowns that can be delivered right away, we shall go round to the linen drapers and mercers and purchase the material for the ensembles we have picked out from the magazines. Then I shall send word round to my sewing-woman to come make them up.”
    She handed Tally a recent issue of La Belle Assemblée.
    “I want you to look at the evening dress in here—it’s the first gown pictured. Fosdick and I both agree that it would suit you beautifully. I especially like the stomacher a la Venus, although I think you would show more to advantage in a pale peach rather than the rose shown there.”
    Tally turned to the page indicated and gazed at a tall maiden who stared haughtily at the world from beneath a headdress a la Turque, adorned with pearls and a diamond crescent. She was encased in an underdress of white satin, over which flowed a drapery of rose-colored figured satin, edged with silk floss trimming. The low-cut bodice was draped with white spotted lace, and the sleeves, made of the same fabric, fell to her wrists, where they were caught up by more rose-colored satin.
    “Cat, I’d look like Christmas beef in this outfit. It’s much too ... too.”
    “You would not look like Christmas beef, you widgeon,” retorted her friend. “And it is not ‘too...too’ ”. ... It is elegant, and it will be vastly becoming. Well,” she amended, “except for the headdress, perhaps. The headdress is a little much. But,” she hurried on as Tally opened her mouth, “the gown is elegant, and you will look a dream in it.”
    Tally closed her mouth.
    “Now, then,” continued Cat, pressing her advantage. “Look at this opera dress. I think in a jonquil Chinese crape, don’t you, Fosdick?”
    The dresser pursed her lips thoughtfully and nodded. She then pointed out that a trimming of lace worked in the Dutch style would finish the gown admirably.
    “Yes, that would be just perfect. And see here, a Regency cap to add the finishing touch.”
    Tally sat silently, beginning to think she had faded from view as Cat and her henchwoman conferred over page after page of ball gowns, morning gowns, carriage dresses, opera dresses, and demi-toilettes.
    Finally, she cleared her throat loudly.
    “Excuse me,” she announced.
    “...and what do you think, my lady, of this India muslin scarf to go with...”
    “I said,” repeated Tally in a loud voice, “excuse me.”
    Two heads swung toward her.
    “Excuse you for what?” Cat asked confusedly.
    “Excuse me for interrupting this high-level conference, but I would like to put in a word—or two.”
    Cat simply stared blankly, but Tally, satisfied that she had her friend’s attention, continued.
    “I would like to make sure you understand that, while I am prepared to accept your very kind offer of a loan, I have no intention of buying out every shop in London. One or two moderately priced gowns should do for a start. Then, when I have my own money,