Free A Lady in Disguise by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page A

always pleasant to discover what the dernier cri may beeven if we have no intention of wearing it ourselves.”
    Without further preliminary, Lillian began to describe a gown she had purchased only three weeks ago and had not as yet had the chance to wear. At first, Lady Genevieve feigned no interest in anything as frivolous as a pomona green morning dress, but then she said, touching the slightly wattled underside of her chin, “Fluted ruffs?”
    “Yes, very small and tight to the throat. Only for day wear, of course, but many ladies refuse to have a single costume made without one. Mrs. Garnet, for example.”
    “Mr. Fenniman, come and hear what Miss Cole has to say.”
    Nothing would content Lady Genevieve but that Lillian give the minutest account of every gown she’d seen within the last month. At least twice, Lillian made a slip of the tongue and said “my” or “I.” No one, however, seemed to notice, not even the dimly glimpsed figure of Mrs. Fenniman, listening behind the storeroom door and stealing peeks at Thorpe. He’d moved from the doorway, putting aside the newspaper, and now wandered about the store, handling the merchandise.
    Soon after Lillian’s brain had been wrung dry, the important choosing of material began. Addy looked up from her dolls as Mr. Fenniman pulled down the free ends of bolts of cloth, bringing them across the counter from on high in great falling sweeps, like candy-colored cataracts. Not a single bolt escaped the nearest examination that eye or touch could devise.
    ‘That merino crepe might do for you, Miss Cole,” Lady Genevieve said, after almost two hours. “It is not terribly dear, only four shillings the yard.”
    “Yes,” Mr. Fenniman said. “Most suitable. Mrs. Fitz-Joy’s governess purchased some only last autumn.”
    Lillian smiled to herself. None of the proprietors who enjoyed Miss Canfield’s custom ever showed her a bolt more than a week in the shop, knowing a lady of the ton could never appear the remotest bit passé. “It’s very fine,” she said, “but a trifle warm, perhaps. The weather is so temperate in June.”
    “It rains frequently,” Lady Genevieve said. “And there are draughts.”
    “Nevertheless...”
    Unhappy, Mr. Fenniman looked between his regular, well-paying customer and the young lady. “It’s a fine, light fabric, miss. Hardly warm at all.”
    “Then Mrs. Fitz-Joy’s governess must have been most uncomfortable this winter. Something else, I think, if you would be so good.”
    From somewhere in the depths of the shop came a double knock. Though Lady Genevieve positively jumped, and Lillian was startled, the proprietor did not turn his head. Thorpe looked up from the floor, where he was listening to Addy tell some involved tale about the elaborately costumed dolls. When the knock repeated, Thorpe asked, “Is your shop haunted?”
    “Excuse me, Mr. Everard. My lady.” The proprietor scuttled away. Returning after a whispered consultation with his wife, he said grandly, “I am reminded that my staff has recently received an inventory of ready-made dresses direct from London. If Miss Cole would consider them ...” His worried glance darted between Lady Genevieve and Lillian.
    “The very thing,” Lillian said. “If you can alter them before we leave Danbury this afternoon?”
    The double knock came as though in answer. “Very good, Miss Cole,” Mr. Fenniman said, breathing heavily and wiping beads of perspiration from his broad brow.
    The quality of the ready-made clothing was not as high as Lillian would have liked. After careful thought, she chose three in the medium price range, thinking that Paulina’s groom’s wife would appreciate the gift. Lillian wished she’d brought more of her money as there was one sarcenet gown, rather finer than the others, of midnight blue woven through with faint silver stripes, that would have shown off her hair and complexion to a nicety. However, she foresaw no need for such a dress