Free Duel of Hearts by Elizabeth Mansfield

in one evening, she could!
    The energetic little woman called herself Madame Marie, but the French appellation was only recently acquired. The closest Madame Marie had ever come to France was an outing to an eastern suburb of London. But Madame truly believed that everything French was more stylish, more elegant, more chic than its British counterpart. Paris was the beau monde , the dernier cri … and the determined Miss Mary Dabbs of Finsbury, who was gifted with a talent for styling hair and had an eye toward improving her station in life, had become Madame Marie Antoinette Honore Dabbs when she’d applied for her first post.
    If the various ladies who employed her were bemused by the French name and the French words which were interspersed in her vocabulary (for Madame Marie had acquired a French dictionary which she studied in her spare time) and pronounced with a native Londoner’s accent, they made no comment. For whatever her eccentricities, Madame Marie was a find .
    The culmination of her career was her present post as dresser to the stylish Lady Stanborough. Except for the housekeeper and the butler, she was the highest-paid member of the household staff. Her ladyship found Madame’s services completely indispensible. She’d often confided to friends that she wouldn’t know how she’d get on if she lost Madame Marie. She’d sooner do without her cook!
    Madame Marie was quite content with her post, but she had to admit that she’d been finding it somewhat dull of late. Lady Stanborough insisted that her hair be dressed in the same way each day—a complicated arrangement in which the popular curls-over-the-ears were kept to a minimum, and the rest of the hair was piled on top to make her ladyship appear taller. At first, the styling had been challenging, but it was no longer so, and Madame Marie yearned for a chance to exercise her considerable creativity. How delightful that tonight she would have that opportunity. What a bon chance !
    But as she walked down the hall to the back stairs, she rubbed the side of her very English nose in bafflement. She must discuss this matter with Cook. There had to be a good reason for Miss Sarah’s about-face. What was so special about a night at the opera to cause Miss Sarah to feel this sudden souci about her appearance? After wearing that hideous old-maid’s cap for almost a month, why was Miss Sarah suddenly desirous of blossoming out? If Madame Marie knew anything about life, she’d wager there was a new man in the picture. L’amour . It was always the cause.
    Earlier that afternoon, Sarah had seriously considered changing her plans and remaining at home. Facing Edward Middleton’s disregard once that day was quite enough to bear. But the opera that evening was to be Handel’s Radamisto , an opera she had not heard, and she’d looked forward to it eagerly. Why should she permit herself to go into a taking over an incident which no one else had even noticed—and miss the music because of something she’d merely built up in her own mind?
    No, she would not change her plans. She would attend the opera, hold her head up and enjoy herself. She must not let Edward Middleton (blast him!) upset her equilibrium. Since he was to escort them this evening, Sarah determined to make as impressive an appearance as possible. She knew that she was not in her first bloom, nor would she win his notice beside the radiant appearance of the bewitching Corianne, but neither would she cringe in the shadow as she had earlier this afternoon. She was Sarah Stanborough, a person of considerable worth, and she intended to behave as if she believed it.
    Madame Marie, having decided with Cook that Miss Sarah had taken an interest in a likely gentleman at last, gave the others short shrift that evening so that she could devote herself to turning Miss Sarah out in proper style. She entered Sarah’s bedroom shortly after six, bearing