Free Iron Lace by Lorena Dureau

the carriage.
    Celeste was the first to emerge from her "cocoon". She
entered the parlor blushing with pleasure as Vidal and her grandmother
duly greeted her with exclamations over how lovely she looked in her
bouffant gown of pale pink muslin trimmed with a deep rose velvet sash
streaming down the back from the bustle of her generous overskirt. With
her honey-colored hair caught up high to support the curved comb and
long black lace veil draped over it, the girl seemed to have turned
into a woman overnight.
    When Vidal and Grandmother Chausson asked for Monique,
however, Celeste suddenly lost her newly acquired aplomb. She explained
uncomfortably that her sister had had a last-minute idea. "She should
be down shortly," the young girl assured them uneasily.
    At that moment Monique appeared at the head of the
staircase. Grandmother Chausson let out a little cry of amazement, but
Vidal was absolutely speechless, as they both stared at the voluptuous
little figure in the long flowing white gown, relieved only by the
black lace mantilla, slowly descending, wraithlike, toward them.
    "My God! But the child has gone daft!" exclaimed Aimee
Chausson in dismay.
    Vidal, however, could only stare in dumbfounded
fascination at the way the thin silk gown, free now of the usual side
and back padding and layers of starched petticoats, cascaded gently
over the sensuously rounded body beneath it, caressing every curve and
indentation as it undulated to the girl's rhythmic movements.
    "Don't you like it?" She smiled, quite pleased by the
attention her entrance had won from all of them. "It looks Grecian,
doesn't it? It's so classic! They say this is the latest style in
France these days."
    "Merciful God in heaven! You might as well be naked!"
gasped her grandmother. "You can see
everything
!"
    "Monica… if you don't want to give your
grandmother a heart attack, you'd better go right back upstairs and put
on your
tournure
or
cul
or
whatever you call it," advised Vidal, finding his voice at last.
    "And your petticoats, too!" snapped Grandmother Chausson
quickly.
    "But it's so warm tonight," Monique protested, obviously
disappointed. Celeste was standing to one side grinning away with an
"I-told-you-so" look dancing in her soft brown eyes.
    Just then Mlle. Baudier came dashing down the stairs, her
usual implacable calm completely gone and her eyes popping out of her
head more than ever.
    "I assure you, I have nothing to do with this!" she
exclaimed as she spotted Monique standing in the parlor still
indignantly trying to defend her dubious efforts to be the vanguard of
high fashion in New Orleans. "Only ten minutes ago I checked the girls,
and they were all ready to leave, dressed the way any decent woman
going out on the street should be. I can't imagine what came over the
child…"
    "I tell you this is the latest fashion," insisted Monique,
her cheeks coloring with frustration and embarrassment. "It's called
the Greek Revival—the return to classicism. I read about it
in one of the journals the dressmaker brought with her."
    Vidal was smiling condescendingly at her now. "My dear
cousin, I'm sure you mean well," he conceded, "but I'm afraid New
Orleans isn't ready yet for such an extreme mode." He was beginning to
see more humor in the situation now than scandal. "I'm afraid such a
style really is beginning to gain some popularity in Europe," he
assured the skeptical elderly ladies.
    "No respectable woman would ever go out on the streets
without her padding or petticoats," insisted Grandmother Chausson
emphatically, while Mlle. Baudier nodded in agreement. "It simply
wouldn't be decent for a female to show off the natural shape of her
body like that in public! What is this world coming to, anyway?"
    Monique was silent now, but it was evident she was still
bristling beneath that drooping surface. It was only after the repeated
urgings of her inappreciative audience and Vidal's firm stand that she
couldn't go to the theater until she was dressed