Free When the Devil Drives by Caro Peacock Page B

front teeth, hand to her cheek, her indecision reflected in half a dozen mirrors. The rest of us watched and waited. Six of us altogether, Madame Leman and her two seamstresses in plain black dresses, the contessa’s German maid, my maid Suzette and myself, sitting on the end of a chaise longue, a swathe of velvet samples in my lap. The contessa was trying on a hooded cloak of mulberry coloured velvet, the hood edged with white fur. The effect was breathtaking, framing her deep violet eyes and dark curls to perfection. It was impossible to look at her without thinking of sleigh parties, harness bells and laughter on frosty air. But she wasn’t satisfied.
    â€˜It’s wrong, the feel of it. It’s . . .’ She swung round to me. ‘It’s the wrong animal.’
    â€˜The finest white coney,’ Madame Leman protested.
    The town’s most fashionable dressmaker – or rather couturière as her bronze plate had it – was a plump woman, with rouged cheeks, several chins and the air of a put-upon duchess.
    â€˜Coney?’ said the contessa.
    I struggled to remember Italian for rabbit.
    â€˜ Coniglio .’
    The contessa flung the hood from her head as if the lining were live asps. ‘Not possible.’ She flew to a rail by the wall, where clothes for other customers were hanging, seized a white fur wrap and held it close to her cheek.
    â€˜This is what it must have. See.’
    As far as the look of it went, she was right. The other fur improved on what had looked like perfection already, giving new lustre to her complexion, pointing up the whiteness of her teeth. Her great eyes took on a predatory gleam, as if from the nature of the animal that had owned the fur.
    â€˜Arctic fox,’ Madame Leman protested. ‘Very rare, very expensive.’
    â€˜No matter. It is what it must be. Coniglio – urrr!’
    She let the fox fur slide to the carpet and began tearing at the trim of the cloak hood, managing to rip a seam with fingers that must be stronger than they looked. Madame Leman and one of the seamstresses hastily moved forward and unfastened the cloak. The other seamstress had picked up the fox fur and was stroking it like a person soothing a sentient animal.
    â€˜Very well,’ Madame Leman said, with heavy politeness. ‘But fox will cost ten pounds more.’
    The contessa waved away a sum that amounted to three months’ pay for a governess with a flicker of her fingers. ‘No matter. And it must be done by Monday.’
    The seamstresses exchanged looks. They’d be working all over the weekend. The expression on Madame Leman’s face was one that would be recognised by anybody whose financial circumstances had ever been uncertain: she was wondering if her bill would be paid. She decided to give the contessa the benefit of the doubt, probably calculating that a woman with her beauty would always find some man who would pay.
    â€˜Very well, madam.’
    Having carried her point, the contessa was all smiles again. ‘All done, then. I shall send for everything else tomorrow.’
    By my count, over the last hour and a half in the fitting room, that included two day dresses, a superb evening costume in jade silk with a bodice of Valenciennes lace and a matching mantle in silk taffeta, two cloaks and a muslin pelerine embroidered with seed pearls in flower shapes. Also a riding outfit in blue twilled silk with a close-fitting jacket, the garment of all of them that had most provoked my envy.
    Suzette and I had arrived at Madame Leman’s premises in Piccadilly at half past eleven precisely. There’d been no sign of the contessa, so for ten minutes or so we discussed my requirements. Since I’d presumably have to move in the same social circles as the contessa, a new evening gown seemed appropriate. We’d done no more than settle the colour (soft green with darker moss green trimmings, so much le mode she told me)