Belle Epoque by Elizabeth Ross Page B

hiring me for her daughter’s ball,” I explain. “I had a trial date with her on Saturday.”
    “You lucky thing,” chimes in Hortense.
    “Where did she take you?” Cécile asks.
    Their scrutiny is making me uncomfortable. “Nowhere. I mean, I had dinner at their house.” I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant.
    Marie-Josée has taken custody of the kettle and is making a pot of tea. “Quiet dinner, my foot. The countess knows how to put on a show,” she says, not helping my desire to stay unnoticed. She opens a box of madeleines and arranges them on a plate. “What did they serve? How many courses?”
    She’s putting me on the spot. I’m not used to being the center of attention, and I feel shy. “I can’t remember how many.”
    “Details, please,” Marie-Josée demands, taking a seat and placing the tea tray in front of us.
    “Who was there?” asks Cécile.
    “What did the countess wear?” asks Emilie, the hairs on her mole quivering with curiosity.
    To my relief there’s a knock on the dressing room door and Laurent interrupts the interrogation. “
Bonjour
, mesdemoiselles.”
    The girls’ focus shifts to his handsome face. “
Bonjour
, Laurent,” they chorus. He searches the room until he meets my gaze. “There you are, Maude. I have a message for you from Monsieur Durandeau.”
    I freeze at the mention of his name. The others look at me—they’re glad his message isn’t for them.
    “He asks that you go and see Madame Leroux. She has to fit you for the Rochefort ball.”
    I stand up, grateful that it’s only the seamstress I have to face and not Durandeau.
    “A ball dress? How exciting!” Emilie chirps.
    “Yes,” sneers Cécile. “I’m sure Leroux has made you something special for the occasion.”
    I walk toward Laurent, who’s holding the door open for me. “Actually, the countess has sent you a dress from her couturier,” he says, smiling. There are gasps from around the room. “She had very specific instructions.”
    I glance back at my comrades, wondering how I should react. The other girls nudge each other and exchange looks. I suppose this must be a good thing. I look at Marie-Josée, who is nodding at me encouragingly.
    “And of course”—Laurent puts his arm on my back, gently guiding me out of the dressing room—“the client is always right.” Before the door is closed behind me, I can hear the other girls whispering.
    Madame Leroux pins the waist of the new gown in stony silence. When I saw it on the hanger, I knew instantly that this gray satin dress was in a class of its own. I glance down at the bodice and full skirts, trying to examine the countess’s choice.
    “Keep still or I’ll be sticking pins in you, not the dress,” says Leroux.
    Standing on a stool, I have not been permitted to look in the mirror, and given the seamstress’s current mood, I fear I will be deprived of that privilege altogether.
    There’s a knock on the door and Marie-Josée enters. “Vivienne?” she calls Madame Leroux by her first name. “There’s a lunch special on today at Chartier. Do you want to join us?” Marie-Josée has everyone charmed, even the scatty Madame Leroux.
    “I would if I had the time.” She throws her arms up and waves them toward the ever-increasing pile of dresses. Strands of frizzy hair escape from her bun with every gesture. “These constant fittings—I can’t get anything else done.” Her scissors hang from a ribbon around her waist and swing like a pendulum as she gets worked up.
    Marie-Josée sighs in solidarity with Leroux, then turns her attention toward me. “Well, don’t you look all dressed up with nowhere to go.” She turns me around, examining the dress as I try to keep my balance on the stool. I’m desperate to see what the fuss is about.
    Marie-Josée raises her eyebrows. “This is a first, Vivienne,” she says.
    “Never. I’ve never had a client send over a dress before,” says Madame Leroux peevishly.
    “That’s one fussy