assistant would remember her? At least he had not blurted out her name, probably because he did not know it. She had been just another customer, one who took her purchase with her rather than having it delivered.
From under a counter the Englishman began to pull out bolts of cloth. He worked with a will, this young man in his early twenties who handled the materials as if they were precious stuffs, nearly alive, in his hands.
As Mara saw the jewellike colors he had selected from the stock, she said, “No, no, I should have told you. My need is for something quite practical, perhaps in gray or brown."
"As you wish, mademoiselle,” he answered, his English accent suddenly pronounced. He was frowning as he placed a bolt or two in the colors she had indicated on the counter.
Mara had no time to concern herself with the approval of a shop assistant. She picked up the corner of each piece of cloth in turn. The material was fine wool challis, tightly woven and with a silky texture to the fibers. She hesitated over it, however, touching first one bolt, then another in the attempt to make a choice. She had worn such drab colors for so long before coming to France. They had little appeal now.
"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion, mademoiselle?"
She sighed as she nodded agreement.
"The tan will extinguish you, draining your face of vitality. The gray is better. But best of all would be this.” He picked up a bolt of rich, deep red with a hint of purple in the folds and sent it flowing over the counter.
"It's beautiful, but hardly the thing for supervising the cleaning."
"Why not? One should look just as soignée for such a task as for attending the theater or pouring tea. And the color is no more likely to show stains, perhaps even less so. Besides, in it your skin will appear with its true clarity and perfection."
His words were said with such earnestness that it robbed them of any hint of flattery. “You are very persuasive."
"I am right,” he said simply.
She consented to the garnet red, also to a clear deep blue and a rich green in addition to the gray. With that out of the way, she stood considering how the dresses should be made up in order to decide on the amount of each color needed. It would not do to scrimp on trim, but there was so much of it added to gowns these days, so much draping and swathing, so many bows and rosettes and flounces, that such things often took as much cloth as the gown itself. She said as much aloud.
"True, mademoiselle, and a great waste it is, for this excessive decoration inclines one to look at the gown, not the wearer. For you, it would be a mistake in any event. You have the look of a Raphael madonna, pure, natural, but with a hint of the sensual. You need no great adornment."
This was a most unusual shop assistant. She came very near to asking him if he had some idea of designing women's apparel, but dismissed the idea. It was far more likely that he wanted only to increase his sales to the point that he would be made head manager with nothing to do but wear a tailcoat and direct the other assistants.
"I require also a few lengths of white lawn or cambric,” she said.
"Certainly, mademoiselle. A shipment of exceptional quality arrived this morning. I will show it to you."
It was obvious that such a request could only be for undergarments. Worth's agreement was polite without a sign of consciousness, however. It might well be that he would become head manager in no great length of time, perhaps before he was thirty.
The lighter-weight materials were in a different section of the establishment. As the young Englishman went away to fetch them, a man who had been standing somewhere behind Mara moved to her side.
"You are looking well, Mademoiselle Delacroix."
She whirled, her eyes widening as she faced a tall, thin, satanic-looking man dressed in black. It was de Landes, the man who had thrown her out of a carriage less than a week before. Even as she registered that
From under a counter the Englishman began to pull out bolts of cloth. He worked with a will, this young man in his early twenties who handled the materials as if they were precious stuffs, nearly alive, in his hands.
As Mara saw the jewellike colors he had selected from the stock, she said, “No, no, I should have told you. My need is for something quite practical, perhaps in gray or brown."
"As you wish, mademoiselle,” he answered, his English accent suddenly pronounced. He was frowning as he placed a bolt or two in the colors she had indicated on the counter.
Mara had no time to concern herself with the approval of a shop assistant. She picked up the corner of each piece of cloth in turn. The material was fine wool challis, tightly woven and with a silky texture to the fibers. She hesitated over it, however, touching first one bolt, then another in the attempt to make a choice. She had worn such drab colors for so long before coming to France. They had little appeal now.
"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion, mademoiselle?"
She sighed as she nodded agreement.
"The tan will extinguish you, draining your face of vitality. The gray is better. But best of all would be this.” He picked up a bolt of rich, deep red with a hint of purple in the folds and sent it flowing over the counter.
"It's beautiful, but hardly the thing for supervising the cleaning."
"Why not? One should look just as soignée for such a task as for attending the theater or pouring tea. And the color is no more likely to show stains, perhaps even less so. Besides, in it your skin will appear with its true clarity and perfection."
His words were said with such earnestness that it robbed them of any hint of flattery. “You are very persuasive."
"I am right,” he said simply.
She consented to the garnet red, also to a clear deep blue and a rich green in addition to the gray. With that out of the way, she stood considering how the dresses should be made up in order to decide on the amount of each color needed. It would not do to scrimp on trim, but there was so much of it added to gowns these days, so much draping and swathing, so many bows and rosettes and flounces, that such things often took as much cloth as the gown itself. She said as much aloud.
"True, mademoiselle, and a great waste it is, for this excessive decoration inclines one to look at the gown, not the wearer. For you, it would be a mistake in any event. You have the look of a Raphael madonna, pure, natural, but with a hint of the sensual. You need no great adornment."
This was a most unusual shop assistant. She came very near to asking him if he had some idea of designing women's apparel, but dismissed the idea. It was far more likely that he wanted only to increase his sales to the point that he would be made head manager with nothing to do but wear a tailcoat and direct the other assistants.
"I require also a few lengths of white lawn or cambric,” she said.
"Certainly, mademoiselle. A shipment of exceptional quality arrived this morning. I will show it to you."
It was obvious that such a request could only be for undergarments. Worth's agreement was polite without a sign of consciousness, however. It might well be that he would become head manager in no great length of time, perhaps before he was thirty.
The lighter-weight materials were in a different section of the establishment. As the young Englishman went away to fetch them, a man who had been standing somewhere behind Mara moved to her side.
"You are looking well, Mademoiselle Delacroix."
She whirled, her eyes widening as she faced a tall, thin, satanic-looking man dressed in black. It was de Landes, the man who had thrown her out of a carriage less than a week before. Even as she registered that
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