The next shop turned out to be full of rows upon rows of tiny bottles and labeled tins for every kind of beautifying purpose. Some of them were designed to whiten the complexion, others to ‘render it rosy as a maiden’s blush,’ as the printed material promised. Hair pomades and creams filled one long wooden shelf, while delicate vials and bottles of perfume and hartshorn lined another. Marianne read the descriptions attached to the beauty creams with awe.
“I can see your eye is caught by Wilkins’s Almond Cream,” the man who attended the shop said, stepping deferentially next to Marianne. “It is a favourite with the ladies who frequent this establishment. Two duchesses use it so regularly that they have a standing order for it, that they might have a little extra to benefit the grand ladies visiting them.”
“Does it really work?” Marianne thought of her own skin, a little too brown to be idolised by any swain she ever heard of.
“Proven to supportively tighten the skin in some areas to prevent wrinkles, soften the cheeks until they feel like silk, and most of all, transform an unfortunately-coloured complexion into one as fair as snow.” He must have meant snow in the country, for London’s snow was unimpressively dirty. “There are special ingredients, which I am not at liberty to divulge, which not only prevent blemishes, but also create a pleasing aroma.” His speech was comfortably delivered—smooth and confident, but with a humble little bow here and there to preserve dignity. “Shall I wrap some up for you?”
She paid, and the footman obliged her by taking the little box, as well as a few wrapped packages of perfumes and powders that attracted Marianne’s attention while the tradesman was sweeping over to the counter to prepare the sale. Hope gleamed in Marianne’s eyes. If she could reduce the brownness of her skin even a little bit, she would look much more like a genteel lady, and no one would suspect she had spent so much time trailing after unruly children outdoors.
The reverie continued as the Stokeses and Marianne visited a place that sold reams of silks, satins, merinos, and muslins. She could imagine each fabric cascading down the walls of the front hall of a castle, or wrapping snugly around her as she stepped from a sledge in some snowy part of Switzerland, or trailing from her straight back as she danced a minuet. Of course, her fantasies did not guide her perfectly—she frequently found that the pale shades she had passed over were exactly the ones Miss Emily exclaimed over, and the ordinary-looking sprigged muslins she had deemed worthy only of a cottage’s curtains were the ones Mrs Stokes selected for her own London townhouse.
“This one would be perfect for your complexion,” Miss Emily said, offering an ivory silk. Marianne wondered if she meant her current complexion, or the one she expected to have after using Wilkins’s Almond Cream.
“Perhaps—ˮ
“Oh, you must purchase it! It will be charming. If you do not like it for a gown, it has a thousand other uses. And Augusta found a sprigged muslin that would suit you admirably. You must get that as well.”
“I do not think I have enough money with me for all that,” Marianne said.
“No one of any style pays ready money for such things.” Miss Emily looked aghast, and Marianne flushed. She knew that the merchant at Wrumpton only accepted ready money from the Mowbreys—but then, that was likely because years of overrun credit had forced him to insist upon it. “Your aunt is a gentlewoman of excellent reputation. You need not fear anything.”
Marianne wished it was not so improper to discuss finances in detail. Money seemed to fly from the Stokeses’ hands in every direction, and one could only assume Mr Stokes’s income was fit to bear the expense. At the rectory, everyone had to scrimp, and Marianne knew all too well the cost of re-soling the boys’ boots, dosing little Harriet’s stomachaches, hiring a maid-of-all-work, or finding enough meat at the butcher to stretch out the family dinners.
Yet Miss Emily Stokes seemed to have no notion of counting costs—or if she tallied the amounts in her head, she invariably decided her father’s purse could meet them. How pleasant it must be to spend so freely! Even if the income of her friends and neighbours was a mystery to Marianne, surely her aunt could afford whatever the Stokeses could. Marianne wavered.
The ivory silk was lovely, and as her eyes grew accustomed to it, even the sprigged muslin began to look enticing. “I do not think my aunt intended for me to order anything,” Marianne said.
“She told you to have a good time, did she not? How can any woman have a good time shopping without buying anything?”
Marianne wanted to object that she had already bought some smaller items, but Miss Emily was pressing the ivory silk into her arms, and the sleekness slid over the skin between Marianne’s gloved hands and pelisse sleeves. It felt like luxury incarnate. “Perhaps a few things. Cloth can always be turned to some use or other, and my aunt seldom has the benefit of shopping with someone of fine taste.” She smiled at Miss Emily, who received her compliment with delight.
“Exactly! Now you must come and look at the satins Mama is examining. I am sure we will find something you will like.” She took Marianne’s hand and led her forward, and Marianne flushed again, this time with satisfaction and triumph. The Stokeses truly were treating her as one of their own, a lady of good breeding worthy of their efforts and affections.
While Martha poked at the merinos, Miss Stokes gave Marianne advice about coloured muslins for day dresses. The hectic excitement of outfitting Marianne pulled them all into a milliner’s down the street, where Miss Emily carefully guided Marianne in the choice of trimmings and the milliner advised her as to bonnets. Marianne found a chip bonnet with delicate white ribbons meandering over its crown, and she could almost picture Captain Pulteney’s smiling reaction when she wore it. If she kept it safe in the bandbox until she saw him again, the ribbons would stay pristine rather than getting smudged and limp as ribbons at the rectory inevitably did. It would be a sacrifice not to wear the delightful thing until she saw him, but a suitably romantic one. With a pleasant sense of self-denial supporting her, Marianne turned to the assortments of gloves and laces and selected a few for present use. Another new bonnet or two, as well—after all, she had to have something a little new to wear in public, if she must hold apart her chip bonnet for her next meeting with the captain. As the milliner wrapped up a goodly portion of the laces and gloves, Mrs Stokes took Marianne aside and beamed upon her.
“You are loading Thomas down quite a bit,” she said, indicating the footman’s increasing pile of boxes and parcels. Her tone indicated bemused approval. “I am pleased to see you have made good use of our time together.”
“I am very grateful.” Marianne had not realised her new acquisitions had made such a pile of treasure. And yet, there had been so much more she had wanted to purchase and had not. She struggled to maintain the self-approving sense of sacrifice that had buoyed her as the footman struggled to enfold all her new belongings with his liveried arms. “Perhaps we could have some of it sent on to my aunt’s house?” Her aunt might see her come in when she returned from the shopping trip, and she did not like to have so much brought in. Not that Marianne was ashamed of her purchases, exactly—but somehow she did not like for her aunt to see it all at once.
Mrs Stokes smiled. “If you wish, but we have only one more stop to make.”
Marianne remembered: Madame Renault’s. She dreaded Miss Emily’s teasing, but when they arrived at the dressmaker’s, she discovered the Stokes sisters remained in good humour. They said not a word of Marianne’s past errors, for which Marianne felt fervent gratitude.
This is what comes of having truly good, truly lovely friends. They are a little high-spirited sometimes, but look at their generosity! They have spent all afternoon helping me, and I have really done nothing for them. When Miss Emily pressed a pattern book in her hand and indicated the styles she recommended, Marianne found it hard to demur. “I do not think my aunt intended I should order any dresses.”
Miss Emily gave an impatient shake of her head. “Nonsense! What else were you to com
e with us for, but to buy what you please? And here you have all that cloth in the carriage. We shall have it brought in, and I will help you choose the designs Madame Renault will use.”
“But, Miss Emily—ˮ
“Well? What did you buy them for, if not for new gowns? I am sure I had every expectation of your using them. If you meant to store them in lavender in an attic somewhere, I wish you had not let me spend so much time choosing them for you particularly.” Miss Emily’s temples grew quite red, her good humour slipping away.
“Of course I will do as you suggest,” Marianne said, giving up her last resistance. In truth, the temptation to spend had outpaced her resolve even before Miss Emily’s entreaties. It was too glorious, having money at her command and so many beautiful things to consider. Marianne had seldom had any money for herself in Wrumpton, and the shops there were too small, with too little in them to cajole her into overspending.
She had made a muddle of her wardrobe under Aunt Harriet’s eye. If she was ever to get a husband, she must put it to rights. Surely her aunt would not begrudge her that.
A new and unexpected sensation of delight contributed to her choice: Madame Renault’s approval. While the dressmaker had frowned, sighed, and clucked to herself when Marianne had made her choices before, now she fluttered, trilled, and laughed under the instructions of Mrs Stokes and her daughters. If Madame Renault thought these new gowns were not only suitable, but lovely—what a change from Marianne’s earlier experience! Perhaps now when she strolled into a concert hall, gentlemen with quizzing glasses would beam instead of chuckle.
“At least we are getting a little pleasure from our outing,” Miss Stokes drawled, examining her sister’s choices for Marianne. Miss Stokes patted Miss Emily’s arm as if to congratulate her on her style.
“Has it not been fun all ’round?” Marianne said. Her smile slipped.
“She means Martha,” Miss Emily said. “We hate taking her anywhere. All she does is talk and look vulgar. Is she not horrid?”
Marianne hesitated. “I would not say that, exactly.”
Miss Emily’s chin jerked up, and she smiled. It was not a warm smile, though. It was a smile that bared teeth. “What a marvel of politeness you are. But when we are better friends, Miss Mowbrey, you will not be afraid to tell us what you really think.”
After that, Marianne did not dare to say she rather liked Martha, despite the occasional tedium of her prattle. If the Stokes sisters despised poor Martha, Marianne’s support would probably not change their minds. She was not enough in their own good books to sway them—not yet. At least, that was how Marianne justified it to herself.
At long last, with her parcels of millinery and perfumery tucked around her in the carriage, and the fabric left with Madame Renault for the proud succession of new gowns to come forth, Marianne settled back in her seat. Now that the excitement was beginning to ebb, other concerns tugged at her attention. Her feet throbbed from the day of standing and walking. Miss Emily’s light tones of chatter had been overtaken by Martha’s louder babble, and the carriage felt smaller and hotter than it had before. Mrs Stokes smiled a cool smile as the equipage made the fits and starts of movement involved in navigating crossroads and waiting for pedestrians to pass.
“I daresay you have had a very successful adventure,” she said to Marianne. “I am so glad my girls could be of service. They have such a natural taste. And Martha was helpful, too, I am sure,” she added politely. Martha stared at her in a lack of comprehension, having no such aspiration. “Your aunt will be so proud of you, Miss Mowbrey.”
“Proud?” Here the weight of Mrs Stokes’s authority could not sway her. “I do not think she will be proud.” Marianne pushed down a twinge of guilt and tried to make the best of things. After all, she had gotten exactly what she wanted. It was silly to have any unease now, when it was too late. And all her treasures were worth the risk of her aunt’s displeasure, she was sure. “But perhaps she will be willing to overlook it.”
While Jeannette trudged up the stairs under the weight of Marianne’s parcels, Marianne glanced into a few rooms to see if her aunt was home. There was no sign of her, but then it was unlikely she would be on the first floor, anyway—at this time of day, Aunt Harriet was more likely to be in her dressing room upstairs, taking a private rest between bouts of embroidering and socialising. Marianne began to wish she had gone ahead of Jeannette, but there was no passing her now. She hurried up the stairs and nearly collided with her aunt, who had come peering into the hallway.
“Charging down the hallway like a wounded elephant is hardly ladylike, Marianne,” Aunt Harriet said.
She recovered her composure quickly, but it took Marianne a few breaths before she could answer. “I am sorry, Aunt.”
“What on earth is Jenny carrying in? I thought you went shopping, not ransacking a village.”
“Captain Pulteney is right, Aunt. You do have Spartan thoughts. We were not ransacking anything.”
Marianne forced her breathing to slow, but her heartbeat was not so submissive. “The Stokeses were very helpful, and we found some nice things.”
The two bandboxes in Marianne’s arms were too large and awkward to deny, so perhaps the best choice was to display them. “I will show you.” Marianne walked into the dressing room from which her aunt had emerged, and she set down the bandboxes and lifted the covers. The two bonnets were nestled inside like sweet, flustered hens, and Marianne resisted the impulse to smooth their feathers.
Aunt Harriet was less impressed. “Why do you need the same bonnet in two colours?”
Marianne glanced over the boxes. To her, the bonnets were delightfully different—one, a shy, peeking nestling in green trim, the other a hearty brown-edged creation in full feather—but now that she was out of the shop, she could see how one might mistake them for each other. “They are a little different, Aunt. I really liked the brown one, and then the milliner said the green one would bring out the roses in my cheeks.”
“If she meant it would make you blush when you admitted to being such a fool, I daresay she spoke the truth. Is everything you bought like this?”
“I do not know what you mean. I bought some very pretty things—shoes, and a little bracelet, and some gloves.” She hastened to add something that might mollify—or at least distract—Aunt Harriet. “I bought you some tea.”
“I do not need any tea,” Aunt Harriet said, the lines around the sides of her mouth forming deep creases when she frowned. “This is what comes of traipsing about with ladies like the Stokeses. You think you ought to throw money down a well like they do, to keep up with them. I had hoped you would not be profligate like your mother, Marianne.” She replaced the lids of the bandboxes and gestured for Marianne to sit down. The cosy dressing room was the same as it had been when Marianne first arrived, all golden and silken and nearly humming with wealth, like a select beehive dripping over with honey.
This time the fanciful trinkets scattered on the ormolu tables seemed to reproach her instead of console her. They were rich and expensive and would stay in a rich and expensive environment, treasured and safe, whereas Marianne was an impoverished interloper who had already proven her unsuitability for Aunt Harriet’s home. Marianne sat on a tapestry-covered ottoman while her aunt seated herself in a queenly wingback chair, causing Marianne to instantly regret her choice of seating. She had thought perching on the ottoman would make her look penitent and humble, and no doubt it did—but it also felt like she was atop a tiny island in an expanse of quelled sea. A sea quelled by her aunt, which she could unleash into frothing fury again at her whim.
Marianne couldn’t even think of any heroines she could rightly pretend to be. Heroines got scolded, of course, but always for something wrong they did not do, or something right that their horrible stepmothers could not understand. None of them did stupid things like spend too much money on frivolous things. “I got carried away, Aunt. I know I ought not to have spent so much money, but I did.” The only heroi
ne-like thing she could do was to confess in full and beg pardon. “I ordered some more dresses from Madame Renault, too.”
Aunt Harriet’s eyebrow rose. “I see.” The deep ocean waters of the sitting room began a slow, dull churn, just as she had seen from the highest hill in Wrumpton. Marianne could sense the flicker of white caps forming and melting away all around her. “I suppose the dresses I already purchased were insufficient?”
“I discovered I have very bad taste.” Perhaps if she stated it baldly enough, her aunt would admire her candour and not scold her too badly. “I was ashamed of it. The Miss Stokeses have good taste, and I thought they could help me. I know I should have asked before ordering all those things.”
Her aunt’s lips pursed. “Perhaps you had better tell me what ‘all those things’ are. In full.”
Marianne described the things she had bought to the best of her ability, although she was sure she was already forgetting some of the items. Some of the things had been wrapped up to be delivered, and those were the hardest to remember, since she had often added a few last trinkets just before the package was tied up. “I truly am sorry, Aunt. I know it seems like I am a fool. I always managed the money as best I could at home. I made every penny stretch as far as it could, and I would have kept us out of debt if it had not been for—ˮ
She realised she was about to blame her mother, and a sense of sickly-sweet shame caused her to hang her head. Part of her insisted that the dreary scrimping she had done at the rectory was a thing of the past—that she was a new woman, free to be as open-handed as a heroine. Another part felt ashamed that she had lost sight of frugality in her pursuit of approval from the Stokeses.
To her surprise, the waters settled further, and a serene smoothness filled the sitting room.
“It is not all your fault,” her aunt said. “You had a windfall, so to speak, and you frittered it away. Most people with windfalls do. I can see I will have to teach you something about money.”
Flirtation & Folly Page 10
