“It is a beautiful dress,” the model commented, watching the way the heavy material swung. “A triumph.”
“Thank you, ma chére.” Céline straightened up and examined the result with her head on one side. “But it is not a dress for a jeune fille. It will be hard to find the perfect woman to wear it.”
The doorbell jangled, and Céline looked up to see a new customer entering, the woman’s lady’s maid one step behind. Céline took the customer in at a glance. She was an attractive woman, who appeared young until one saw the streaks of gray in her thick dark hair, and the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. The modest, uncertain way she glanced about her showed that she was not nobility. Her clothes were respectable but not inspired. Céline wondered who she could be. She was too old to be a theatre star, but certainly attractive enough to have been one once. New money, then, but not the usual kind, who thought that bad manners stood in for good breeding, and whose dress was usually chosen with display rather than taste in mind. Céline was intrigued.
She went over to greet the woman, smiling encouragingly. The smile she gave Céline in return was sweet and grateful, and Céline was suddenly sure that she had seen her face before.
“Madame is looking for something in particular?” she asked.
“Yes.” Her accent confirmed Céline’s suspicion that she was new money. “A dress for an evening party. My publisher told me that you were the best dressmaker in London.”
Céline couldn’t help but smile at her innocent enthusiasm. So many women came in here blustering and cheapening the gowns.
“I am honored. Madame is a writer, alors?”
“I have written novels.” The woman hesitated again. “It is a dinner in my honor, in fact,” she went on, blushing. “I have been anonymous so far, and my publisher wishes now to reveal me to the press and the public. I must make a good impression.”
Céline was far too professional to let her surprise show on her face. To ask questions was of course impossible, but she at once wondered if this lady could be the mysterious R. J. Peak.
“Well, madame,” she said, “may I ask you to step behind this screen and remove your hat and dress please.”
The woman hesitated, then obeyed. After an appropriate length of time Céline joined her behind the screen. The woman stood blushing nervously in her satin slip. Céline examined her for a few minutes in silence, walking around her twice, so as to get the best possible impression of what she had to work with.
“You have excellent lines,” she announced finally, “and wonderful poise to the head. Moreover, your complexion is very youthful.”
“I fear you flatter me,” the woman said.
Céline shook her head firmly.
“I never flatter. It is bad for business. One may sell a dress on flattery, but when the customer realizes it does not suit them, they do not return.”
“I see you have found that honesty is the best policy.” The woman smiled.
“Oui, madame.” Céline returned her smile. “Trust me; you could wear any gown fearlessly. But this is not any party, is it?”
“No,” the woman agreed. “That is precisely the problem. My publisher wishes to present me, almost as if I were a—a—gown myself. Do you understand? They wish the press to be impressed with me as an author. And for that, I cannot simply look like myself. I must present an image of someone they would like to see as an author. Am I explaining myself well?”
“Very well,” Céline nodded. And you have explained something else too, she thought. Something about this woman’s quiet intelligence—as well as her understated beauty—reminded her strongly of the Duchess of Huntleigh—or, as Céline still thought of her, Lady Rose. Could they be related some way? she wondered.
“I hope you have some ideas, because I have none. I must admit I am not used to high society,” the author said with a blush.
“Plenty of ideas, madame. Never fear, we shall make you look like an author.” She glanced around the screen and beckoned the closest model forward.
Céline went to work, explaining the gowns as the models posed and turned to show off their various cuts and colors. The author seemed pleased to have someone take the difficult business of styling her off her hands, but shook her head at most of the dresses.
“They are charming, but—”
“But you want to appear something more than merely charming.” Céline nodded.
They saw dress after dress, but either Céline or the customer dismissed them. Too young, too sweet, too frivolous. Not suitable for an author who wished to appear mysterious, alluring, intelligent. But when the author saw the Sphinx she exclaimed in delight.
“Oh, that is beautiful. So elegant.” She reached out to touch the woven silk, and the model turned obligingly so that dull gold rippled into sable and back again as the light caught each thread alternately. She looked at Céline. “You don’t agree?”
Céline liked the woman, but the “Sphinx” was a demanding dress. She was not immediately certain that she would have the necessary character to wear it. Still, she nodded to the model to step out of the dress.
“We shall try it. But, madame, if it is not perfect, I will not sell it to you. I hope you understand.”
“Perfectly. I understand my own professional sphere, and I trust you to understand yours.”
Céline fitted the dress to the woman’s shape, letting out some seams and tightening others. She did her very best, hoping she would not have to disappoint her. But as soon as she stepped back and saw the full effect, she knew the match was made. This woman, with all Rose’s character, but with the added confidence of age, was perfect for the severe, sensual lines of the Sphinx.
“It is so modern and so artistic!” the author exclaimed, turning this way and that before the mirror. The dress moved as if it were part of her body. “It makes me think of light on desert sand.”
“I was inspired by the shadows cast by ruins of ancient Egypt,” Céline told Mrs Cliffe. She stepped back, considered the dress, and knelt to adjust a fold. A distant shout from the street made her glance up. There seemed to be an unusual number of people thronging outside. She tried to block it from her mind as she concentrated on making the gown look perfect.
“Madame, I cannot make a better suggestion,” she said finally, getting to her feet. “This gown makes you look beautiful, but powerful also. Like a—what is the word—une lionne. A lioness.”
“It is simply wonderful.” The author turned from side to side, admiring herself in the mirror. “And not too frivolous.”
“No, indeed, a younger woman would be dominated by it, but for you it is perfect. It will only enhance the mystery around you. Now, you simply need some jewels—nothing too childish. Besides, I am sure pearls will be démodé very soon.”
Céline stepped outside the screen and looked about her. They did not strictly sell jewelry, but she kept some pieces she had collected in the antiques markets of Paris around her, displayed on fragments of marble statues. One caught her eye at once: large, roughly shaped turquoise beads mingled with brass. She picked it up, then hesitated. There was much more noise outside than usual. Céline heard running footsteps and muffled shouts. Through the front window she could see that the street was unusually crowded.
“What is that disturbance in the street?” she asked Mme. Bercy quietly.
“I do not know, madame. A lot of people seem to be coming out of the houses and offices.”
“Hmm!” Céline was annoyed. She did not want Hope Street to be seen as the kind of place where a public brawl might occur. It was bad for business. She went back behind the screen.
“Try this,” she told the author, handing the necklace to her.
The author fastened the necklace around her neck. Instantly Céline knew it was the right choice. It intensified the color of her eyes. The woman turned to the mirror, and smiled.
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “Just what I was hoping for.”
Céline left her to dress and
went out into the shop. The volume of noise outside was even louder than before.
“Are they still making trouble?” she exclaimed in annoyance.
Madame Bercy made an apologetic face.
“Well, I shall not have it.” Céline marched to the door, and jerked it open. The noise and glare of the summer street hit her as she stepped out.
A crowd was gathered in the small cobbled street. From the newspapers that were being passed around, she gathered that it was focused on the newsboy. All everyday business seemed to have ceased; the flower sellers had abandoned their stalls to pore over a copy of the Mirror together, the pub had emptied onto the street and knots of men stood about, talking animatedly. A sudden fear snatched at Céline’s heart. Something of national importance had clearly happened. The next moment, another boy ran into the street, a bundle of newspapers tucked under his arm, and one held flapping above his head.
“Read all about it! Great Britain at war with Germany!” he shouted.
“What!” Céline gasped. She ran to him at once.
Handing him a penny, she took the paper. The print was still wet, but she hardly noticed the marks it left on her gloves. The first glance at the front page had shocked her breathless. Great Britain declares war on Germany, read the headline. Germany invades Belgium with airships.
“War!” she exclaimed, unable to believe it. Her thoughts flew at once to her family in Lille, so close to the Belgian border. She quickly read the news report. There was no doubt about it, the news was genuine. The royal family had acknowledged it. Of course, there had been rumors, whispers, fears. But she had been too busy establishing the business to pay much attention, and besides it had seemed so unlikely. She felt as if she had stepped out of the door of L’atelier and into a nightmare.
“Oh!” exclaimed a voice close to her. She turned, to see that her new customer had followed her out and was reading the newspaper over her shoulder. She looked terrified.
“It is such awful news,” Céline began.
The author pointed at a smaller headline. British Warship reported sunk by German fleet.
“My daughter. She is on honeymoon in Egypt.”
In a flash, Céline knew that she had been right. She had received a postcard from Lady Rose only the week before, from Alexandria. This woman must be her mother. She understood her terror at once; with the seas a battlefield, British citizens abroad would be in a difficult, even dangerous, position.
Without another word, the author turned and hurried to her motorcar, where her lady’s maid was already waiting for her with the ribboned parcels.
“I am so sorry—I do hope she will be safe.” Céline followed her, anxious both for Lady Rose and for her customer, who seemed on the brink of tears. Unconsciously she placed her hand on the open window of the motorcar. “Please try to be calm. I am sure this will all be over very soon.”
The woman seemed hardly able to speak for fear. Instead she touched Céline’s hand in a quick, instinctive gesture of shared understanding.
The motorcar drove away and Céline was left standing in the street, wondering what the future would hold.
Almost before her motorcar had drawn up outside her house, Mrs. Cliffe was opening the door. She stepped out as soon as it was stationary and was halfway up the path before the butler, who had come down to meet her, could reach the car.
“Has there been any message from Rose?” she asked him at once. From his expression she could tell he had heard the news of war.
“Yes, ma’am—a telegram.”
Mrs. Cliffe ran into the house, Mary rushing along behind her with an armful of parcels. She saw the telegram at once, stark and white on the hall table. Her hands shaking, she snatched it up. Egypt was an Ottoman protectorate, and the Ottomans would be on the side of Germany; she knew that. Egypt could easily become a battle zone. She tore open the envelope and scanned the message.
WE ARE SAFE STOP NO SHIPS DEPART PORT SAID FOR FORESEEABLE FUTURE STOP PLEASE DO NOT WORRY STOP LOVE ROSE STOP
Mrs. Cliffe breathed out a sigh of relief. Tears trembled in her eyes. The butler came up to her, concern on his face.
“Madam, is everything—?” he began. Mrs. Cliffe understood that he was too tactful and aware of his position as her servant to finish the question.
“She is safe for now.” Mrs. Cliffe dabbed the tears from her eyes with her handkerchief. “But I do not know when we shall see her again.”
LEILA RASHEED is the British author of the middle grade novel Ships, Beans and Limousines and its sequels. She was previously a children’s bookseller in Brussels, but now writes and teaches creative writing full-time.
Diamonds and Deceit (At Somerton) Page 28
