Millie smiled and put a finger to her lips.
Clarice studied her gloves intently. She had heard enough talk in the ladies’ rooms at parties and balls to have a fair inkling as to how babies were made, but to hear someone speak of such a thing in public was outside her limited experience.
‘And whom do we have here? A new young lady, whom I have not seen before.’
A finger placed under Clarice’s chin gently lifted her head, and she found herself gazing into a pair of warm brown eyes. ‘Ma chérie, you look terribly uncomfortable. May I enquire as to your name?’ Madame asked.
‘Clarice,’ she whispered.
Lady Alice stepped forward and took hold of Clarice’s hand. She gave it a reassuring pat and turned proudly to the seamstress. ‘Madame, this is my granddaughter Lady Clarice Langham. It is my heartfelt wish that you will accept her as a new client.’
A single eyebrow was raised at the mention of her family name and Clarice frowned at the not-uncommon response. A small, secretive smile came to Madame’s lips.
‘So, you are the young lady whom Lady Alice has never been able to get to the top of my stairs? I am most pleased that you have finally come.’ She softly clapped her hands. ‘C’est bon! I have waited years to be able to serve you, my dear. Your beautiful mother was one of my best customers. It would be an honour to dress her lovely daughter. If you will have me, then I am yours.’
Clarice watched as Madame de Feuillide looked closely at her gown. The expression on the modiste’s face was not one of disdain, but rather curiosity. Clarice looked to Lady Alice in alarm. What was this woman about to do to her?
‘Trust me,’ her grandmother reassured her, ‘I would not have brought you here today if I did not think Madame was exactly what you needed. Today is the beginning of a lifelong relationship. Apart from your husband, your modiste will be your closest confidante. And for many women she is even closer.’.
‘Ladies, if you would like to take a seat, my assistants will bring out some new fabric samples which arrived this week from Paris. I am sure you will find something that will catch your eye. In the meantime, Lady Clarice and I shall get better acquainted,’ Madame announced.
Taking Clarice by the hand, she guided her through a doorway and into a small dressing room. Clarice removed her dark blue kerseymere spencer, revealing the plain coal-grey muslin dress she wore underneath, and waited.
She flinched as the modiste laid her hands ever so lightly upon her shoulders. ‘Your dress as well, my dear. I need to be able to take accurate measurements.’
A spear of panic coursed through her body. Her breath caught tight in her throat. She whipped her head around, searching for the door.
She closed her eyes as hot tears began to run down her cheeks. Having managed to avoid anyone seeing her undressed for so long, she was traumatised by the modiste’s request.
‘Could you just take note of my measurements? I know them by heart,’ she pleaded.
‘I promise you, my dear, that whatever minor imperfections you have, I shall make you shine. You can trust me,’ Madame murmured softly. She handed Clarice a clean handkerchief.
‘Thank you,’ Clarice said, drying her face. She summoned her courage and nodded her head. ‘Bon.’
With her back to Madame, she removed her dress and stood clad only in her chemise. When she turned back to face Madame, her arms were crossed over her chest. Her last line of defence.
Madame offered her a hand. Clarice looked at it and reluctantly released one arm.
‘And now the other, ma bichette,’ Madame said, as she reached out and took Clarice’s other hand. She smiled as she slowly pulled Clarice’s arms open.
‘Trust me,’ she whispered.
She stepped forward and with a quick motion, slipped the chemise over Clarice’s head.
Clarice closed her eyes, too afraid to look.
The merest of sighs whispered in the room before she felt a warm hand on her cheek. A thumb brushed away a tear as it rolled down her face.
‘Fear not, my child. It is normal to be unsure of your womanly figure. Many young ladies are just the same as you.’
Clarice opened her eyes and stared at Madame de Feuillide. The woman’s face was a study of warmth and honesty. She had not sought to judge her, only to reassure.
‘Please,’ Clarice whispered.
Madame hummed knowingly. ‘Of course no-one will ever know. The secrets of my clients are something I shall take to the grave. I take it, from your reluctance to visit me, that your grandmother does not know you bind your body?’
A shake of the head was all Clarice could muster.
Lady Alice had always been kind to her. If her grandmother were to know she hid herself from the world in such a way it would only cause her pain.
‘And that is how it shall stay,’ Madame replied. She pointed to the pin at the top of the bindings and softly said, ‘They must come off.’
Clarice raised a hand to her chest, her fingers touching the cold, hard pin.
‘Please,’ she pleaded.
Madame stepped forward and removed the pin. When she nodded, the unspoken message was clear. Clarice would have to remove the rest of the bindings herself.
She fumbled with the muslin, eventually locating the end. Slowly she unwrapped the topmost layer of the bindings. Madame gave her another encouraging nod and Clarice continued to unveil her body.
When finally she was finished, Madame took the bindings and placed them on a nearby chair.
‘Tell me, Lady Clarice, do you like how your friends dress?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to bloom into a beautiful flower? Now that I can see your figure, it is obvious you are perfectly proportioned,’ Madame said.
She stepped back and held up a hand before disappearing into an adjoining room. Within a minute she returned with a large armful of fabric samples.
When Clarice looked at the modiste, she could see the glint of excitement in her eyes.
Madame de Feuillide dropped the bundles of fabric onto a nearby chair and then stood over them for a moment, muttering to herself in her native tongue. Finally she clicked her fingers and pulled out a pale blue piece of silk. She turned and with a most uncharacteristic giggle, raced back to Clarice.
Holding the fabric up against Clarice’s skin, she continued to mutter to herself.
Finally she stepped away and stood nodding. Whatever discussion Madame had been conducting with herself, she had obviously reached an accord. She took hold of Clarice’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘Do you wish to be loved?’
Clarice felt her ears burn as she uttered, ‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Beautiful girls like you deserve to be loved, but it is the brave ones who find love. I think it is time you decided to be brave, Lady Clarice.’
‘What should I do?’ Clarice replied. She had no idea how to be brave in love.
Madame picked up a second piece of fabric. It was a deep gold satin, which Clarice barely felt as the modiste draped it over her shoulders. Madame hummed with satisfaction.
‘I understand your father is very wealthy, which is good, because you are going to need a whole new wardrobe, my dear. Everything from your undergarments to your slippers. I will make you the most wonderful and exquisite gowns, but you have to promise me something.’
It didn’t require a fortune-teller to predict what came next. But the vehemence with which the words were delivered took Clarice by surprise.
‘I want you to deliver to me, without delay, every piece of binding that you own. All of them! And along with them, I want your promise that you will never bind your beautiful body again,’ Madame de Feuillide demanded.
She crossed her arms and stood with her back ramrod-straight, her gaze fixed firmly on Clarice.
A nervous titter escaped Clarice’s lips. It had been a long time since another woman had spoken so strongly to her.
She nodded.
‘Say it.’
&n
bsp; She swallowed deeply. ‘I will be brave. I will send all my bindings to you today and from this day forward I will no longer bind my body.’
‘Bon. Now let us spend lots of your papa’s money,’ Madame replied with a clap of her hands.
‘Within reason,’ Clarice replied, not wishing to be a burden on her father’s purse.
Over the next half-hour Madame de Feuillide measured every inch of Clarice’s body, constantly reassuring her that she was neither the first nor the last girl the madame would see who hid her charms from the world.
By the end of her private session with the warm French widow, Clarice understood why Millie and Lucy had insisted she accompany them to their appointment.
Stepping out into the main salon, her bindings carefully reapplied for the last time, she gave her friends a confident smile. Millie raised her eyebrows in expectation, to which Clarice nodded.
‘Wonderful; now we can choose fabrics. Millie and I have already decided on several we think would be perfect,’ Lucy said.
As she walked over to a display panel laden with silks and satins, Clarice heard the modiste and her grandmother share an exchange. Madame de Feuillide rattled off a quick but extensive list of all the things Clarice would require for her new wardrobe.
Lady Alice nodded her head as she listened, and then finally announced: ‘Excellent, Madame; we shall take a dozen day dresses, a dozen walking dresses and six new evening gowns. It is past the mid-point of the season, so we won’t need a full complement of ball gowns. Oh, yes, and we shall need slippers and matching shawls.’
Millie, Clarice and Lucy stared at one another wide-eyed with delight, before turning back to the fabric samples with unbridled enthusiasm.
‘Oh, and ladies?’ Lady Alice said.
‘Yes?’
‘No black, grey or lavender.’
Millie and Lucy replied in unison. ‘Yes, Lady Alice!’
CHAPTER TEN
‘We have missed you over the past few weeks, Mr Radley; it’s good to have you back, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ David replied.
Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, situated in Bond Street, was almost a second home to him. Every Thursday afternoon for as long as he could remember, he had indulged in an hour of hard, muscle-building boxing. While others viewed the sport as an often painful test of their manliness, David found it the best way he knew to relax.
‘Are they tight enough, sir?’ the room master Mr Smith asked.
David looked down at the mufflers, which all members of the ton were expected to wear on their hands when they boxed at the academy.
‘Thank you, yes’, he replied.
In other parts of London, bare-knuckle boxing still had its place, but when a gentleman planned to dine in mixed company, he could ill afford to be sporting facial injuries. Black eyes and stitches did not make for polite dinner conversation.
Not that anyone had recently landed a punch within two feet of David’s head. He was the master of the one-punch fight if the mood so took him. His record of six wins in one afternoon was the current house record.
‘Are there any other gentlemen here today who would be interested in a session of gentle sparring?’ he asked, knowing few men would willingly take him on in a real bout.
‘I shall check for you, sir, but if no one is available, I am certain one of the saloon lads will agree.’
As the man closed the door behind him, David flexed his fingers within the soft wool padding. The wood chopping he’d undertaken at Sharnbrook Grange was reflected in his tender, blistered hands. He chuckled softly, recalling the look on the farmyard workers’ faces when they saw their new master pick up an axe and wield it with an experienced hand.
Little did they know of the countless hours the Duke of Strathmore had made his sons chop wood at Strathmore Castle in the middle of the Scottish winter. Character-building, he called it. Hard work was the reality for all three of his sons. Even bookish young Lord Stephen had not been spared.
The man soon returned, wearing a pensive look on his face.
‘There is one gentleman who has offered to give you a three-round match, sir,’ the man said.
‘But?’ David replied.
The man shuffled uneasily on his feet. ‘The gentleman is a potential new member; he has some experience from boxing in the country, but does not yet know the rules of the club.’
David snorted. What the man really meant was for David to go easy on the poor chap; otherwise he might not pay his membership dues. He nodded.
‘Of course.’
He rose from the wooden bench and followed Mr Smith out into the main boxing room.
As soon as he saw his opponent, his blood turned to ice.
Shadow-boxing in the corner, fully kitted out in brand-new boxing gloves and boots, was Thaxter Fox.
David stood and sized up his opponent. Tall and well built across the shoulders, he likely possessed a decent punch. David’s fists clenched as he recalled the ungentlemanly way Thaxter had manhandled Clarice at the ball earlier that week. The fear he had seen in her eyes still haunted him.
He made a silent promise to himself. He would not give Mr Fox any cause to call his own gentlemanly status into question. He would, however, draw the line at letting the blackguard lay a gloved hand on him.
Let’s see how much of a real man you are. There are no women here, so you will have to contend with me.
Thaxter Fox strode confidently over to where David stood and stopped. Rolling his head from side to side and doing a small jig on the spot, he gave the air of one who had seen more than his share of fights.
Neither of them bothered with the social niceties of a formal greeting.
‘Damn nuisance, these muffler things; what happened to being able to fight a man with your bare fists? I didn’t realise how many fops there were in London. I should not be surprised if they allowed girls to join this club,’ Fox sneered.
‘House rules, Fox,’ David replied, refusing to take the bait. A quick nod to his second and David was ready.
He punched his gloves together, mentally rehearsing the moment he intended to land a solid whack to Thaxter’s head.
Lord knows you need a good thrashing.
‘Mr Smith, will you do us the honour of refereeing the bout?’ David asked. He stepped back and assumed the standard opening stance for a bout.
Thaxter stood and looked him slowly up and down, contempt burning in his eyes.
David took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He was no wet-behind-the-ears pup; it would take more than that for Thaxter to get a rise from him. The playing fields of Eton had taught him how to control his temper in a fight. This newly arrived heir to a title would have to learn the ways a true gentleman conducted himself within the ton.
Mr Smith stepped between the two men and held out his hands. ‘Broughton rules apply, so I must remind you that there is to be no kicking, biting, eye-gouging or hitting below the waist. Any breaking of these rules will result in the immediate loss of the bout and possible expulsion from the club. Are we clear, sirs?’
David gave the requisite bow of his head.
‘Get on with it, man,’ Thaxter snapped, clearly itching to get at his opponent.
They danced around one another for several minutes, each man sizing the other up. Thaxter made several feints, but David simply stepped out of the way. He was looking for the usual telltale signs of a poor boxing master.
Mr Smith rang a small bell signally the end of the first round. David casually walked over to a chair and allowed his second to serve him a warm cup of tea. He had an unbreakable rule never to imbibe when he was boxing, a clear head being of crucial importance. David smiled, hearing Thaxter’s disgusted snort at his opponent’s choice of drink.
Thaxter took an opened flask from his own second and, clenching it between his gloves, threw a long swig down his throat.
Round two was almost a repeat of round one. They danced around one another at the beginning, only finally managing to
lock gloves toward the end.
By the sound of the second bell David could see Thaxter was getting more than a little frustrated. It took a great deal of fortitude not to smile at his opponent. David was toying with him and Thaxter knew it. While Thaxter had lines of perspiration pouring down his neck, soaking his shirt, David was yet to break a sweat.
He had just taken another sip of his tea when he felt a dull thump on his shoulder.
‘Next round I want a proper fight, Radley; no more of this namby-pamby prancing around the room. If you think you can hit me, then bloody well try.’
David turned to see his irate opponent storming back to his position, arms pumping out to the sides in a clear display of aggression.
He looked down at his gloves and calmly checked the laces before dismissing his second with a nod.
It was time to move in for the kill.
As soon as the bell rang for the start of the final round, Thaxter came at him in a mighty rush. He swung his arms wildly at David, brushing the outside of his shirt, but otherwise missing his intended target. He quickly retreated back to his mark.
David felt a twinge in his side and remembered the hours he had spent wielding an axe. He was obviously not in as good condition as he had thought.
He turned to the referee. ‘Mr Smith, are you satisfied that I have conducted myself in a proper manner?’ he asked.
The boxing master nodded his head. ‘Yes you have, sir; you may finish the bout. Mr Fox, please resume the fight.’
Thaxter made a second wild attempt to land a punch on David. He opened his mouth and began to complain that the bout was becoming a farce when David landed a powerful blow to the side of his head.
It stopped Thaxter in his tracks.
For a moment he stood and stared at David, clearly unable to register the fact that his brains were rattling inside his head. He blinked hard several times before his legs crossed beneath him and he crashed to the floor.
Mr Smith and the other staff quickly came to his aid, and lifting him to his feet, helped him to a nearby chair.
‘Mr Radley has been awarded the bout, by means of a knockout. If you wish for a rematch, Mr Fox, you will need to pay your full membership,’ Mr Smith said. He put a small bottle of smelling salts under Thaxter’s nose.
An Unsuitable Match Page 10
