‘We’ll positon them around the very edges of the room and in between the clusters of chairs keeping the middle of the room clear. Don’t you remember? Monsieur Girard showed you a sketch. And,’ Rose went over to one of the many occasional tables, ‘we will be changing the displays on the tables so that the only accessories on show will be ones that complement the outfits in the exhibition.’
‘Yes … I think I see,’ said Madame Renard, although she sounded rather hesitant.
‘At the end of the event, or if there happens to be a lengthy break in the proceedings, Sylvia and Mary will also be encouraging customers to look at the accessories and will be making suggestions as to which will go best with which outfit.’
‘Bon,’ said Madame Renard, although she still looked worried.
Almost wearily the proprietor gathered up the pieces of spoiled paper and put them in the wastepaper basket. Picking up the basket in a somewhat distracted manner she went to the steps which, while being small in number made up for it in breadth, running almost the full width of the back of the shop as they did. That evening they were to form the makeshift stage from which Lady Celia would descend in all her finery. Their normal, everyday function was to lead up to a large arch, which opened out onto a narrow corridor which itself ran the full width of the back of the shop. Off the corridor were a few rooms huddled together, jostling for space, the most significant of which were Madame Renard’s office and the storeroom. During the fashion event it was intended that the proprietor’s office would take on the mantle of a dressing room where Lady Celia would change and emerge in her various outfits.
‘Four stairs,’ said Madame Renard despondently, turning back. ‘Is it high enough, do you think, for a stage?’ She did not wait for a reply but instead retreated to her office, visions of models descending grand staircases in her head, very much aware that four stairs looked rather meagre in comparison.
Rose was minded to follow the proprietor into her office to enquire when Monsieur Girard would be joining them. On reflection, she thought better of it. From the raised voices that she had heard coming from Madame Renard’s office the previous day she was aware that the designer had not taken the news well when he had been informed that he would have a new mannequin to clothe. His mood had worsened when Madame Renard had admitted rather hesitatingly to being ignorant of Lady Celia’s figure. Consequently the amount of alterations and adjustments that would be required to be made to the chosen gowns to ensure that they fitted Lady Celia as adequately as they had done Lavinia, remained unknown.
The sudden opening of the door to the street brought Rose to her senses, preventing her from following her employer into her sanctuary. Instead she turned around and found herself facing the very man who had been in her thoughts.
Monsieur Girard, a small shadow of a man, stood before her, his eyes large with dark shadows beneath them as if he had slept badly. One delicate hand toyed with the end of his moustache, the other was clasped to his chest as if he were preparing himself for some fearful ordeal. It seemed to Rose that he did not see her at first, so preoccupied was he in scouring the room for someone else as if he imagined them to be lurking behind the mahogany counters or plaster mannequins. Satisfying himself that they were indeed alone he said at last:
‘Is she here yet, the mademoiselle?’
‘Lady Celia? No, not yet.’
At the sound of the young man’s voice Madame Renard rushed from her office and appeared at the top of the stairs, as agitated as the designer.
‘Marcel,’ she wailed, waving a sheet from the society pages. ‘Marcel!’
‘She’s here now, Rose. In the office with Madame. Mr Girard’s with them. There’s been ever such a to-do.’
These were the words that greeted Rose when she returned to the shop an hour or so later that morning after undertaking an errand for Madame Renard. She looked at Mary, the meek little shop assistant who had delivered such news and noticed that the girl’s usually rather expressionless and vacant face was now flushed with excitement, her eyes shining.
‘Lavinia’s friend is here?’ It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to enquire as to the woman’s appearance, but she thought better of it. She already feared the worst, believing as she did that the proprietor’s earlier outburst had been the result of discovering an unflattering picture of Lady Celia in the society pages. Besides she thought it unlikely that Mary could contain herself from giving a vivid description whether or not she received any encouragement to do so.
‘She’s large and stout, not a patch on Lady Lavinia as regards looks.’
‘Shush, Mary. She might hear you.’
‘I’m only saying what’s true, Rose,’ protested Mary, but she lowered her voice a shade nevertheless before continuing. ‘Mr Girard, he doesn’t want her to wear any of his gowns. Says she hasn’t the figure for it. Most particular he is about it. Not that what he’s saying isn’t right, because it is, but fancy saying as much to her face.’
‘He never did!’ Rose looked appalled. An unwelcome vision sprung up before her of Monsieur Girard giving forth as to the inadequacies of Lady Celia’s figure and the lady in question, outraged by such insults, marching out of the shop and slamming the door behind her.
‘He did as well,’ exclaimed Mary, enjoying herself having now got into her stride. Her obvious enthusiasm, Rose noticed with dismay, had attracted the attention of the other shop assistant, Sylvia, who made her way over to them, a smug look on her face.
‘He threatened to take all his dresses away, so he did,’ continued Mary, in her element. ‘Or at least cut them to shreds so they couldn’t be worn. Madame Renard is beside herself, what with the fashion event being tonight. ‘
‘I’m sure she is,’ said Rose.
‘I don’t know what she was thinking, a fashion event indeed!’ exclaimed Sylvia, smiling rather unpleasantly. ‘We’re not one of those posh department stores where famous Parisian fashion designers decide to show their London collections. Renard’s is just a little backstreet dress shop selling factory made garments. Haute couture indeed! Mr Girard isn’t a proper designer either, even if he is French. He’s just a friend of Jack’s who thought he’d have a bit of a dabble at designing clothes.’
‘That’s very unfair,’ admonished Rose. ‘Monsieur Girard has remarkable talent. That silver evening gown for instance, it’s quite exquisite.’
‘It is, I’ll give you that,’ admitted Sylvia rather grudgingly. ‘But I don’t think so much of some of his other outfits. They don’t look much better than the factory made garments if you ask me. I can’t see Madame’s customers paying the fancy prices he’ll be demanding for them, I can tell you that now.’
‘That’s why it is to be an exclusive event by invitation only. Madame has only invited a select few of her most affluent customers, as you well know.’
Sylvia sniffed and looked unimpressed.
‘How has Lady Celia taken it?’ Rose asked turning to Mary. ‘Monsieur Girard’s rudeness I mean about her wearing his gowns.’
‘Lady Celia?’ enquired Sylvia, looking curious. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Lavinia’s friend of course, the lady we’ve just been speaking of. It’s Lady Celia Goswell, didn’t you know?’
‘No, we didn’t know her name. Madame doesn’t tell us anything, Rose, you know that,’ said Mary. ‘Lady Celia Goswell? I don’t think I’ve heard of her, have you, Sylvia?’
‘No, I don’t think … Wait a bit. Isn’t she one of the Marquis of Perriford’s daughters?’ said Sylvia. ‘Now I come to think of it, I think she is. You don’t see many photographs of her in the press and now I see why.’
‘Don’t be so unkind,’ said Rose. ‘And don’t let Madame hear you say that. It’s important that this fashion event is a success for all our sakes. For one thing we owe it to Madame and for another, who knows where it might lead?’
‘To the House of Renard and a move to Oxford Street, I don’t think!’ retorted Sylvia, but Rose noticed that the girl
looked less smug now and more thoughtful. Really, she didn’t know why Madame Renard kept her on. Sylvia wasn’t above being rude to customers although Rose admitted that, when she chose to be, Sylvia could be quite charming.
‘Well, that’s the funny thing. To answer your question, Rose,’ said Mary. ‘Lady Celia seems to think it’s all a great hoot.’
‘Gosh, does she? Well, I suppose that’s something. Should I go in to see them, do you think?’
‘Yes, Madame asked most particular that you go to her office as soon as you arrived back, and here we’ve been keeping you talking.’ Mary touched Rose’s arm. ‘You will tell us what happens, won’t you? It’s better than being at the pictures!’
Rather reluctantly and with a growing feeling of trepidation, Rose made her way to Madame Renard’s office and knocked on the door. It was immediately flung open by the proprietor herself, as if she had been awaiting her arrival.
‘Rose. At last. I thought you had got lost. It was the smallest of errands that I sent you on, was it not?’ Madame Renard ushered her into the room and quickly closed the door behind her as if she thought the girl might make a bid to escape. She moved aside. ‘Lady Celia, may I introduce Miss Simpson? She is a particular friend of Lady Lavinia’s. Miss Simpson, this is Lady Celia.’
‘How do you do?’ said Rose.
Now that the proprietor had moved away to the edge of the room Rose had a clear view of the other occupants. Monsieur Girard was seated behind Madame Renard’s Edwardian satinwood desk. He looked so engrossed in his own thoughts with his head bent and his hands covering his face so completely that Rose wondered whether he was even aware of her presence. Lady Celia was seated in the chair opposite and had turned slightly away from the desk so that she might view the newcomer more easily. She beckoned with her hand for Rose to come forward. The gesture was made so exactly as if she were signalling to a servant to pour coffee or lay supper that Rose’s initial inclination was to remain standing where she was. An imploring look from Madame Renard however resulted in her feeling compelled to comply with the command no matter how humiliating she felt it to be.
‘Well, well, well. So you’re the famous Miss Simpson, are you?’ said Lady Celia in a voice that sounded surprisingly young and light given the woman’s appearance. ‘I have to admit I’ve been rather dying to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. A shop girl who has made rather an impression on young Cedric and a bit of an amateur sleuth as well, so I’ve been told. Well, well, well.’
Lady Celia rose in order that she might scrutinise her more closely, which gave Rose the opportunity to do likewise. Lady Celia, she found, was rather older than she had anticipated. She would have put the woman closer to thirty than twenty, and while tall like Lavinia, her build was so completely opposite as to make the idea that she should take Lavinia’s place and wear the clothes that had been made to her friend’s measurements seem quite ludicrous. What had Lavinia been thinking? Had Lavinia even given the matter any thought, she wondered?
Tall and heavy as she was, Lady Celia still cut an impressive figure, although some of this was surely due to the good cut of her jacket and skirt which emphasised her height rather than her girth. Her face was heavily and rather badly made up, while her hair was expertly coiffured. To Rose, she seemed a woman of contradictions.
‘How do you do, Lady Celia?’ Rose said again, at a loss as to what else to say.
‘I do very well as it happens.’ Lady Celia gave Rose a particularly appraising look. ‘I have to say you’re not what I imagined. I thought you’d be prettier. No, there’s no need to take umbrage. It’s a compliment, you know. You obviously have something about you other than looks to have attracted young Cedric. He’s rather a catch particularly for someone like you, not that I have to tell you that.’
There was an uncomfortable silence with Rose unsure how to respond and Madame Renard obviously of the view that this matter did not concern her. Having been duly scrutinised, Lady Celia appeared to have dismissed Rose from her thoughts for the woman’s attention turned back to the unfortunate Marcel Girard, sitting across the desk from her still holding his head in his hands. She regarded him with an impatient and somewhat contemptuous stare.
‘Really, this will not do, all this posturing,’ Lady Celia snapped at the designer. ‘I am not what you expected, I quite see that. You thought I’d look like Lavinia, all skin and bones, with a small waist and narrow hips. But how many women really look like that? Isn’t that why you designers incorporate puff sleeves or butterfly sleeves, or whatever they’re called, to create the illusion of slenderness? I mean to say, isn’t that what you do?’ She gave Monsieur Girard a particularly withering look, which was completely lost on him as he did not look up from the desk.
‘Really, Madame Renard I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about,’ Lady Celia said, turning her attention to the proprietor. ‘All these advertisements you see in magazines, why, they are quite unrealistic. There is a reason why they use drawings rather than photographs. The women they picture are always about three times as tall and thin as any woman I’ve ever come across. Except perhaps for Lavinia, but then she is rather waif like. But how many of your customers resemble her, I’d like to know.’ She laughed rather dismissively. ‘Not very many, I’d imagine, whereas I would hazard a guess that quite a few of them resemble me in profile, do they not?’
‘Of course, what you say, it is true,’ said Madame Renard, rallying a little. ‘And had the fashion event been next week, there would have been no issue, I think.’ She gave a quick glance at the designer as if she feared that he might contradict her. ‘But it is not. It is tonight and the gowns, they have been made to fit Lady Lavinia.’
‘Well, she’s not here, is she?’ snapped Lady Celia. ‘And I am. Surely you can alter them? Let out a seam here, move a button there?’
‘Ce n’est pas pratique,’ cried Monsieur Girard, jumping up from his seat. ‘The gowns, they are cut to the model’s precise measurements. There are not the big seams with the great surplus of material that you imagine. We cannot let them out, as you say. And you cannot move a button from here,’ he paused to point one hand flamboyantly to his left, ‘to there.’ He pointed to his right in an equally showy manner. ‘It will not work. It will change how the garment looks, how the material hangs, the way it folds over the body, how it drapes.’
‘Will it?’ asked Lady Celia in a rather disinterested voice. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t know much about that sort of thing.’
‘That, mademoiselle, is evident,’ replied the designer. A lesser woman than Lady Celia might have recoiled from the look he gave her, but the woman in question did not flinch or even appear to notice. Certainly she did not fidget in her seat or look the least bit uncomfortable.
‘The fact of the matter is, Lady Celia,’ said Rose entering the conversation at last, ‘the clothes that were made for Lady Lavinia will not fit you, and there is no time to make new ones to your measurements. We will have to find another model.’
‘But –’ wailed the proprietor.
‘Madame Renard will of course desire your presence at the fashion event. Perhaps you could launch the event and endorse one or two of the outfits that you consider particularly becoming?’
‘Becoming on someone else? And what, pray, am I to wear?’ demanded Lady Celia. ‘Surely you are not suggesting I wear one of my own gowns?’ She turned and gave the designer a sweet smile, ‘I fear they will overshadow your designs, monsieur. You see, my clothes come straight from the Paris fashion houses. Haute couture at its very best.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Rose quickly before Monsieur Girard could reply. ‘I was going to –’
‘You are surely not suggesting that Lady Celia wear one of our factory made garments?’ cried Madame Renard.
‘No, that’s to say I was wondering whether Lady Celia might consider wearing one of the semi-made tailored outfits that you are introducing to the shop, Madame.’
‘Goodness, whatever are
semi-made outfits?’ enquired Lady Celia.
‘But of course!’ exclaimed the proprietor. ‘Lady Celia, they are expertly cut garments from manufacturers who tailor only the very finest retail outfits. These garments they have the same great attention to detail and workmanship that you would find with couture dresses, is that not so?’
Madame Renard had paused to glance at Monsieur Girard for confirmation, but it was Rose who answered: ‘Oh, yes.’ The designer himself looked inclined to disagree, but said nothing.
‘All the difficult stitching, pleating and tucking is skilfully done by the manufacturer,’ the proprietor went on. ‘The dresses, they are virtually complete. The only seams that are left undone are those which will allow us to make your personal adjustments to ensure a precise fit. Enfin! A way out of our dilemma.’
‘I hope you’re not expecting me to wear something made out of one of those awful cheap materials like rayon,’ complained Lady Celia.
‘Non. Not at all,’ Madame Renard said quickly. ‘These garments, they are made from only the very finest materials like silk flat crepe.’
‘And my gowns, the ones that I have designed, who is to wear them?’ demanded Monsieur Girard. ‘Is this to be a fashion event only of the factory made and semi-made garments? Perhaps I should go to another boutique who will appreciate my gowns.’
‘No, please, monsieur, do not do that,’ cried Madame Renard in a voice that threatened any moment to become shrill. ‘Oh, Rose, who can we get to model monsieur’s gowns? Oh, if only you were a little more slender you could do the job very well yourself. If only –’
‘Sylvia,’ said Rose. ‘Sylvia can be your mannequin, Monsieur Girard.’
Chapter Four
‘Sylvia?’ Madame Renard looked taken aback as if she had been struck by lightning. ‘Sylvia? That girl? Are you out of your mind, Rose?’
Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Page 3
