Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (19 page)

'—that there's a man sleeping in the bed?' Senda completed
the sentence for her, smiling slightly.

The woman nodded unhappily. 'You must excuse me, my
dear. I didn't mean to pry. I mean whatever anyone . . . Well,
just put something on, my dear. It doesn't matter what. And
don't worry about bathing or doing your hair. There's plenty
of time for that later. Princess Irina has the most divine hair
dresser. I know for a fact that at least one princess and two
duchesses tried to get her to defect to their households. But
that's another story entirely.' Then she whispered conspirato
rially, 'I know this palace backward and forward, you know. There is no end of staircases and halls, some which everyone's
forgotten about. We'll smuggle you to the fitting room so
quickly that no one will see you.'

'The fitting room? What's the fitting room?'

'Why, precisely what its name implies. The room where
magic is made, what else?'

'Magic?'

'Sewing, my dear.'

'But . . . what for?' Senda asked, flabbergasted.

'What for?' The woman looked shocked. 'My dear . . .
'
Shaking her head, she took Senda by the elbow and guided
her to the far side of the outside hall. 'You are performing
tonight, aren't you?' She looked up at Senda questioningly.

'Yes.'

'And afterwards you are attending the ball? I mean, no one in his right mind would dare turn Vaslav down. He does have
such a temper . . .' She saw that Senda was staring at her blankly. 'Now, my dear, whatever is the matter?'

'The ball?' Senda's heart skipped a beat. 'I'm supposed to
go to the ball?'

'After the performance.' The giant hat nodded briskly.
'Yes. Didn't Vaslav invite you?'

'No one invited me.'

'Oh, dear. It's slipped his mind. He is like that, you know.
So much to do. He told me . . . yesterday, I think it was.
Yes, yesterday! When I asked him if there was anyone he had
neglected to invite, he named several people. You among
them. Then he told me you probably wouldn't have anything
to wear, so I assured him Madame Lamothe—she's the seamstress—would be able to cook up a little something. Of course,
when I talked to her she complained endlessly, claiming she
was overbooked and overworked. She's such a dragon that
sometimes I wonder why we put up with her, though I know.
She sews like an angel. Well, I soon got her to see things my
way, as usual. Besides, she wouldn't dare do anything to upset
me, and especially Vaslav. We send too much business her way. If we stopped going to her, then everyone in St. Petersburg
would avoid her like the plague, you see. A little black
mail never hurts. And now that she's here . . . you see, my
dear, we can't keep her waiting, as she's got less than twelve hours to complete your gown—now, can we?' The woman smiled brilliantly, as if what she'd said made perfect sense.

'But . . . but this is so sudden!' Senda argued weakly. 'I
didn't expect—'

'Good. Expectations are for children.' The woman clapped
her little pink hands together. 'Now, in you go, and put on a
dress and some shoes at least. I know you won't keep me
waiting long.' Gently but firmly she placed her hands in the small of Senda's back and propelled her forward.

In the doorway, Senda paused and turned around. 'I know it sounds ridiculous, but we haven't been introduced. I don't
even know your name!'

'Oh, dear. And I've completely forgotten yours!'

'Senda Bora—' Senda caught herself just in time. When
she'd converted to Russian Orthodoxy, she'd discarded the
'levi' at the end of her name. She was simply Senda Bora now.

'And I am Countess Flora Florinsky, but you must call me
Flora, my dear.' The Countess's sentence was punctuated by
laughter. 'Flora Florinsky does sound rather redundant, don't
you agree? Anyway, I'm a very minor relative, and an even more minor countess . . .'And before she completed the sen
tence, she made little shooing gestures with both limp hands,
and Senda was left with no choice but to shut the door and
hurriedly dress.

Chapter 7

In the fitting room, Madame Lamothe impatiently awaited
them, tapping her folded arms with slender manicured fingers.
Behind her stood her two young apprentices.

Senda's heart fell, and she stole a sideways glance at Count
ess Florinsky for moral support. Madame Lamothe, she
thought, was not a mere dragon, as the Countess had warned;
she was surely an arrogant fire-breathing dragon, as haughtily
impressive as even the most titled of St. Petersburg nobility.

Senda caught Madame Lamothe's eyes settling on Countess
Florinsky's concoction of a hat, and saw her thin humourless
lips turn slightly downward in disapproval. Then her gaze
rested on Senda, and the frown deepened even further.

Senda flushed and glanced away. She felt shabby in her
scratchy underclothes, worn boots and faded green wool dress
which was all the worse for wear because its white jabot had
turned a ghastly shade of bilious grey-green through repeated
washings. Worse, it smelled musty and desperately needed
ironing: it was wrinkled from being packed for so long. Yet it
was the best dress she owned, and she had made an effort to
look presentable. Despite Countess Florinsky's suggestion to
the contrary, she had even taken the time to run a comb
through her hair, and had hastily pinned it up, but it was already coming loose and hanging in tendrils all around.

Senda glanced studiously about the high-ceilinged room in
order to avoid Madame Lamothe's sharp gaze. She could not remember when she had ever felt so intimidated by someone
as she was by the dressmaker, a tall, spare, imposing woman,
even taller than Senda herself. Her jet-black hair, artfully streaked with stripes of grey, was pulled back into a perfect
chignon, and her eyes were a clear, glacier blue. The simple
dove-grey dress she wore was of silk and its cut was superb. Her sole adornment was a pair of heavy gold-rimmed spec
tacles hanging from around her neck on a heavier gold chain.
Her scent was expensive, and her face was pale and classic, like
the finest, most flawless white marble; indeed, her perpetually
dour expression seemed to be chiselled and carved. She was
not a woman in whom one could inspire fear, that much was
plain.

Her two young apprentices, Senda sensed, were in complete
awe of their mistress. Both girls were quite pretty, plainly
dressed in black wool, and their only adornment was yellow
cloth measuring tapes draped decorously about their necks.

As though sensing her discomfiture, Countess Florinsky slid an arm through Senda's and steered her forward. The Count
ess was filled with cheerful chatter and that particular
joie de vivre
which was hers alone. 'Here she is in the flesh, Madame!
St. Petersburg's newest and finest actress.'

Senda cast the Countess a sidelong glance, but the Countess
didn't seem to notice.

'And this, Senda, my dear,' Countess Florinsky prattled on,
'is Madame Lamothe. Madame Lamothe has the distinction
of being the city's finest couturière. She once had a salon in
Paris. I'm certain she'll take the very best care of you.'

Awkwardly Senda held out her hand in greeting. For a
moment Madame Lamothe cast a long, cold glance at the proffered hand before deeming it necessary to smile fixedly and shake the offending thing. Her grip was loose and dry,
Senda noticed, and the fingers felt cold as stone. The last
thing on earth Senda wanted was to be left alone with this
indomitable creature.

Senda didn't realize how unfounded her fears were.

For her part, Vera Bogdanova Lamothe was, for once,
totally nonplussed. She was at a loss for words when con
fronted with Senda's guileless greeting, and she viewed it, not
with the contempt and disgust with which it was interpreted,
but with fascinated astonishment. This simple gesture went
against everything she had been taught and learned in St. Petersburg
court life.

Vera's youth had been ruined, as she saw it, by a courtly
Frenchman, one Gerard Lamothe, who had wed her and left
her, and she had come to her middle years hating life in general
and men in particular. If she remained aloof and withdrawn,
shrouded, as it were, in a far-off world of her own creation, it
was simply because it was the sole armour she could don to
protect herself from the unforgiving lack of fairness which was life. Her aloofness had served her well. Dowagers and debutantes alike felt comfortable in her imperious silence,
mistaking it for respect and veneration. The nobility looked
upon their couturières as they did their maids, shopkeepers,
jewellers, and butlers—necessary conveniences who were
there to cater to every whim with quiet respect, dignity, and
sealed lips.

As a result, not once in the thirty-five years of her professional career had Vera Bogdanova Lamothe encountered a client who actually profferred her hand to shake. It was
simply not done. With no choice but to shake Senda's hand, she tried to comprehend this most unheard-of breach of eti
quette. Only as she swiftly withdrew her hand did it dawn
on her that the young woman—a mere child, really—had not
meant to commit such
a
faux pas.
A total innocent, she simply
didn't know how to deport herself.

As the initial horror of the familiarity seeped out of Vera
Lamothe, she tried to put herself into the young woman's
shoes. If she herself hadn't been raised from birth to her state
as dressmaker to the nobility, would she have behaved any
differently? Probably not. Certainly not if she had suddenly
been thrust from modest obscurity—perhaps even poverty,
from the looks of Senda—into the inner folds of the most
ostentatiously grand court on earth.

And that was something Vera found immensely refreshing.

Well, she would have to put the child—woman—at ease,
Vera decided then and there. Obviously Senda was clinging to the Countess out of pure terror. But the girl wouldn't be
uncomfortable for long, not if she, Vera Bogdanova Lamothe,
had anything to say in the matter. And say it she would, with
needle, fabric, and thread. She knew that she didn't sew gowns
so much as she sold dreams, and therefore self-confidence and
self-worth. Didn't everyone on whom she draped a
maginificent gown not only assume a sense of marvellous style
but also absorb it as part of her natural inner character as well?