Pichot, upon entering her establishment the following morning. ‘She needs everything.’
Madame Pichot’s eyes lit up. ‘Walking dresses, day dresses, ballgowns, nightrail?’ She swallowed. ‘A court dress?’
‘Naturally.’ By the time such a grand toilette was complete, and Heloise had practised walking in the hoops, he would have found someone to present her in Queen Caroline’s drawing room. It was not so great a hurdle as obtaining vouchers for Almacks. If she offended one of the six patronesses of that exclusive club, or if they decided her background failed to meet their exacting standards for membership, she would never be truly a part of the haut ton.
Noting Heloise’s rather worn coat and battered bonnet, Madame Pichot ventured, ‘I could have one or two items delivered later today, or possibly first thing tomorrow. Just to tide milady over, of course …’
The Earl nodded acquiescence. Heloise would find it easier to think of herself as an English countess once she shucked off the serviceable clothing of a French bureaucrat’s daughter.
‘In future, should we require your services, you will present yourself at Walton House at my wife’s convenience.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ replied the dressmaker, somewhat startled by the statement Heloise knew had been made primarily for her benefit. Whatever had been her habit formerly, a countess did not deign to visit a dressmaker’s. She sent for such people to wait on her in the privacy of her own home.
‘My wife will wear pastel colours. Rose and powder-blue—and, yes, this primrose satin would suit my wife’s colouring.’ He fingered one of the swatches an assistant had brought for his inspection.
‘Oh, but with madame’s dark hair and eyes, she could wear striking colours. This crimson would look ravishing.’
‘I don’t want her going about looking like a demirep,’ he curtly informed the somewhat abashed modiste.
Heloise had just taken a breath to object and say that she was quite capable of selecting her own gowns, thank you very much, when her mother’s warning rang loud in her memory. He would want her to look the part she had persuaded him she could play. That he had no confidence in her dress sense might be somewhat insulting, but then, he was the one picking up the bills. Feeling like a child’s dress-up doll, she meekly tried on the few gowns that were already made up, and had never been collected by other clients, while Charles and the modiste between them decided which could be altered to fit, and which did nothing for her.
A trip to a milliner followed, and then to the bootmakers, where she had her feet measured for a last.
‘You must be growing tired,’ Charles eventually declared, when all his efforts to spoil his wife had met with supreme indifference.
Felice would have been in ecstasy to have had so much money spent on a wardrobe of such magnificence, not to mention his undivided attention in selecting it. But Heloise, he was coming to realise, cared as little for such fripperies as she did for him. He was not going to reach her by showering her with the kind of gifts that would win most women over.
‘I have other business to attend to for the rest of the day,’ he told her. ‘But I shall be in for dinner this evening. Will you dine with me?’
Heloise blinked in surprise. He had spent hours with her today already. She had assumed he would have something better to do with his evening. But he had actually asked her to dine with him!
Struggling to conceal her elation, she had just taken a breath to form a suitably controlled reply when he added, ‘Or would you rather remain in your room?’
Was that a veiled way of telling her that was what he wished her to do? Did he hope she would take the hint?
Well, she was blowed if she was going to take all her meals in her rooms as if … as if she were a naughty child!
‘I will dine with you,’ she said, with a militant lift to her chin.
As though she were about to face a firing squad, he thought, hurt by her response to a simple invitation.
‘Until tonight, then.’ He bowed, then stalked away.
The evening was not a success. Charles made polite enquiries about how she had spent the rest of her day, while they sat sipping sherry in an oppressively immaculate anteroom. He looked relieved when the footman came to inform them dinner was ready. She soon realised this was because they would no longer be alone. A troupe of footmen served a staggering variety of dishes, whisked away empty plates, poured wine, and effectively robbed the event of any hint of intimacy.
Her heart did begin to pound when Charles leaned forward, beckoning to her, indicating that he wished to whisper something to her. Only to plunge at his words.
‘At this point it is the custom for ladies to withdraw. I shall join you in the drawing room when I have taken some port.’
Feeling humiliated that he’d had to remind her of this English custom, Heloise followed one of the younger footmen to a vast room that was so chilly her arms broke out in goose pimples the moment she stepped over the threshold. She sat huddled over the lacklustre fire for what seemed like an eternity before Charles joined her.
‘Should you like to play cards?’ he suggested. ‘Some people find it helps to pass the time until the tea tray is brought in.’
He could not have made it clearer that this was the last way he wished to spend his evening.
‘I enjoy cards as little as I care to pour that vile drink, which is fit only for an invalid, down my throat,’ she replied rather petulantly.
‘Most husbands,’ he replied frostily, ‘take themselves off to their clubs, where they find companionship and amusements they cannot find at home, leaving their wives free of their burdensome presence.’
As Heloise stormed up the stairs, she decided never to set foot in that horrible drawing room again. If Charles would rather go off to his club, then let him go! She did not care, she vowed, slamming her sitting room door behind her, almost knocking over one of the silly little tables dotted about the floor as she stormed across the room to fling herself onto the sofa.
She glared at it, and the collection of ornaments it held with resentment. She hated clutter. She would have to get a footman to move it against the wall, out of the way. After all, Charles had said she could do as she pleased up here.
A militant gleam came to her eye and she sat up straight. He had meant she could decorate as she pleased. But she could do much more than that. She dared not ask him for a proper drawing table, knowing how much he disapproved of her sketches, but if, under the pretext of reorganising her rooms, she had that one large desk moved to a spot between the two windows, to catch the maximum daylight …
Her spirits began to lift. Drawing was more than just a hobby to her. She could lose herself for hours in the fantasy world she created on paper. It had been a solace to her in Paris, where she had been such a disappointment to her parents. How much more would it comfort her here in London, as an unwanted bride?
Her fingers were already itching to draw Madame Pichot, with her peculiar accent that would only pass for French in England. She reminded her of a drawing she had seen in the Louvre, of a creature whose eyes stood out on stalks and which was said to change colour to match whatever type of background it walked across.
