A Loyal Companion by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online Page B

gown.
    Sonia had never had so much choice before, and the new styles were looser and more comfortable. Sunny thought she'd feel more herself in them. Madame unerringly brought what was suitable for her coloring and situation, and wooden-faced Bigelow was an unobtrusive guide. "The blue to match the eyes. No frills; we have nothing to hide. Colors are unexceptionable for daytime."
    Sonia held up a fashion plate of a gown cut daringly low, winking at the assistant who was standing by to record the order. Madame Celeste clucked her tongue and threw her hands in the air, but Bigelow did not fail Sonia. "Haymarket ware." Sonia and the girl laughed, until Madame frowned at them.
    After Sonia was measured, two ready-made gowns were presented for consideration. "An improvement," Bigelow decreed, so Miss Randolph was helped into the peach muslin in order to complete her shopping with less embarrassment to her grandmother's abigail. Best of all, Aimee, the shopgirl, was found to be of a size and shape with Miss Randolph, and was willing to stand in for all but the final fittings. Sonia handed the girl a handsome douceur. "Just please do not use it on so many strawberry tarts that I'll have to undergo those hours of pinpricks," she said, laughing.
    "Mais non, mademoiselle, I save for my dot. Better a girl make a good marriage than make a good meal, n'est-ce past"
     
     
    Further stops saw the crested coach fill up with bonnets and boots, fans and feathers, parasols and petticoats, stockings and… gloves. Sonia still had energy left to visit Gunther's to see about ices for the ball, and a florist to order the flowers. Bigelow was limp on the facing seat for the ride back to Atterbury House. "Youth" was all she said.
    Monsieur Gautier called that afternoon. The coiffeur studied Miss Randolph from every angle. He lifted a curl, he let a wave drift through his fingers. He chewed his mustache. Then he began to cut. He cut and he cut, muttering all the while. Sunny was beginning to wonder how many sheep Bud Kemp could have shorn in this time when the slender Frenchman stood back, kissed his fingertips, and proclaimed, "A la cherubim." He had to pause to wipe his eyes. "I am a genius."
    Sonia shook her head and felt three pounds lighter. She laughed in delight. Then she finally turned to look in the mirror. "Oh, sir, you are." What had been unruly wisps and wayward locks was now a golden halo of naturally and Gautier-tumbled curls, curls that couldn't fall down or fly away. They framed her face, revealing the high cheekbones and ready dimples. Her blue eyes sparkled even brighter. Not quite an angel, not quite an imp, and very, very appealing.
    "What do you think, Fitz?" Hearing his name, the dog ran over and barked, bestowing the cut hair more liberally around himself and the room. "And, Bigelow, do you like it? Do you think Grandmama will? What about the gentlemen?"
    "Yes. Yes. Heaven help them."
     
     
    The next major project, in addition to writing out two hundred invitations, hiring an orchestra, and planning a menu, was finding servants. One of the underfootmen was promoted—or not, depending on who you asked, Marston or Bigelow—to be Miss Sonia's personal man. Redheaded Ian was big, strong, and liked dogs.
    An abigail had to be hired from an agency. Bigelow thought they should request an experienced older woman to pilot Miss through the shoals of society. Marston wanted to hire a warden from Newgate. Sonia selected her own maid partly because Maisie Holbrook had freckles and partly because she looked as if she needed the job. Holbrook's last mistress had suddenly eloped—"with no connivance from me, on my honor, ma'am"—and Miss Martingale's parents had turned the abigail off without a reference. The position was secured when the neatly dressed young woman, not very much older than Sonia, said, "That's a fine-looking dog, ma'am. Can I walk him for you sometimes?"
    At first Maisie and Ian were inclined to be over-protective,