Winsor, Kathleen by Forever Amber

excited little jump. "Let me
see it!"
    Madame
Darnier, chattering French, motioned at the girl to lay the box on a table, off
which she grandly swept Amber's green wool skirt and striped cotton petticoat.
And then, with a magnificent flourish, she flung up the lid and at one swoop
snatched out her creation, holding it at arm's length for them to see. Both
Amber and the hairdresser gasped, falling back a step or two, while the other
girl beamed with pride, sharing Madame Darnier's triumph.
    "Ohhh—"
breathed Amber, and then, "Oh!" She had never seen anything so
lovely in her life.
    It
was made of black and honey-coloured satin with a tight, pointed bodice, deep
round neckline, full sleeves to the elbows, and a sweeping gathered skirt, over
which was a second skirt of exquisite black lace. The cloak was honey-coloured
velvet lined in black satin and the attached hood had a black fox border. There
was a lace fan, long perfumed beige gloves, a great fox muff, and one of the
black velvet vizard-masks which every fine lady wore when going abroad. In
fact, all the trappings of high fashion.
    "Oh,
let me put it on!"
    Madame
Darnier was horrified. "Mais, non, madame! First we must paint the
face!"
    "Mais
oui! First we must paint the face!" echoed Monsieur Baudelaire.
    They
went back to the table, all four of them, and there Madame Darnier untied a
great red-velvet kerchief and spread out its contents: bottles and jars and
small China pots, a rabbit's foot, an eyebrow brush, tiny booklets of red
Spanish paper, pencils, beauty patches. Amber gave a surprised little shriek
when the first eyebrow was pulled out, but after that she sat patiently, in a
condition of ecstatic delight at the change she saw coming over herself.
Arguing, chattering, shrieking among themselves, in half an hour they had made
her into a creature of polish and sparkle and artifice—a worldly woman, at
least in appearance.
    And
then at last she was ready to put on her gown, a major enterprise, for there
must not be one wrinkle made in it, not a hair displaced, not a smear of
lip-pomade or a smudge of powder. It took all three of them to accomplish that,
with Madame Darnier scolding and clucking, screaming alternately at the girl
and at Monsieur Baudelaire. But at last they had it settled upon her, Madame
pulling the neckline down so that all of her shoulders and most of her breasts
showed, and finally she put the fan into her hand and ordered her to walk
slowly across the room and turn and face them.
    "Mon
Dieu!" she said then, with complacent satisfaction. "If you don't
outdo Madame Palmer herself!"
    "Who's
Madame Palmer?" Amber wanted to know, looking down to examine herself.
    "His
Majesty's mistress." Madame Darnier rustled across the room to adjust a
fold, twisting one sleeve a quarter of an inch, smoothing a tiny wrinkle from
the bodice. "For today, at least," she muttered, frowning, absorbed
in what she was doing. "Next week—" She shrugged. "Perhaps
someone else."
    Amber
was pleased by the compliment—but now that she was finally ready she wished he
would come. Outside she felt new and crisp as tissue paper, but her stomach was
fluttering with nervousness and her hands were moist. Maybe he won't like me
this way! She was beginning to feel scared and almost sick. Oh! why doesn't
he come!
    And
then she heard the door open and his voice called her name. "May I come
in?"
    "Oh!"
Amber's hand flew to her mouth. "He's here! Quick!"
    She
began shooing them out and the three rushed everywhere at once, gathering up
boxes and bottles and combs, flocking out the door of the bedroom just as he
reached it. Bowing and curtsying as they went, they could not resist looking
back gleefully over their shoulders to see what he would do. Amber stood in the
middle of the room, lips parted, not even breathing, her eyes glistening with
expectation. He walked through the doorway smiling and then suddenly stopped,
surprise on his face, at the threshold.
    "Holy
Jesus!" he said softly.