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Chapter 5

“Mademoiselle must have at least a hundred petticoats.”

“One hundred petticoats?” Autumn was astounded by the tailor’s pronouncement. “M’sieu Reynaud, why do I need so many petticoats?”

“Mademoiselle,” came the pained reply, “the farthingale is passé. It is the petticoat that is fashionable now. They give body to the skirts, and you certainly do not want your skirts drooping about you in a bedraggled and ragtag manner, like some merchant’s daughter, or”—he rolled his eyes dramatically—“a street urchin. Non! Non! Non! One hundred petticoats is absolutely the least number you can have. Silk, of course. It has the best texture,” he explained.

“Starched lawn will not do for some of them?” Jasmine asked.

“If madame la duchesse wishes to scrimp . . .” The tailor raised a disapproving eyebrow and shrugged his bony shoulders.

Jasmine laughed, not in the least intimidated by the tailor. “I will agree to one hundred silk petticoats for my daughter, M’sieu Reynaud, but she must also have twenty-five lawn petticoats as well. They are cooler on a summer’s day. Not for evening wear, of course, but for morning or afternoon, you understand.”

“But of course, madame la duchesse,” the tailor said with a small smile. “Madame is absolutely correct. I bow to her fashion sense.”

“He bows to her well-filled purse,” murmured Madame St. Omer in low tones. “Why have I never before noted what a terrible snob Reynaud is? But he is the best tailor in all of France, even Paris. Worse! He is well aware of that fact, the little beast.”

“Oh, hush, sister, lest he hear you!” Madame de Belfort whispered back nervously. “You know how he is, and if you insult him, he will not do Autumn’s wardrobe for her. Without him what chance has she?”

“Have you had the opportunity to inspect the fabrics I have?” the Duchess of Glenkirk asked the tailor.

M’sieu Reynaud burst into rapturous cries of approval. “Madame, never in my life have I seen such quality! The velvets! The brocades! The silks! The cloth of gold and of silver! And the ribbons and laces, madame! Where on earth did you obtain such magnificence?”

“My grandmother left them here many years ago,” Jasmine said. “They were in my storerooms, m’sieu.”

“C’est impossible! They have no odor of rot about them, or any sign of mildew staining the fabric!” the tailor cried.

“The trunks were cedar, lined with copper,” Jasmine explained.

“Amazing!” he replied. Then he was all business once again. “Michel, my tape, s’il vous plait. If we are to have anything ready in the ridiculously short time Madame St. Omer has insisted upon, we must begin today. I shall measure mademoiselle myself.”

Autumn stood quietly upon a small stool as the tailor swiftly took her measurements, his sharp voice snapping off the figures to his assistant, who quickly wrote them down and then repeated each figure to be certain he had gotten it correctly. Any mistake could be fatal to the wardrobe about to be made. When all the measurements had been taken and written down the tailor spoke again.

“What colors are preferred?”

“I think my daughter . . .” Jasmine began, only to be cut off by the volatile tailor.

“Madame la duchesse, I speak to she who must wear these gowns,” he fiercely chided her. “If mademoiselle is unhappy, then she is not at her best with the gentlemen. N’est-ce pas?” Turning his back on the mother, he addressed Autumn. “Tell me the colors you like best, mademoiselle.”

Autumn thought a moment, and then replied, “My hair is dark and my skin translucent. I like rich, clear colors. Emerald green. Turquoise, and peacock blue. Lilac and deep violet. Ruby red. Colors such as those complement me, M’sieu Reynaud. Necklines today are horizontal. I want mine as low as we dare, and no modest little kerchiefs for evening wear either. I want lace on all my petticoats and chemises, and I will not wear a corset of any kind. Is that understood?”

The tailor smiled, surprised, but appeared well pleased by her answer. “Mademoiselle is absolutely correct,” he agreed.

“Sacré bleu!” Madame St. Omer exclaimed, amazed.

“If the necklines are too low, she will gain a reputation without ever having done a thing but enter the room,” Madame de Belfort fretted.

“Mademoiselle will set fashions, not be shackled by them,” M’sieu Reynaud said approvingly. “She is perfect, and my gowns shall be perfect! We shall have our first fitting in two days’ time, madame,” he said to the Duchess of Glenkirk. “You agree?”

“I shall rely upon you, M’sieu Reynaud,” Jasmine replied with a smile. “We are completely in your hands.”

The tailor bowed. “I shall not fail you, madame,” he told her passionately. “My people will come later today to gather up the materials. They shall take them all, for who knows what we shall do, eh?”

The Duchess of Glenkirk nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I have already inventoried everything. Adali, escort m’sieu and his assistant out, and see that the fabrics are ready when they are called for later.”

“Yes, my princess,” Adali responded. Then he accompanied the tailor and Michel from the Great Hall of the chateau.

“Hah!” Madame St. Omer said, well pleased. “He is a difficult little man, cousine, but he likes Autumn and will therefore do even better than his best for her.” She turned to the young girl. “You clever minx,” she chuckled. “You did not blush and play the jeune fille. Had you done so, he would have simply made you ordinary gowns. Now he will kill himself to be certain you are the best-dressed young woman at the Christmas revels at Archambault! You will snare a fine, wealthy and titled husband, and Reynaud will be delighted to take all the credit for it,” she chortled. “He will be your friend for life!”

“If I don’t like what he does, I shall tell him,” Autumn said. “Like my sisters, I am particular about my clothing.”

“Temper any criticism with lavish praise,” Madame St. Omer suggested. “That way you will not insult him, and believe me, ma petite, your wardrobe is of paramount importance. We French are enamoured of fashion, and this fussy little man is an artiste with fabrics.”

Two days later, Belle Fleurs was alive with the tailor and his staff, come for Autumn’s first fitting. Lily helped her mistress into ten silk petticoats and the first skirt was then draped over them.

“It is not right,” the tailor said pettishly. He pulled upon his chin thoughtfully. “Pourquoi? Pourquoi?”

“Lily, take the skirt off and give me one of those,” Autumn said, pointing to one of the lawn petticoats. “Good, now put it over the top of the silk ones and let us refit the skirt.” She looked to Reynaud. “What do you think?” she asked him.

He nodded approvingly. “Much better, mademoiselle. You have the fashion sense. One less silk petticoat, I think, and it is perfect.”

Lily reached beneath her mistress’s skirts and unfastened the tabs on a silk garment, drawing it down so Autumn might step out of it.

“It is perfect!” the tailor said, clapping his hands together. He turned to the duchess and Madame St. Omer. “Mesdames?”

“Excellent, M’sieu Reynaud,” came the expected approval, as Autumn winked at her mother over the tailor’s periwig.

Five other skirts were fitted that morning, and then came the bodices, which were more difficult. Autumn had insisted that both bodice and skirt be of the same color.

“In my grandmother’s day bodices were far more beautifully decorated with jewels, crystals, and gold threads,” she said. “How sad that my bodices must be so plain, with only ribbons and lace to embellish them.”

The tailor nodded in complete agreement. “It is the times, mademoiselle,” he said. “One does not dare to be lavish in the midst of civil war. At least we are not as dull as England is now.” Then he gave her a mischievous smile. “I have a few tricks, mademoiselle, that I have given to no one, but to you only will I impart them. Mademoiselle will be the most fashionable young lady at Archambault, I promise her.” He turned to the Duchess of Glenkirk. “I shall have twelve gowns, six for day wear, and six for evening, delivered to the chateau at Archambault by the time madame arrives. And each day afterwards, except Christmas day, of course, I shall deliver two more gowns. Your daughter will be well garbed, I assure you. When you have concluded your visit, leave everything, and my people shall deliver mademoiselle’s new wardrobe back here to Belle Fleurs.”

“You are both generous and efficient, M’sieu Reynaud,” Jasmine told him. “See Adali, and he will advance you any funds you may need.”

The tailor bowed respectfully to her. Then he and his staff gathered up their materials and the half-finished gowns, quickly departing. To be offered payment of any kind in advance was indeed a bonus, for the rich were just as likely not to pay, or keep a tradesman waiting months or even years for remuneration.

“You should not have offered to pay him anything until all was satisfactory,” Madame St. Omer scolded her cousin, the duchess.

Jasmine shook her head. “Now,” she replied wisely, “he will keep his promises in hopes of being compensated in full when the last gown is delivered. He will not disappoint me, and I will not disappoint him, cousine. I may have lived in the Highlands all these years, but human nature does not change, ’Toinette.”

Antoinette St. Omer laughed. “You sound like Mama,” she replied. “If Reynaud keeps his word, we shall have to have a separate chamber for all of your daughter’s wardrobe.”

Autumn was almost sick with excitement as they rode to Archambault on December 21. “What if my gowns aren’t there? Damnation, Mama, I shouldn’t behave like some silly chit of a girl. What is the matter with me?”

“You’re excited, that’s all. Sixteen or nineteen, Autumn, this is your first foray into real society,” Jasmine responded.

They were warmly welcomed at the chateau by the comte and his widowed sisters.

“Tonight,” Philippe de Saville said, “we shall be just family.”

When they entered the Great Hall of the chateau that evening, however, there was a handsome young man who Jasmine did not recognize as any member of the comte’s immediate family.

“Oh! Oh! Here they are now,” Gaby de Belfort twittered nervously. “Autumn, cherie, do come and meet my late husband’s nephew. This is Pierre Etienne St. Mihiel, the Duc de Belfort.” She reached out and drew Autumn forward. “Etienne, this is Lady Autumn Rose Leslie, my cousine’s child. I have told you about the Duchess of Glenkirk.”

The duke bowed over Autumn’s outstretched hand, his cool lips just touching the skin. “Mademoiselle,” he said, and then he looked up at her. A lock of his blond hair fell over his forehead and his brown eyes scanned her with open interest.

“M’sieu le duc,” Autumn replied. He was really quite handsome, but she could sense that he knew it.

“And this is Autumn’s mama,” Gaby pattered on.

The Duc de Belfort greeted the Duchess of Glenkirk.

Jasmine nodded pleasantly at the young man. She wondered how much depth there was to him. “My cousine has mentioned you in passing, monsigneur,” she told him.

“I can but hope she spoke well of me, madame la duchesse,” he replied.

“How could she not?” Jasmine said, and then she turned away to speak with Madame St. Omer.

“I like your gown,” the duke said to Autumn. “It’s the exact color of the fine burgundy I make.” His eyes appeared to struggle to see beyond her neckline, which was low enough to tempt but not low enough to reveal.

“Merci,” she replied. “Is your burgundy as good a wine as they make here at Archambault? I have drunk Archambault wine all my life. My father would have no other vintage at Glenkirk.”

He smiled. “You will judge yourself one day soon, mademoiselle. In the spring I hope you and your mama will visit Chateau Reve. Do you ride? You must, of course. Perhaps we could ride tomorrow if the weather is pleasant,” the duke suggested to her.

“You are staying at Archambault, monsigneur?” Autumn asked him.

“Yes,” he replied.

A footman was at their side, offering them silver goblets of wine.

“He is handsome,” Jasmine said to her daughter later that night, as they sat before a fire in their apartment. “Gaby absolutely adores him. She says his chateau is simply gorgeous.”

“He says he will ask us to visit in the spring,” Autumn told her mother. “He is nice, but I suspect he knows he is.”

“My cousine asked him to come early so he might gain an advantage with you. I think she may have miscalculated, ma bébé.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me, Mama?” Autumn said with a deep sigh. “When you met Papa, were you so disinterested? When did you know he was the one for you?”

“When I met your father, my stepsister, Sybilla, had decided she was going to be the next Countess of Glenkirk, for your father was not a duke then. But Jemmie didn’t want Sibby, and I was to marry Rowan Lindley. After I was widowed, and after Charlie was born, your father finally got around to trying to court me. He had always held a certain fascination for me. The spark was there; I just did not allow it to burst into flame. By the time I was your age, Autumn, I had had two husbands and two children.” She patted her daughter’s hand. “I know it seems the entire emphasis of our coming to France is on finding you a husband, ma bébé, but if no man takes your fancy, you must not marry just for the sake of marrying. You must be happy, Autumn, and if being unwed makes you happy, then so be it!”

“Oh, Mama! I like the gentlemen well enough. I just can’t seem to find one I like enough that I don’t want to lose him. In all my life I have only met one man who intrigued me enough that I wanted to know him better, but he was unsuitable,” Autumn told her mother.

Now Jasmine was fascinated. She had never before heard her daughter mention any gentleman who attracted her. “Who is this gentleman, ma bébé and where did you meet him?” she gently inquired.

“I met him here in the forest one day,” Autumn explained. “I expect he was a poacher, though he denied it. I have no idea what his name is, or who he is. He said he was a thief, and when I asked him what he stole, Mama, he said the oddest thing. He said he stole hearts.”

Jasmine laughed softly. “I think I should certainly be fascinated by such a gentleman, Autumn,” she told her daughter. “A man that clever is unlikely to have been either a thief or a poacher. I wonder who he was. Well, if he is a gentleman, you shall undoubtedly see him, for your Uncle Philippe has invited every family of stature and wealth in the entire region for a great party he is giving on Twelfth Night. In the meantime you shall have to make do with St. Mihiel. You could practice flirting with him, ma petite.”

“Mama! Girls today do not put on such affectations,” Autumn said. “Perhaps when you were young, but no longer.”

“When I was young,” her mother replied, “girls were not allowed the privilege of choosing their husbands for love, and most today are not either. In my day, ma petite, your parents chose your husband, and that was the end of it. You wed their choice, and lived with it. Perhaps if you cannot make up your mind, Autumn, I should simply choose the man I think the best mate for you, and we’ll be done with it. You haven’t the faintest idea of what girls do today, but I will wager flirting is still very much part of courtship.”

“I think it’s silly,” Autumn said frankly.

“You will catch more gentlemen with honey, ma petite, than you will with sour wine,” Jasmine advised.

On Christmas Day they were joined by Guy Claude d’Auray, the Comte de Montroi, a charming young man with dancing blue eyes and light brown hair filled with golden highlights. He made Autumn laugh, and he quite obviously irritated Etienne St. Mihiel. She was finally beginning to enjoy herself. She had never had young men pay her such attention, for she had lived a very protected life at Glenkirk. It had been a life that had suited her quite well. It was fun, however, to have Etienne and Guy paying her court, vying for her complete attention, arguing over who would dance with her next. One day she found herself giggling and tapping the arm of one of her swains teasingly with her feather fan.

“You are flirting, ma fille,” her mother murmured softly.

“Mon Dieu, I am!” Autumn said, surprised. But then she turned her concentration back to her duke and her count.

“Only one more to come,” Antoinette St. Omer said softly, watching Autumn as she danced with the duke.

“If he comes,” the comte remarked dryly. “You know how independent Sebastian is, and he has an abhorrence of virgins besides.”

“Well, he had best get over that if d’Auriville is to have an heir one day,” Madame St. Omer replied sharply. “Proper brides are virgins, Philippe. I do not know where Sebastian d’Oleron gets such odd notions. He is hardly in the first flush of youth and will soon be too old to sire an heir. Such a charming man, but so stubborn.”

The Comte de Saville’s Twelfth Night fête was to feature dancing and a midnight banquet. The guests were to come in costume, and there would be a masque performed by a troupe of traveling players invited for the occasion.

“I am coming as the sun,” Autumn announced to her swains.

“Then I shall come as the moon,” Etienne said quickly, and he grinned smugly at the Comte de Montroi.

Guy d’Auray was not in the least put out. “I shall come as a comet who circles the sun,” he told them.

Autumn clapped her hands together. “Oh, Guy! How clever you are to have thought of such a guise, and so quickly,” she told him.

The comte bowed elegantly to her. “Merci, cherie,” he said.

“Who gave you leave to call her cherie?” the duke demanded.

“You may both call me cherie,” Autumn quickly replied in an effort to prevent further argument.

The two young men glared at each other.

“Gracious, Mama,” Autumn later said to her mother. “They are so competitive. I almost expected them to get into a duel over me.” Her eyes danced mischievously at the thought.

“Duels are illegal, Autumn, and the penalty is death for those caught,” her mother warned her. “Do not tease your suitors into breaking the law. It is hardly a way to make your decision.”

“What decision?” Autumn replied.

“Why, which of them you will marry,” Jasmine responded.

“I don’t want to marry either of them, Mama,” the young woman returned. “Etienne is charming and Guy such fun, but I am not in love with either of them. I don’t think I could be.”

“It is too soon,” her mother said. “You don’t know either of them particularly well yet, but by spring you should.”

Autumn nodded. “Perhaps you are right, Mama. I must give myself more time to know them better.”

The Duchess of Glenkirk, in mourning, did not wear a costume to her cousin’s Twelfth Night fête. Instead, she wore a gown of deep violet that M’sieu Reynaud had made for her, along with an exquiste silver and amethyst masque. The gown’s only ornamentation was a collar of silver lace. Her daughter, however, was garbed magnificently in a cloth-of-gold gown with a transparent overgown of gilt sprinkled with tiny gold beads and diamante. The dress was set low on the shoulders to reveal Autumn’s creamy skin and beautiful young bosom. The sleeves were puffed to the elbow, with topaz-studded ribbons, and then fitted below to the wrist. Her shoes were painted gold, and the heels studded with tiny diamonds. Her hair had been affixed into an elegant chignon, sprinkled with gold dust, and dressed with small looped strands of tiny gold beads, yellow diamonds, and topaz. Atop her head sat a delicate gold crown representing the sun, each ray tipped with a yellow diamond. From her ears hung yellow diamonds. About her neck was a chain of small yellow diamonds and rose gold, from which dangled a large, round Golconda diamond cut with so many facets that it flashed fire with every move Autumn made.

“Ravissante!” her uncle declared when she first came into the Great Hall. “No other woman here tonight will outshine you.”

“You do not think it a bit too bold?” fretted Madame de Belfort, looking anxiously between Jasmine and her brother.

“Nonsense!” Madame St. Omer said before anyone else could speak. “It is a daring costume, and when baiting a trap one uses the most delicious cheese available. Bravo, ma petite! You will drive the gentlemen wild tonight!”

Jasmine laughed. “She certainly will, ’Toinette,” the duchess agreed with her cousin, and then she patted Gaby de Belfort’s plump hand in an effort to comfort her. “Autumn isn’t sixteen, Gaby. To garb her as a jeune fille would be totally inappropriate.”

Etienne St. Mihiel and Guy d’Auray hurried into the hall, almost knocking each other over in their eagerness to reach Autumn. The duke was dressed in silver, a crescent studded in aquamarines upon his head. His companion was in deep blue and silver, a comet’s tail of gold and silver for his headpiece. Autumn admired both of them equally, although each thought he had gotten the better of the other. As the music started they began to argue over who should dance with her first. It was then a gentleman, garbed as a bandit in a black cloak, a wide-brimmed felt hat with several white plumes, and a black mask, stepped between the duke and the comte, bowed to Autumn, and led her off onto the floor.

“Who is that?” Jasmine asked.

“Unless I miss my guess,” Antoinette chuckled, “it is d’Oleron himself. I suspected curiosity would eventually get the better of him.”

Jasmine watched her daughter with interest, smiling to herself as she remembered her youth.

“You are bold,” Autumn told her partner as he led her through the intricate steps of the dance.

“Your costume, cherie, is hardly modest,” he replied. “You glitter and glow like a beacon as you offer yourself to the highest bidder.” He twirled her about gracefully.

“I have no need for the highest bidder, m’sieu,” Autumn said in a tight voice. “I am an heiress of great worth.”

Her partner laughed, genuinely amused. “Are you indeed, mam’selle?”

Autumn stopped in the midst of the dance and stamped her foot at him. “Yes, I am!” she snapped.

“Do not make a scene, cherie,” he advised as he drew her back into the figure. “You have a temper, but I like a woman with a temper. It shows character. I do not wish to marry some passionless creature.”

“Marry?” Autumn was astounded by his words. “What do you mean marry, m’sieu?”

“You have come to France to find a husband, or at least that is the gossip,” he told her, and he laughed again when she blushed. “I am, to the relief of my relations, now in the market for a wife. I think you will do quite nicely, Lady Autumn Rose Leslie.”

That voice. It was his voice. “You!” she said. “It is you! The gentleman in the forest who said he was a thief.”

The music stopped, and her partner bowed elegantly. “Jean Sebastian d’Oleron, Marquis d’Auriville, at your service, mademoiselle.” He caught up her hand, and kissed it, but he did not let it go. Instead he led her across the Great Hall into a small alcove.