“But they’re sturdy and serviceable,” I protested.
“So are ovens, but they’re not meant to be worn.”
After I had been measured at every dimension and juncture and touched in places I was quite sure—even after three children—I’d never been touched before, Precious then brought in little slips of lace, satin, and silk that looked more like tea cozies than something I should actually wear on my person.
“I’ll freeze to death wearing those. How on earth am I meant to keep warm?”
Precious had smiled knowingly. “If you’re wearing these, you shouldn’t have a problem.”
I’d blushed furiously, too embarrassed to protest when Precious told the salesclerk to take away what I’d been wearing and toss them in the rubbish bin.
Precious now glanced at the antique gold clock on the marble mantel in my room. “Good. You’re ten minutes late. A lady should never be early for a rendezvous with a beau. It makes her appear too eager.”
“It’s not a rendez—” I began but stopped as Precious began applying lipstick to my mouth.
“There,” she said, admiring her handiwork. “Pretty as a peach.”
She stepped back and I stared at the stranger in the mirror with the black-lined eyes, long, thick lashes, and bright pink lips. And the shorter, sassier hair. After my experience at the lingerie shop, I’d been too numb to protest when Precious had suggested visiting her favorite hair salon. In my schoolgirl French, I’d suggested trimming my long hair just an inch. Raphael had pretended to agree and then set to work, Precious distracting me just long enough that I didn’t notice the clumps of dark hair falling onto the salon floor.
When he was done I’d barely recognized myself. He’d cut my hair so that it hit at my shoulders, flipping up at the ends, and then framed my face with a side-swept fringe. I wanted to complain that I didn’t think I could still braid it for when I went riding, but then Raphael had handed me a glossy magazine, pointing at the cover photo of a beautiful woman wearing a bikini.
“He says you look like Jean Shrimpton,” Precious explained. “And I declare that he is completely right.”
I wasn’t sure who Jean Shrimpton was, but I looked nothing like the picture on the cover. At least I hadn’t when I’d stepped into the salon. But now, staring in the mirror and wearing the plush Ritz bathrobe, I wasn’t so sure.
Precious went to the closet and pulled out a dress on a hanger. “This will be perfect. I know when you originally tried this on, you gave it a pass, but I thought you should reconsider.”
I’d tried on so many things that I was no longer sure what was now hanging in my closet and what I’d rejected. I looked at the dress, trying to remember why I’d said no to it. It had a soft green almost transparent silk for the first layer, and on top was a pretty netlike fabric with a green leafy vine climbing across it. It had short puffy sleeves and a deep scoop neck, with an emerald-green velvet band that hit right under the bosom. I did remember the neckline, and how it had given me a décolletage I’d forgotten I possessed. Maybe that’s why I’d rejected it.
She unzipped it and I let the robe fall, no longer shy. Precious Dubose had seen more of me today than Kit had in almost nineteen years of marriage. After much argument, I wore one of the new lingerie sets Precious had said I needed—which I actually did now that she’d discarded mine. She carefully slid the dress over my head so as not to muss my hair and makeup, then zipped up the back.
I stared in horror at my reflection. “Where’s the rest of it?” The hem was a good five inches above my knees and remained so regardless of how much I tugged. “And I can’t go out in public with this much skin showing on my chest. I’ve seen bikinis that were less revealing.”
“You have gorgeous legs, Babs, and a lovely bosom. You shouldn’t be hiding your natural assets under all that wool and tweed.”
“Whyever not? I’m not a woman. I’m a widow and a mother of three. Er, not a woman who needs to wear . . . this.” I pulled up the neckline, which only made the other problem much worse. Tugging down on the hemline again, I demanded, “Please unzip me. I’m going to be unforgivably late.”
“Which is why there’s no time to change. Here, put these on.”
She handed me a pair of shiny white leather boots with square, flat heels.
“Did I buy those? I can’t imagine why. It’s not like I can wear them to muck out the stables.”