A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 138 - Hundred And Thirty Eight

The modiste’s shop in the heart of Mayfair was warm, smelling strongly of lavender water and fresh, expensive fabric. Bolts of rich silk, heavy velvet, and delicate lace were stacked high against the walls. It was a place where the wealthy women of London came to buy beauty and status.

For Lady Celine Farrington, however, the shop felt quite the opposite.

She stood perfectly still on a small, round wooden pedestal in the center of the fitting room. She was surrounded by three tall floor mirrors that reflected her pale, unhappy face from every possible angle.

A skilled French modiste knelt on the soft carpet at Celine’s feet. Her mouth was full of silver pins, and her hands moved with quick, practiced speed as she adjusted the hem of a breathtaking ball gown. The dress was made of pale, icy blue silk. It was meant to make Celine look like a perfect, fragile doll.

The modiste removed a pin from her lips and looked up.

"How do you want the waistline, my lady?" the modiste asked Lady Celine as she stood up, smoothing her hands over the side of the bodice. She prepared to alter the ball gown to fit the young girl’s exact measurements.

Before Celine could even open her mouth to reply, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the quiet room.

"Make it a little tighter," Lady Farrington replied instantly.

Celine’s mother was sitting on a plush velvet sofa a few feet away. She was holding a cup of tea, her posture as rigid as a wooden board. She looked at her daughter with cold, calculating eyes, viewing Celine not as a child, but as an important investment.

"Accentuate the waist," Lady Farrington continued, setting her teacup down with a sharp clink. "My daughter is going to get engaged during the Hamilton ball. She must look absolutely flawless. Make sure it is up to a Duke’s standards. The Duke of Ford expects perfection."

The modiste nodded quickly, eager to please a wealthy Earl’s wife. "Of course, my lady. A tiny waist is very fashionable this season."

The modiste moved behind Celine. She grabbed the fabric of the bodice and pulled it tightly together, grabbing a handful of pins.

Celine felt the silk pull hard against her ribs. The corset she was wearing beneath the dress was already tied very securely. As the modiste pulled the fabric tighter, the pressure around her middle became incredibly uncomfortable. Her chest felt heavy, and she could barely draw a full breath of air into her lungs.

Celine spoke, her voice breathless and entirely polite. "But Mama, it is a bit tight. It hurts my ribs. I don’t feel comfortable."

She looked at the dressmaker.

"I want her to loosen it up a bit, please," Celine asked softly.

The modiste paused. Her hands stopped moving. She held the sharp silver pins in the air and looked directly at Lady Farrington for permission. In this world, the person holding the money held the absolute power.

Lady Farrington did not even blink. She offered her daughter a flat, unsympathetic look.

"Continue with what you are doing," Lady Farrington ordered the modiste. Her voice was flat and carried no room for any further argument. "Beauty requires a small amount of discomfort, Celine. You will survive."

The modiste lowered her eyes immediately.

"Yes, my lady."

The dressmaker pushed the silver pins firmly into the silk, locking the tight waistline into place. Celine closed her eyes. She took a tiny, shallow breath. She did not argue again. She simply stood on the wooden pedestal, trapped inside the tight pale blue silk, and waited in total silence for the long fitting to finally be over.

An hour later, the fitting was complete.

Celine had changed back into her plain dark traveling dress. She and her mother walked out of the warm modiste’s shop and stepped into the cool, gray afternoon air of the London streets. A footman in the dark Farrington uniform quickly opened the heavy door of their waiting carriage.

Mother and daughter got into the carriage. The footman shut the door, sealing them inside the small, rocking cabin. The driver shouted to the horses, and the carriage began to roll over the uneven cobblestones, heading back toward their grand, gloomy home.

Inside the carriage, the silence was heavy and deeply uncomfortable. Celine rested her head against the velvet wall of the cabin, looking out the small glass window at the passing buildings. Her ribs still ached from the tight pins.

Lady Farrington sat opposite her. She smoothed the wrinkles from her heavy cloak.

"I will tell the cook and maids to reduce the portion of food you eat," Lady Farrington spoke suddenly, not looking at her daughter. "Starting tonight."

Celine turned her head away from the window. She stared at her mother.

"You will have a very light broth for dinner, and only half a piece of toast for breakfast," Lady Farrington instructed coldly. "So that you can fit into the dress for the ball without struggling. If the modiste has to force the buttons closed, the silk will pucker, and you will look foolish. It won’t look good for the Farrington family."

Celine looked at her mother in sheer disbelief.

Her stomach was already empty. Her heart was completely broken. She had lost the only man she had ever loved, she was being sold to a Duke to settle a secret blackmail contract, and now her own mother was starving her just to make a dress fit a little better.

The quiet, obedient submission that Celine had carried all her life suddenly cracked. A hot, bitter anger rose up from the very bottom of her chest.

Celine spoke, her voice shaking with unshed tears and a sudden, fierce defiance.

"Is this how much you hate me, Mother?" Celine asked.

Lady Farrington frowned, but she did not answer.

"Is it because I am not a son?" Celine demanded, her voice rising above the loud rattling of the carriage wheels.