“Absolutely,” Gabby said rather faintly. One of Madame’s helpers was lacing her tightly into a corset. Her breasts were pushed up and out, and her waist became impossibly small. Gabby had a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Madame Carême’s magic would remake her into a vision of sophisticated beauty.

Someone threw the walking dress over her head. It settled in a puff of muslin.

“Not terrible,” Madame commented.

The gown had a high neck with an insert of brown velvet and faint brown stripes down the skirt. It was as unlike Gabby’s starched white gown as possible, given that it moved in the faintest breath of air. The only thing keeping the skirt from floating up was the line of fur at the hem.

To Gabby’s eyes, it positively screamed sophistication. “I—” Gabby took a small breath, all that was allowed given her tight corset. “I have always thought that orange was a pretty color, Madame.”

“Orange! That is orange blossom, not orange! I do not compose in such a color,” Madame Carême responded scornfully. “And the very best chinchilla fur around the hem,” she added.

But Gabby was getting used to her sharp tongue. “My only fear is that there’s a bit too much of me for this lovely gown.” Gabby felt as if the whalebone corset was pushing her breasts up around her collarbone. The gown seemed to strain in the front section.

In a split second Madame had the girls snipping away under Gabby’s arm and the dress was eased over her head again.

“Not right, not right,” the modiste murmured to herself. She had taken to circling Gabby again. “I shall have to give it more thought. This color does not set off your hair to its best advantage, for example.”

Gabby looked in the mirror. One of the girls was rapidly pinning her fallen hair back up on her head.

“And,” Madame continued, “the skirt of the gown is too narrow for you.”

Gabby couldn’t see anything wrong with the gown, barring the fact that she could hardly breathe.

“We shall have to start a new fashion,” Madame said. “For you, these French designs are not the best. And in order to be a match for Monsieur Dewland, you understand, you must be at the very pinnacle of fashion.”

She seemed to be distressed, so Gabby tried to console her, although she herself couldn’t see anything wrong with the gown. “Great achievements never come easily, Madame. Think of the person who first invented this infernal corset. It cannot have happened overnight, all the weaving and winding of whalebones, tapes, and cloth.”

For the first time since she walked into the establishment, Gabby had the sense that Madame Carême looked at her—Gabby—not at her clothing. Madame looked struck for a moment.