Her breasts certainly were on display, Gabby thought. In fact, they were only precariously confined by the evening gown she was trying on.

“Now you may emerge into the public spaces,” Madame said with satisfaction. “Monsieur Dewland will be happy, no?”

“Absolutely,” Gabby hastened to say. “But, Madame, what if this bodice”—she touched it anxiously—“what if it drops below?”

“Drops below? Drops below?”

With an alarmingly easy wiggle of her shoulders, Gabby demonstrated.

Madame stared with affront at the pale pink nipple that appeared in response to Gabby’s motion. “You must not move in that manner,” she pronounced. “All of my clients wear low bodices in the evenings, even those who have nothing to display. You should be very grateful for your bosom, Miss Jerningham. Undergarments would destroy the drape of my bodice. Never wiggle your shoulders. My clients do not wiggle.”

Well, of course not, Gabby thought. They’re terrified.

But she was tired of being in the house. If Madame Carême took the gowns away to be remade, Gabby would be unable to demand that Quill take her somewhere, introduce her to someone—anyone!

So she said farewell to Madame Carême. Margaret helped her put on a morning dress ornamented with a knot of ranunculuses. Over it she wore a mantle of a very pale blush color with a large hood, lined in pink silk. Margaret was beside herself with excitement.

“This is the most beautiful mantle I’ve ever seen,” she said reverently, adjusting the hood one last time. “What color did Madame call it?”

“Peach blossom,” Gabby said. “But that’s just a fancy way of saying pink, Margaret, no matter what Madame said.”

“Oh, no, Miss Gabby, I have to have the words right,” Margaret said earnestly. “They’ll want to hear everything downstairs.” She handed her mistress a silk handkerchief bordered in the very same peach blossom.

Gabby had her first idea of the effectiveness of Madame Carême’s designs when she was ushered into Mrs. Ewing’s tiny front parlor. She had been coming once or twice a week to take Phoebe to visit Kasi Rao, and she had formed a rather stilted but friendly relationship with Phoebe’s adopted mother.

But this morning Mrs. Ewing visibly checked her pace when she saw what Gabby was wearing. Gabby smiled to herself. Phoebe’s mother always looked so well-dressed that Gabby felt like a positive dowdy beside her.

“If you will forgive me for the comment, Miss Jerningham, you look quite elegant this morning. Your gown is truly beautiful.”

Gabby smiled. “I am the recipient of a wardrobe from Madame Carême.”

“She’s given you a small train,” Mrs. Ewing said, walking forward. “What an interesting choice! And your mantle is of merino cloth, is it not?”