“This short hair … well, it’s very new, isn’t it? Lady Marion Carolly cut all hers off, of course, and Pearl Clotswild, the American heiress, and …” Marie’s voice trailed off. She was an avid reader of the gossip columns, and she knew that cropped hair was one of the most daring things a young lady could do.

Marie came around the bed and pulled Charlotte’s heavy black hair off her shoulders. Together they stared into the mirror over her dressing table, Marie’s tiny face gazing intently, her lips pursed. She twisted Charlotte’s hair this way and that.

“Perhaps,” she said finally. It was true that Charlotte’s face sprang into high relief when it escaped from its mantle of hair. In the three years since Marie had become Charlotte’s maid, her mistress had never let her spend more than ten minutes arranging her hair, and so Marie had finally taken desperately to threading a simple ribbon through the front, which at least held most of the weight off Charlotte’s face. But the style didn’t emphasize Charlotte’s eyes. Now she saw they were a remarkable size, slightly almond shaped, and her eyelashes were as black as her hair.

“We shall see what monsieur says,” Marie announced. She had the greatest reverence for Monsieur Pamplemousse, about whom one heard the most riveting stories: He was the hairdresser to Louis XVI, he had escaped from the very shadow of Madame Guillotine, he was the hairdresser to Napoleon’s beloved Josephine. Of course the English all abhorred Napoleon, but Marie reserved judgment. To her mind, Josephine was a model of feminine beauty and fashion, and her husband of rather less account.

“And as for Madame Brigette’s, my lady,” Marie said earnestly, “had you thought of perhaps visiting the establishment of Madame Carême? Madame Brigette creates perfect dresses for young girls, but …”

“You are right, of course,” Charlotte said, her voice rather bleak. She was not, and would never again be, a “girl.”

She met her maid’s worried eyes with a brilliant smile. “Actually, Marie, I never was much good at the girlish look anyway. It is time to try another style. I saw a woman in the park yesterday in one of those new high-waisted dresses, and no corset. Of course,” she said, “I think the lady herself was probably not of the highest moral fiber, but the point is that the new French styles are rather charming, don’t you think?”

Marie clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, Lady Charlotte! Madame Carême is just the person to visit. And,” she said shrewdly, “you have just the figure to neglect the corset. Perhaps … you might order one gown in gold? I have often thought that you would look splendid in a dress the color of the morning-room curtains!”