She led Jane across the shop to a bolt of palest pink. Picking up the cloth, she continued to the bolt of dove grey which Jane had so coveted. Laying the two cloths together to assess the colours, she nodded in satisfaction and then turned to Jane. “Something like this, I think.”

Her fingers danced in the air, pulling folds together in a small simulacrum of Jane. This tiny manikin wore Jane’s beloved dove silk, but with a open pelisse of the pink. A high waist with a sash of that same pale pink gave the illusion of height and slenderness to her figure. Softening Jane’s face, Madame Beaulieu had added a turban à la Oriental which cupped her hair with cunningly wrought silk roses. A simple shawl completed the picture with elegant grace. She caused the image to execute a graceful pirouette so that Jane could see how the garment moved. Jane breathed in wonder. She hardly dared hope that her own true form would look half so fetching. “I believe you have it, Madame Beaulieu.”

The modiste smiled and beckoned one of the shop girls. The girl trotted over and took over the folds from the modiste, moving the image to the back of the shop and leaving her mistress free to spend her energies in other designs. Although Madame Beaulieu could tie off the image and have it remain in place without effort, if she did, the shop would soon become crowded with manikins. A shop girl could be trusted to maintain the integrity of the folds while moving them to the back of the shop, where they could be tied off until it was time to make the dress. As the curtain to the back parted, Jane caught a glimpse of other tiny manikins, as if the ball had already begun in miniature.

After she spoke with Madame Beaulieu briefly of the price and time of delivery, Jane moved to the door, only to find her way blocked as a gentleman entered the shop. For a moment, the light from the street rendered his identity a mystery, leaving only a man-shaped silhouette. Then he stepped fully into the shop and Jane saw that it was Mr. Dunkirk. He swept his hat off at once upon seeing her. His face brightened, unexpectedly. “Miss Ellsworth, this is good fortune.”

“How do you do, Mr. Dunkirk?”

“Very well, thank you, the more so because my sister has come for a visit.” Here he turned and beckoned a girl, surely no more than sixteen, with the same dark eyes and noble brow as her brother. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Dunkirk?”

As the girl bobbed a curtsy, Mr. Dunkirk continued, “Miss Ellsworth is our neighbour, Beth. She is a woman of uncommon taste.” He twisted his hat in his hand and looked deeply apologetic. “I do hope I might impose on you for some advice. Beth arrived only yesterday, and as we were not expecting the FitzCamerons to be so generous with their hospitality, I find myself tasked with the duty of outfitting my sister for the ball. Were we in Downsferry, my mother would handle this, but I do not feel equal to the task. Could you . . . ?” His voice trailed off, and most unaccountably, he flushed, as if embarrassed. “I am quite hopeless in such things. I may recognize a gown of exquisite taste, but do not know the necessaries of a young woman’s toilet.”