The food was good. Plain country fare, and all the better for it in Elinor’s opinion, which she expressed as she passed the coarse game pâté across the table to Theo. ‘Do you keep house for Aunt Louisa?’ he asked, cutting them both bread.
‘Me? Goodness, no! I am quite hopelessly undomesticated. I do not have any of the proper accomplishments for a young lady.’ She glanced down at the lumpily-hemmed skirts of her offending gown and added, ‘As you have already noticed.’
‘Why should you, if your inclination is not in that direction?’ Theo took a long swallow of ale. ‘I have no inclination for any of the things I ought—I know nothing of estate management, my knowledge of politics is limited to keeping a wary eye on the international situation, it must be years since I went to a play…’
‘But I am a lady and for me not to have accomplishments is disgraceful, whether I want them or not. You are a man and may do as you please.’
‘True. A gratifying circumstance I must remind myself of next time Aunt Louisa is informing me that I am a scapegrace or Papa is practising one of his better hellfire sermons on me. Do you ride?’
‘Papa taught me when I was little, but I could never keep my seat on a side saddle. When I reached the age when I could not possibly continue to ride astride, I had to stop.’ Elinor sighed with regret. ‘Perhaps I will persevere with trying to drive instead.’
‘I knew a lady who rides astride,’ Theo remarked. ‘She has designed a most ingenious divided garment that looks like a pleated skirt when she is standing or walking. It was necessary to have the waistline made unfashionably low, of course, near the natural line. But it would be more suitable for your activities in the ruins, I imagine. It certainly appeared to give her considerable freedom.’
There was a faint air of masculine nostalgia about Theo as he spoke. Elinor bit the inside of her lip to repress a smile—or, worse, an indiscreet question. She would hazard a guess that the lady in question enjoyed more freedoms than simply unconventional dressing and that her cousin had enjoyed them with her.
‘That sounds extremely sensible,’ she observed, visited by an idea. ‘Do you think your landlady could make me such a garment if you were to draw it for her?’
‘But of course. From what I have seen on her worktable and her stocks of fabrics, she makes clothes for most of the ladies in the area, including those at the Chateau de Beaumartin, I imagine.’ Theo set down his glass and sat up straighter, reaching into his pocket for the big notebook he seemed to take everywhere. ‘Let me see what I can recall.’
What he recalled proved beyond doubt that he had a far more intimate knowledge of the garment in question than he should have. Elinor preserved a straight face as diagram followed diagram until she could resist no longer. ‘How clever of you to deduce all of that from the external appearance only, especially, as you say, the garment is designed to conceal its secrets.’
‘Ah.’ Theo put down his pencil. ‘Indeed. And I have now revealed a situation that I should most definitely not discuss with my sisters, let alone you, Cousin. How it is that I do not seem able to guard my tongue around you, I do not know.’
‘Was she one of the willing ladies I most reprehensibly referred to yesterday?’ Elinor enquired, not in the slightest bit shocked, only slightly, and inexplicably, wistful. Her newly rediscovered cousin was nothing if not a very masculine man. Doubtless he had to beat the ladies off with sticks.
‘Yes, I am afraid so. Rather a dangerous lady, and willing, very much on her own terms.’
‘Good for her,’ Elinor retorted robustly. It sounded rather a desirable state, being dangerous and dealing with men on one’s own terms. ‘May I have those?’
She reached for the little pile of sketches, but Theo held them out of reach. ‘On one condition only.’ She frowned at him. ‘That I choose the colour.’
‘Certainly not! I cannot go and discuss having gowns made with a man in attendance, it would be quite shocking.’
‘Gowns plural, is it?’ He grinned at her, still holding the papers at arm’s length. ‘I am your cousin, for goodness’ sake, Elinor, and she is my landlady. All I want to do is help you pick colours.’
‘Dictate them, more like,’ she grumbled, trying to maintain a state of indignation when truthfully she found she was rather enjoying this. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to think about clothes as anything but utilitarian necessities. ‘Very well. And, yes, gowns plural if it will save me from being nagged by you.’
‘I am forgiven for my plain speaking, then?’ He moved the sketches a little closer to her outstretched hand.
‘About my clothes or your mistress?’ Elinor leaned forwards and tweaked them from his fingers.
‘Your clothes. And she was never my mistress—a term that implies some kind of arrangement. I am too careful of my life to entangle myself with that dangerous creature.’
‘Tell me about her.’ Elinor folded the sketches safely away in her pocket and regarded him hopefully.
‘No! Good God, woman, Aunt Louisa would have my hide if she had the faintest idea what we are talking about. I don’t know what has come over me.’
‘We are becoming friends, I think,’ she suggested. ‘I find you very easy to talk to, perhaps because we are cousins. And I am not the sort of female you are used to.’
‘That,’ Theo observed with some feeling, ‘is very true. Would you like anything else to eat? No? Then let us go and consult Madame Dubois.’
After five minutes with Madame, Theo was amused to observe that Elinor stopped casting him embarrassed glances and dragged him firmly into the discussion, even when he judged it time to retreat and began to edge towards the door.
‘Come back,’ she ordered, sounding alarmingly like her mother for a moment. ‘My French is not up to this, I do not have the vocabulary for clothes.’
‘What makes you think I have?’ he countered. She slanted him a look that said she knew all to well that he had plenty of experience with French modistes and turned back to wrestling with the French for waistline.
Between them they managed well enough and Madame grasped the principles of the radical divided skirt very quickly. ‘You could start a fashion, mademoiselle,’ she remarked, spreading out the sketches and studying them. ‘Your English tailors say we French cannot produce riding habits to their standard—let us see!’
They agreed on the riding skirt with a jacket and a habit-shirt to go beneath it, a morning dress and a half-ress gown. ‘Now, this is the fun part.’ Theo began to poke about in the bales of cloth and had his hand slapped firmly away by Madame.
‘Zut! Let mademoiselle choose.’
‘No, I trust Monsieur Ravenhurst’s judgement,’ Elinor said bravely, apparently only half-convinced of the wisdom of that assertion.
‘That for the riding habit.’ Decisive, he pulled out a roll of moss-green twill. ‘And that, or that, for the morning dress.’ Elinor submitted to having a sprigged amber muslin and a garnet-red stripe held up against her. Madame favoured the amber, he the red. Elinor wrinkled her nose, apparently unhappy about pattern at all.
‘No, look.’ Theo, carried away, began to drape the cloth around her. ‘See? Pinched in here to show your waist off, and here, cut on the bias across the bosom—’ He broke off, finding himself with both arms around Elinor, his nose not eight inches from where her cleavage would be if it was not swathed in fabric.
‘It is my bosom,’ she pointed out mildly. He felt heat sweep through him, dropped the fabric and stepped back abruptly. She caught the falling cloth, plainly amused at his discomfiture. ‘I like this