Lizzy stood as still as a scarecrow in the middle of her bedroom. Two modiste’s assistants pinned one of her new gowns to fit her curves. She hardly dared to breathe lest they prick her.
The modiste herself, Madame Laurent, looked through Lizzy’s closet. “Some of zhese dresses are quite good,” she said—in what Lizzy took for a fake French accent. “But all of zhem must be altered. Zhe necklines are too high, and zhe waists too low.”
Lizzy set her jaw. She wanted to argue. The thought of spending even more money on her wardrobe made her stomach clench. But what could she do? She had to look the part of a fashionable fiancée. The style of her dresses must be au courant.
The modiste stood beside Lizzy and peered at her in the mirror. “You see what a difference it makes to wear zhose new fou
