Libby caressed the bright red rose in her hands. She had found it by by her bed once she woke this morning. Now the day had passed and almost everyone were in deep sleep. Attached to the rose from a small piece of string was a note. She had read it about a thousand times, but she couldn't stop herself form reading it once again.

Tonight. E.

She sighed happily and hid the rose under her pillow. She straightened her long brown hair, and left her room quietly. The hard part was getting up to his room without being heard. But she had become quite adept at sneaking unheard. After a short while she was outside his room. She gave a small tap at the door, and a few seconds later it opened and she went in. There he was. He put his arms around her and kissed her. Libby enjoyed every minute of it. Soon they were in his bed and he continued to kiss her passionatly. Libby woke at the brink of dawn. She could hear his deep and soothing breath in her ear. He was still asleep with his arms around her almost as a protecting gesture. She gently and quietly slipped out of his bed doing her best not to wake him. Libby quickly found her gray dress and slippers and put them on. She then as quietly as she could, slinked out of his room and back to her own. Now all she had to was wait a few minutes in her room before going down to the kitchen.

Libby laid down in her own bed, alone. A tiny piece of her, tried to tell her that this was wrong, he was married. However, it didn't last long. Every inch of her mind and body loved what she and the count had. She also loved to make the countess feel threatened. It was a glorious feeling, that poor Libby with no family, no power, no money could make a countess feel threatened by her. Libby giggled to herself and took the rose out from under the pillow. She took the note and ripped it off. Her old friend the maid would definatly enjoy the rose. Libby could now hear noises from downstairs. The staff of the castle were just starting work for the day of their ordinary lives. Libby tied her hair in a tight bun and took the rose with her. As always she met the maid on her way down to the kitchen. She was too busy to notice Libby, so she just put the rose next to her.

Libby opened the doors to the grand kitchen and all sorts of briliant smells rushed to her nostrils. The cook was running around frantically, shouting and screaming at everyone. When he caught sight of Libby, he rushed over to her.

"Where have you been?! The breakfast tray's been reading for half an hour. Hurry up! The count and countess are waiting!"
"Of course, cook-y." Libby giggled at his expression, and took the tray. All the servants were busy cleaning around the castle and one could just feel life in the air. Ordinary lives, working and working. Libby couldn't help but wonder what an ordinaru life really was like. Surely there really couldn't be anything as an ordinary life?
Libby now stood outside the large doors to the dining room. She knocked softly at the doors, only to be followed with the dark voice of the count: "Enter."
She opened the doors, and started to take the food off the tray. It was very quiet, as it always was. She kept her head down and did not look up as she continued to ready the food.

The soft knock on the dining room door woke Rebecca from a long trail of thoughts. Rupert was reading, like he often did, and acting as if no one else was in the room. His skin was strangely tinged this morning; he must have had a good time last night. She did not feel jealous. It did, however, make her nervous that he was having such a good time so often these days. Sooner or later, if he did not depend on her for it, she would lose her influence on him, and consequently be in danger of losing both her power and her freedom.
”Enter.”

It was her. Rebecca could tell by his expression, instantly. She saw his face light up, spotted the glint of excitement in his eyes as he folded his book shut and put it away. ”Good morning, Miss.”

That little slut!

Rebecca had expected this. She knew he had adventures, my god, she had them herself, but this was different. This was one of their servants, this girl who was there all the time. This was his favorite. She had expected it, even known it for a while, although she had never been as sure as she was right now. From the very day she first met the young girl, she had kept an eye on her, the way she flitted about, doing her duties, sending Rupert stolen looks.

Rupert was openly eyeing the young girl as she elegantly readied their breakfast. The table was long, but not too long for Rebecca’s legs, so she stuck out her foot, caressing her husband’s inner thigh. He stared at her, astonished, with hope in his eyes, clearly pleased about this unexpected turn of events. She sent him one of her sweetest smiles and moved around on her chair, looking flirtatiously impatient. He tried to pretend like nothing had happened, but he was not a good actor, and the tinge in his skin had flushed back with double strength.

“I don’t want tea,” Rebecca said to the girl as she was about to leave. “Take this away, I don’t want it.” She handed the girl her cup, waving her hand as if she had been served something utterly disgusting. “I need something chilly instead,” she said airily. “Something that will cool me down.” Again she moved her foot up and down her husband’s leg. “I’m so hot,” she sighed, exaggerating.

((OOC: Modding of characters agreed upon in PMs.))

Rupert stared at his wife, perplexed. What the…? She hadn’t let him near her for ages, and now all of a sudden she was…? He never did get her. But this was nevertheless a pleasant surprise. He tried, however, not to show her that he thought so. He failed. Feeling himself flush, he remembered why he first decided to grow a beard. She shifted on her chair and held his gaze keenly.

The girl did as she was told. She brought Rebecca a cool drink that the countess presently held against her neck instead of drinking it.
”Ahh… That’s better.”
Rupert raised his eyebrows. Rebecca smiled. The whole atmosphere was really very awkward, as the maid clearly perceived, because she vanished as soon as she got the chance. Having eaten in silence for a while, Rupert finally cleared his throat to address his wife.
“So… What causes this sudden change in your disposition towards me?” he inquired.
”What disposition?” she asked innocently. ”Oh, Rupert dear, I’m sorry if I’ve been dismissive lately.” She got up from her chair and sensually, yet very elegantly, rounded the table and put her arms around his neck. ”Let me make it up to you.”

He let her.

Having finished breakfast and performed her required marital duties for the day, Rebecca retired to her own quarters. She had an appointment with the couturière in a while, and felt like looking presentable when she arrived. The widow Borden was always immaculately dressed herself; in fact she was impeccable in most ways as far as Rebecca knew. Rebecca respected Sara Borden, and that was not a typical thing for her. In The countess' opinion, respect was usually something very few people deserved.

Shooing away one of the maids who was currently handing her a towel, the countess grabbed her inner skirts and climbed into them. Then she let the same maid tighten her corset, closing her eyes and concentrating on something pleasant. Strawberries… Champag -.
“Holy mother of God, girl, are you trying to kill me?”
”So sorry, Ma’am.”
If he was to fall completely for someone, her husband, it could be very dangerous. She could not risk her whole marriage to fall apart because of some silly little maid. But was he really tha -
“Jesus Christ!”
”Sorry.”
- was he really that easily won over? Rebecca pondered. Probably not. He always did like the ladies. This was nothing special. So did she really have anything to worry about? Probably not.

She settled in the salon, staring blankly out through one of the tall windows. A maid brought her tea, and this time she did not decline it. She was all dressed up now, for no particular reason, since she would most likely have to undress again pretty soon. Sighing, she leaned back and closed her eyes, unwillingly dozing off.

The horse’s hooves rang out on the cobbles at a quick trot, white socks flashing, the gig swaying gently behind it. Neck arched proudly in the traces, the dark-brown gelding seemed self-assured and effortlessly threw his legs out, lifting his feet high as if trying to literally climb into the air. The motion was flowing and smooth, somehow, despite the showy stepping, and the two-wheeled carriage shook very little. On the high perch, Sarah Borden sat with her head held at nearly the same proud angle as the hackney horse’s, a small, rectangular box of polished wood on the leather seat beside her. She hastened the horse gently with a cluck of her tongue, leaving the slender quirt fastened upright and untouched beside her. At this time of the morning, Kirk Street was busy and tightly packed, but the center of the street was clear, and the people on foot hastened to move out of the carriage’s way.

Her mind was not fully on the driving, but both she and the horse knew the way very well, and a combination of her own unconscious direction and the gelding’s memory presently brought them out of the commercial crowd to the long, winding road leading up to Lindeborough Castle. The deep green shade of the oak trees that spread their branches overhead enfolded the little carriage, and the sounds of the city behind her were suddenly muffled, fading away into silence as the hackney trotted along. It was surprisingly cool and peaceful, in stark contrast to the craggy, ivy-laden castle visible through the trees. Things were not well between Count Lindeman and his wife. The countess had never spoken to Sarah about personal matters; their relationship was kept strictly professional. However, Sarah was good at picking up on hidden tensions and things left unsaid. The Count and his wife were distant when they were with one another. Not obviously, of course; both were too alert and self-controlled to be blatant about it, but there was a rift apparent to Sarah’s eyes.

If she had to guess, the Count was keeping a mistress; what else could cause the frigidity? It would not be surprising; Count Lindeman had been quite a wild man in his youth, before he married the Countess, and it was often hard for such men to stay settled down and restrict themselves to one woman. Perhaps the Countess knew of it, or perhaps she was only subconsciously aware, but on some level, the Countess had to have some knowledge. A man could not keep a secret like that from his wife.

She wondered. If Richard had lived, would he have betrayed her in such a way? They had loved each other, but their marriage had never been tested by another’s intrusion. Or had it? Were all men the same, only some better at hiding it than others? She did not like to think it, but it seemed that so many did. From the meanest beggar to the highest circles, men had a way of wandering. Richard was dead now, and buried for four years, so if he had ever strayed, it did not matter now, but she could not think it of him even so, and closed her mind to the possibility.

Sarah whoa’d, and drew rein before massive cast-iron gates. The elderly porter stood up from the gate-house, and the man put his fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly before opening the gates for her. Clucking the horse forward, the hackney set forth again, undismayed by the brief stop, to the castle doors, where a young groom in the Lindeman livery waited along with a footman. The groom darted up to the gelding and Sarah nodded slightly to him. The footman stepped up to offer her a hand down, and Sarah tucked the wooden box under her arm before accepting the servant’s hand and stepping carefully down from the little open-topped carriage. She did not know the man, but that was not surprising; she had seen his face a few times, but did not trouble to learn the names of all the Lindeman servants. She tipped her head and thanked him, however. He was not her equal, but it was good to be seen as evenhanded.

The footman escorted Sarah to the Countess’ salon, where the two women usually met to discuss Sarah’s designs. He rapped on the door, and at a sound from the other side swung it open and bowed deeply to the Countess. “Your couturière, my lady,” he announced, ushering Sarah into the room.

((OOC: Modding of Sarah Borden’s character discussed with her mun on msn ;)))

Rebecca only realized she had been snoozing as the tapping on the door made her jerk awake. She got up from the divan, muttering an “enter” in the direction of the door and doing a quick check of her appearance in the mirror.
“My Lady.”
“Sarah.”
Sarah Borden’s countenance was a pleasant one in Rebecca’s opinion. She was not too pompous and not too meek. Her voice was agreeable in a not-too-loud, but yet not too whispery manner. “Come in,” Rebecca showed her to the sitting-group by the tall windows where she had just been napping peacefully. “Sit,” she bade her – although it sounded more like a command from Rebecca’s lips than an offer - gesturing towards one of the velvet-upholstered chairs by the table. She sat herself. “May I offer you something to drink? – Tea, perhaps?” With a wave of her hand she beckoned the maid over, the girl curtsying insecurely before the two women. Rebecca eyed her overbearingly, waiting for Sarah to make her request.

She was glad it wasn’t that dark-haired figurine of a girl that had been waiting on them this morning. Rebecca couldn’t help thinking that perhaps she needed to get rid of her. It was unacceptable for Rupert to be having a mistress in their own home. Wasn’t it? She felt a pounding of a vein in her forehead; it hurt, almost to the degree that she wondered if Mrs Borden could tell just by looking at her. Forcing a cool smile, Rebecca unclenched her teeth and tried to relax her jaw. Maybe that was what was causing the headache. She was simply a tad tense. Nothing else. Silly Rupert was nothing to worry about.

But she certainly needed to get out this afternoon. Perhaps for a horse-ride, or maybe just to take a walk and have a drink somewhere. Rebecca had plenty of acquaintances who would love to spend an evening with her and help her take her mind off things. They would not necessarily know that that was what they were doing, and they certainly would not know what was on her mind, but diversion and entertainment would not be a problem.

Right now she had to concentrate on her wardrobe though. She had barely an inkling what she had in mind for her next dress, and hoped Sarah would have some ideas for her to fall in love with. She needed something to lift her spirits now. “Or a glass of white wine?” she suggested, casually.

Sarah fixed her eyes on the woman who stood by the bay windows, offering the Countess a mild smile. Sarah, of course, did not curtsey to the noblewoman; only servants and lickspittles curtseyed, and Sarah was neither a servant nor a cringing dog. She appreciated the Countess above some of her other noble clients, because the Lady Lindeboshire did not expect her to bow and scrape, whereas some of the other nobles did - and were shocked when Sarah held her head high. They were the ones who overstepped the bounds of etiquette, not Sarah; the couturière knew her place well.

"My lady." Standing in the doorframe, she announced herself in an even tone that carried.

"Sarah. Come in." The Countess directed her to be seated, and Sarah arranged her skirts carefully to the side before leaning back into the dark-green velvet; she set the polished wood box on her knees and nodded to the maid. The girl looked visibly nervous, about ready to fall over herself as the Countess spoke; she had to be a new servant. Yes; she'd tied her pristine white apron with a perfect bow that must have taken some time in front of a mirror to get right. The older, more experienced maids simply did their strings in a knot. The neat bow would be coming undone all day, and the young maid would have to re-tie it repeatedly. It would only take her a couple of days to catch on, but right now it marked her out very clearly.

"Tea would be fine, thank you," she said to the Countess. The servant, of course, was expected to simply hear and comply immediately; the words of course did not - and should not - have to be directed at the maid. However, the inexperienced maid stood there a moment longer, and Sarah glanced at her in annoyance. "Tea, please," she said directly, and slightly more sharply, to the maid this time, and the girl flushed and bobbed a curtsey. "Yes'm," the maid answered and slipped away quickly. Sarah lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly – the maid had not been taught well; likely she would learn soon enough but the designer had a suspicion that a painful lesson would have to be dealt first. The girl should not have spoken at all; by her affirmative she had only compounded her error.

When the maid had gone, Sarah gently unhinged the small iron clasp in the box on her lap, opening the carved lid. She tilted her head fractionally to the right, and slipped out a pad of heavy, stiff paper bound in soft white suede, turning through it carefully and purposefully. Holding it out, once she had selected the page she wanted, for the Countess sitting next to her to observe, Sarah began to describe the dress pictured in a neat watercolour on the page. As Sarah did so, she began to smile with the professional pleasure of an artist at the work she had done. She enjoyed designing for the Countess; Lady Lindeboshire’s complexion was flawless, and her form was perfect for the slimline silhouettes that Sarah preferred to work with. Her auburn hair presented some restrictions in color, but the design that Sarah had chosen to present to the Countess today complemented the lady’s natural features precisely. The style was one that might perhaps normally have been chosen by a younger woman, but Rebecca Lindeman had neither shriveled nor expanded as so many women did, and Sarah did not need to hide or disguise any features of this patron. The Countess could not only get away with wearing this dress, but outshine any younger woman easily. Sarah, of course, had designed several slimline dresses for the Countess, but this was her most daring venture yet, a good deal more décolleté than her previous designs and with short sleeves and nearly no bustle at all.

The dress echoed the fashions that were just beginning in Paris, yet tempered the French exuberance with English restraint. Her French counterparts tended to focus far too heavily on detail, to Sarah’s mind, and to lose sight of the principal thing – the woman inside the dress. They lavished embroidery, lace, ribbons, and other decorations on their work, until the dress began to look like some ridiculously elaborate confection inside which the wearer practically vanished. Sarah had taken the silhouette and refined it.

“The dress itself is a fine silk brocade in light blue,” Sarah said, “and the train is pale grey silk satin embroidered with gold jasmine. In the hair is an arrangement of silk flowers – hyacinths.” She described the dress briefly at first, to gauge the Countess’ reaction before she continued into further detail. Samples of the fabric that Sarah intended to use were, of course, also held within the wooden box she had brought, but she would wait until Lady Lindeboshire passed judgement on the watercolour before bringing them out. The dress had a meaning, of course, one that the Countess woud recognize: the yellow jasmine in the train represented grace and elegance, and the hyacinths stood for sport or play. Sarah thought that the Countess might appreciate her choices, but she waited, nonetheless, slightly tensely for her answer. While Sarah could simply create designs for her other clients, and give them no choice in the matter, she could not do such a thing with the Countess.

Rebecca did not comment on the maid other than to roll her eyes slightly in direction of Mrs. Borden and give a little resigned sigh. The usual It’s so hard to find good help these days, didn’t seem to be necessary. They both knew what the other one was thinking on the matter.

The dress was sky-blue, Rebecca curiously leaned closer as Sarah described the fabrics and colors.
“Delightful!” she exclaimed, sincerely elevated by the sight of the couturière’s illustration. The colors were rather light, which was unusual for the countess, but she fell for it instantly. Repeating her “delightful,” she took the drawing from Sarah’s hands to inspect it more closely. It had a young, cheerful style about it, making the countess feel outright light-hearted. She became aware of an involuntary smile playing around her lips. - A small, furtive one, but still one that she quickly stifled. Rebecca was not prone to displaying her emotions too often. “Very good indeed,” she corrected herself, regaining her professional manner. “Not my regular style of attire, but it will certainly be interesting to try out! I especially like the hyacinths.”

A juvenile picture appeared in Rebecca’s mind of herself wearing Sarah’s creation at a picnic in the country. She was younger in this image, in her early twenties perhaps, and there was someone else there, but she couldn’t se their face. The countess was quick to put it out of her mind again, however, dismissing it as silly day-dreaming.

“You are sure it is not too audacious, then?” she questioned Mrs. Borden. She wasn’t sure if she really cared what other people would think, but she wanted Sarah’s opinion on that matter nonetheless.

A glint of satisfaction appeared in Sarah's eyes as the Countess took the pad away from her and studied it. The couturière had placed a great deal of thought and care into the design, and she took pride in her work; it was good to see the appreciation on the Countess' face, and to hear the note of genuine pleasure in the other woman’s voice.

Reaching into the box again, she drew forth some small squares of fabric as she answered the Lady Lindeboshire’s last question. "My lady, it is springtime. The days are growing longer and warmer. It is a time for new things. This is the fashion in Paris, and soon it will be the fashion here as well - when the rest of the gentry follow your lead.” The possibility that the Earl was carrying on an affair had, of course, occurred to Sarah earlier when she was considering this design. With that thought in mind, she had chosen to draw out and emphasize the Countess’ youth and beauty. She knew that it would appeal to Rebecca because of that emphasis.

The couturière smiled and held out the cloth for her patron’s examination. The first piece was the sky-blue of the illustration, a dense, smooth silk with a raised pattern of darker delicate scrollwork. The design was understated and elegant, a sinuous vine winding in a fine script over the brocade. “This is Italian silk brocade.”

The second was a lighter weave, a soft grey, almost white silk that shimmered in the sunlight through the bay window. Sarah had chosen this one to be understated as well; although it was silk satin, it was not as shiny and reflective as many satins were. The train had to complement, not outshine, the dress itself. Even the embroidery was not overly heavy or showy; the jasmine flowers were picked out carefully, in a thread of softly glimmering gold that shifted colors when the light hit it. One moment they seemed almost fawn-colored, and the next pale yellow. “And this is also Italian silk.”

She held out finally a selection of laces, with which she would trim the bodice and sleeves of the dress. Intricate, tiny floral figures intertwined in the filmy white material, with a delicacy and sophistication in the designs that clearly showed it to be hand-made needlepoint lace. Sarah had seen some of the machine-made laces, and while she would occasionally use those on a less expensive dress, she had no particular opinion of them. “This is Brussels Point de Gaze,” she told the Countess.

“This is the fashion in Paris, and soon it will be the fashion here as well - when the rest of the gentry follow your lead.” Rebecca liked hearing these words. She liked the thought of having that kind of power, and loved to hear people confirm it, like Sarah just did, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was, wasn’t it? She was Countess Lindeboshire – the Right Honorable. Hiding a smirk, she took the square of Italian silk handed to her and fondled the blue fabric contently. This little hussy of Ruperts had better not ruin that. She would make sure that did not happen.

“Ah!” she sighed in admiration as she spotted the second fabric, a light grey one with beautiful embroidery of jasmine and gold. She put it on the table like a tiny tablecloth, letting her fingers glide on top of it. The golden threads enthralled her; they would look absolutely stunning on a dress outside come May. Then Sarah handed her the lace and like a small child she let go of the other two and lifted her new object of affection to her own eye-level, studying it carefully. “It’s lovely, Sarah. Did you do this?”

She lowered her hands to her lap again, grabbing all the pieces of fabric and holding them next to one another. Yes, it would make a wonderful dress. And Rebecca’s mood was considerably lifted. Sarah was brilliant at what she did. She seemed to be able to capture each of her costumers’ personalities and needs without even having to know them very well. The countess studied her couturière’s face. She looked pleased with Rebecca’s reaction.

“Would it be done by mid-May?” she inquired. What she really wanted to ask was how Mrs. Borden would be spending the afternoon, but that seemed like an odd question to blurt out with, so Rebecca decided to find someone else to accompany her. The maid returned with the tea, shaking slightly on her hands. It looked risky, and Rebecca sent the girl a rather cold look that didn’t help at all. She cowered away as quickly as possible after placing the cups on the table. This time Rebecca did comment on it.
“It is sad when they are so horrible at their job that you consider firing whoever it was that hired them.”

Sarah watched as the Countess handled the samples gently, tapered fingers stroking the weave; she took each one in turn as it Sarah held it out. The couturière had chosen the finest quality materials she had, not sparing either effort not expense. This evening dress would cost Rebecca a fair amount even if Sarah charged her only what she had herself paid for the materials, without compensation for the time that it would take her to sew it. With all things taken together, it would be a pretty penny coming out of the Countess's pocket - or rather the Count's.

She enjoyed designing, especially with such materials as she had to work with here; she enjoyed making people beautiful. Sarah had been told more than once by certain pious old baggages that what she did was a pretentious display of vainglory, a waste of time and money, quite likely a sin, and certain to drag her directly down to Hell. Others, less hypocritical but still irritating with their complaints and blind criticism, spoke of the labour that was used to produce these beautiful fabrics that she used. The couturière was not naive; she knew very well that children worked in the factories that made her silks and her velvets, her linens and her cashmeres and her organzas. It did not trouble her. That was the way of the world - and in any case it gave those children something to eat. Many of them might well be in the streets if those jobs were taken away from them.

The criticism left her unmoved and quite unrepentant. Why should it matter whether the Countess spent enough money on a single dress to feed fifty children for a week? Why especially should Sarah be condemned for creating the dress that cost so much? She did her part for the poor, donating regularly to the soup-kitchens and even running her own charity on the side. That was more than many of her bleeding-heart detractors did, for all their fine words.

She realised that the Countess had asked her a question, and smiled. "No, this lace is imported from Belgium. It is hand-made, but not by my hands." Sarah did know the technique of making needlepoint lace, but it would have taken her a year to make enough for the Countess's dress herself. "It will not take long, my lady. It should be done before this April end," she added after Rebecca spoke again.

Placing her hands flat on her lap, she fell silent as the maid reappeared, watching with a neutral expression as the girl faltered again. She might have felt sorry for her, but Sarah was not the sort of woman to extend much pity. The most she would do would be to avoid commenting as the girl would get enough harsh words later - not from the Countess directly, who would never stoop to chastising housemaids, but from the housekeeper. A little cream to cool and soften the tea, but no sugar; the spoon clinked softly against the china and she looked up at Rebecca.

“It is sad when they are so horrible at their job that you consider firing whoever it was that hired them.” She glanced at the door; they were alone again. "So it is," Sarah responded with a slight hint of distaste. Incompetents were to be found everywhere. The designer had her fair share of them working underneath her.

(OOC - for the record, I do NOT believe in child labour and this post does not reflect my views.)

The price of the dress was politely discussed over tea. Rebecca straightened her skirts while considering Sarah’s suggestion. It was quite a substantial sum, enough to make anyone feel a twinge of discomfort. That is, almost anyone. Not Rebecca. There was not a single muscle on her face that showed any sign of surprise at the high amount. Neither did she bother to haggle much for a lower price. She trusted Sarah. Besides, she was not really the one paying. True, if the money were to be spent on something else, they could (and most likely would) still have been spent by Rebecca. But it was her husband’s money. Even Rupert, however, would recognize the importance of the countess’ appearance being above any reproach at the various events they were to attend come summer. He would give her whatever she wanted. He always did, and she intended to keep it that way.

“Fine. That sounds fine.” She smiled her usual, clearly mandatory smile and took another sip before concluding: “That’s settled then. It will not be done for St George’s Day, but the weather most likely wouldn’t be fine enough for it anyway. I was planning to use the lovely grey and white one for that. What do you think?” About this particular thing, Rebecca could not have cared less about Sarah’s views. She had already decided about the dress for St George’s long ago; she was simply making conversation. “And for Easter you already know what I’m wearing. Is that not next weekend already? Will you be attending the party at the Lindeman Theatre?”

The conversation went on for a while. The two women had long since finished their tea when the flustered maid reappeared, clearly feeling that she was late. She hurried over to the salon and started filling her tray with shaking hands, quite too hurriedly for Rebecca’s liking.
“Careful!” the countess commanded as a loud “cling!” filled the room. The girl nodded and breathed unsteadily, finished collecting the items from the table, and turned to leave. At her first step the three of them realized the criticality of the situation – however, it was too late for any of them to be able to act on their common impulses.

The knot at the back of the maid’s apron had come undone; the apron had unnoticeably sunk to her ankles as she turned from the table, consequently making her stumble in it when she started to walk. The tray, containing porcelain, silverware, milk, bread and butter, and last but not least a pot of tea heated over a candle, all smashed down into Sarah Borden’s lap.
“Holy Mother of - !” Rebecca interrupted herself in the middle of her favorite profane expression, remembering that she was in the company of another high-class lady. She removed the tea-pot as fast as possible, hoping too much of the hot liquid would not yet have been spilt out in the couturiere’s lap. The candle, fortunately, had gone out, but hot wax had stained Mrs. Borden’s exquisite dress.
“God! Oh God! I’m so sorry, ma’am! I’m so sorry!” The girl was holding her hands to her face, doing nothing except screaming, which was not very helpful at all.
“You absolutely useless imbecile of a human being!” Rebecca cried out. “Don’t just stand there, help her!”

The fool girl was going to fall. Sarah saw it coming an instant before it happened, and began to half-rise with an idea of somehow steadying her, but the maid pitched forwards and lost her hold on the tea-tray. It flew out of her hands and overturned in Sarah’s lap, then slid down to the floor in a crash of breaking china, leaving a long smear behind it over her knees. The scalding tea in the pot cascaded over her lap, and the hot wax puddled in a rapidly congealing mass in the center of it all.

Sarah leapt to her feet with a sharp inhalation through gritted teeth as the hot liquid soaked through her skirt to blister her thighs and the juncture between. Her hands flew to the skirt to peel it away from herself, and she winced as she felt runnels of tea dripping down her legs. “Nnnnngh!” The maid, crying and gulping hysterically, began to frantically try and brush off the mess clinging to Sarah’s dress, but Sarah knocked her hands away and the maid cringed as if the couturière had struck her violently.

Surveying the destruction, Sarah knew that the dress was beyond saving. It had been a fine dove-grey poplin, plain and high-collared in the style that Sarah favored for her own dresses. Now, it was so much sticky, stained wreckage. There was absolutely no way that she could go out again and be seen in this. A slight movement made her bite her lip as the damp bloomers beneath her skirt rubbed against her sore legs and chafed them painfully. Supremely ignoring the sobbing chit, now in full-blown hysterics, she said loudly over the noise, “My lady, forgive me for the presumption, but have you a dress that I might borrow?”

Calmly holding the sodden skirts away from her scalded legs, Sarah held herself still, refusing to shift her feet or otherwise show the pain the maid had caused her. She also refused to acknowledge the maid, not feeling any desire at all to calm her down and indeed wishing that the fool would leave to summon a more adroit servant to replace her. The couturière could feel the sting of the tea-burns on her legs, and the remains of the liquid trailing down her shins into her shoes, and realised that she would need to change those as well.

“Perhaps if you could also spare them, I might request some drawers and shoes as well? If I could also impinge upon your hospitality to request some cooled water to bathe the scalds, I would be ever so grateful.”

“Certainly,” Rebecca did not care to raise her voice over the ruckus of the wailing twit. Presuming that Sarah had caught her confirmation, she put a hand on the girls back and started pushing her towards the door.
”Will you desist?!” She shoved the girl out into the hallway. “Fetch me someone competent. At once.”

Almost instantly another face appeared in the doorway. Apparently someone had heard the commotion.
“My Lady?”
“Yes, get this mess cleaned up! And find Mrs. Borden a decent outfit to replace the one that your colleague has so thoughtlessly destroyed.” The girl nodded and disappeared, returning presently with several effective young servants. “Come with me, Sarah. Can you move at all?” Rebecca knew an apology was in order, but she was not good at apologizing, and the words simply would not come out. The new maid took a gentle hold of Sarah’s skirts, holding them out for her. She was a red-head, this one, freckled, but with a sophisticated, pretty face and a posture that appealed to Rebecca far more than the previous one. She was one of the countess’ head attendants and had been with the Lindemans for years. Now she and another girl helped Sarah to the wardrobes, where yet another lady-in-waiting was going through several dresses.

Sarah Borden was a widow. She would not dress the same way as a single woman or a married one, and she certainly would not dress like a countess. But Rebecca believed she knew a fair bit of things about her couturiere’s taste. Her own style being somewhat simplistic for a countess, and many of her textiles being of earthen colors, some of the dresses might just work.

“This one, mylady?”
“No. Get…” Rebecca pressed herself past the girl to pick out one herself. It was a brown one; she had gotten it on one of her travels to London a few years back. The dress had a matching cape and hat, coffee-colored with crème borders, and beneath it all was a blouse and slip in the same shade of crème. She lifted it up with a questioning look at Sarah, who at the moment was being doted on by three maids. “Jesus, let the woman breathe! Sarah, would you like some privacy?” She put the outfit down next to two other options already put forth by the red-head. What was her name again? Anna? Andrea? Ann… Never mind. A bowl of cold water had also been set forth, as well as cloths, soap, drawers and a few pairs of shoes. “This…” Rebecca started, knowing she must somehow press forth something that could at least resemble an apology. “…was most unfortunate.” She was at the door now, ready to leave and call with her the girls if necessary. They were now awaiting Sarah’s order, unsure whether or not she wanted attendance while changing. All four of them simply stood vigilant, two of them still holding her skirts.

Surprise showed for an instant in Sarah's face before she quashed it. Of course she could move; she was not a fainting ninny. Did the Countess think that she was? She hurt, but not so badly as all that. An answer did not immediately come to mind, and so Sarah nodded her head mutely, managing to summon up a sort of half-smile. She was truthfully far more upset about the loss of the dress than about the pain; it would mean an expenditure she could ill afford. Sarah's fortunes were on the rise, but she still had debts to pay; she had borrowed a great deal of money before Richard died. As it stood right now she was comfortably off and lived well, but frugally; it was by the exercise of good taste that she appeared perhaps more well to do than she was. It was necessary to keep up such an appearance; the peerage would not deal with a ragbag.

And now she would have to buy a new dress. Simmering underneath the surface, she swept along imperiously behind the Countess and her maids with a step precisely measured by the anger she kept out of her face.

The couturière submitted as the maids fussed over her as if she had been a returning war veteran, but the instant that Rebecca gave the opportunity she seized upon it. "I should indeed," she answered, as soon as the bustling quieted a little. "I do not need help to dress myself," she said with perhaps a little more forcefully than was quite necessary. Modifying her tone, she added, "Thank you. It was indeed unfortunate, but after all it was only an accident."

Once privacy had been restored, she reached around behind herself to unbutton her dress; dropping it around her heels, Sarah subsequently dropped her drawers and skinned out of her shoes and stockings, adding them to the depressing little pile. The only part of her garments which had survived the accident was her bodice; even her gloves had been ruined when she brushed at her skirts like a hopeful fool. She took a seat on a stool next to the table on which the basin and pitcher had been set, dipped a cloth into the water and squeezed it out. The cool, damp cloth felt wonderful against her reddened skin at first, but as soon as she moved it Sarah could not supress a wince. However, she was about the business of cleaning herself up, not here to coddle herself.

One matter taken care of, she pulled on the new pair of drawers. They fit well enough, although they were perhaps a little tighter than she would have liked. Sarah was slightly larger of frame than the slim Rebecca. A tall stand-mirror in one end of the dressing room caught her eye, and she stood herself in front of it with hands on hips, the close-fitting drawers prompting her to survey her figure. Had she gained weight since she last saw herself? Sarah was rather partial to sweets, a failing she endeavoured to control but often failed. Turning herself to look over her shoulder at her profile, she frowned slightly.

She did not think she was getting fat, but the boneless liberty bodice she wore would not conceal any gains as a corset would. Nevertheless, Sarah would never shut herself up into a corset. She was a proponent of the Rational Dress movement, although she only adopted their style of undergarment, not the full Bloomer outfit. To her mind, the loose trousers were positively scandalous, and signified equally loose morals. Women ought not to dress as men.

The undergarments, now - that, Sarah could certainly see the Rational line of reasoning. It was not right to mangle a woman's body to produce an artificial shape. She wished she could persuade more of her clients of that; the natural shape was far more beautiful than the sculpted wasp-waists produced by tightlacing. Sarah would have liked to celebrate the real curves with her designs. Yet there were so many who refused to see that corsets were unnatural and dangerous to a woman's health, even sometimes her life. The things were like armor - they were even called "cuirasses" - and women struggled far too hard to get into them. In order to produce that fashionable silhouette, Sarah knew that some would even have ribs surgically removed to dispense with resistance to the shaping. Why were women such fools?

Turning away from the mirror, mouth set with the irritation sparked by her musings, she walked towards the three dresses hung forth on the wardrobe. Only one appealed to her, a deep brown silk with crème trimmings. It was not one of her own designs - it featured the emphasized shoulders that Sarah rather disliked, which set it a few years back in the fashions - but it was quieter and more restrained than either of the two other choices. She thought it was one that Rebecca herself had selected, and the designer was impressed by the Countess' quick eye. If Rebecca had not been of the peerage and above it, Sarah would have been pleased to work with her.

She ran into difficulty, however, when she attempted to put the dress on. Rebecca was not only slimmer of figure naturally, but the Countess wore a corset, and the waist of the brown silk was a good deal too slim for Sarah to fit into. There was no way, however she sucked in her stomach, to get the buttons done up in back. From the front, in the mirror, it did not look so bad, but she could hardly run around in public with the back of her dress hanging open. What to do? She eyed herself in the mirror.

Heading towards the door, she opened it and poked her head out. "My lady. There is a slight problem. I cannot fit the dress."

Rebecca walked aimlessly about the room waiting for Sarah to finish changing. She eyed the maids idly while they cleaned up the mess before turning towards the windows with a vacant expression. She was bored. Rebecca was often bored. A carriage pulled up way down there. - Probably someone to see her husband. She couldn’t tell who stepped out – neither did she care much. Noticing that she was once more alone in the room, the countess approached the door to the room where her couturiere was bustling about. There was a gleam of light between the two great wooden doors, and Rebecca leaned closer, glimpsing a figure on the other side. Sarah was pretty without clothes on. She was eyeing herself skeptically in the mirror. Rebecca absent-mindedly let her hand stroke the door-frame, allowing herself to feel the tickling sense of desire. Sarah’s body was much like the girl the countess called for regularly to enjoy herself. She was not shaped by the wearing of corsets, but Rebecca liked that about her. And though she was not as tall as this… oh what was her name again? Nina? N… Nora, yes that was it. She was not as tall as her, but she had some of the same slender, yet curved build, as far as Rebecca could remember. And she was about the same age, too…

”Ahem… Mylady?”
Rebecca spun round in a single twirl, and had she been given to flushing, her face would have been as red as her hair right then.
“Yes?” She replied coolly, however, to the girl who was in the doorway, staring at her feet, attempting – but not succeeding – to hide a smile.
”Your niece has arrived,” she muttered through clenched teeth. The countess pretended like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and kept her straight posture – not that she had any choice, she was wearing a goddamn corset.
“Who?” she inquired blankly.
“Young Miss Alexander, Mylady. Your niece…?”
“Oh.” Rebecca had completely forgotten that this was the day Alice would be arriving. She wanted to yell at someone for not reminding her, but then she realized she had been reminded last night. “Right,” she simply said. “Err… Well, tell my husband. He will go meet her. I’m… I will be down when I’m finished here.”
The girl nodded and disappeared.

"My lady. There is a slight problem. I cannot fit the dress." Sarah’s words prevented Rebecca from any further musings on the subject on their new visitor. She turned again towards the door where her couturiere’s face was now looking at her.
“Hmm… I do not think I have any better…” She pondered. “Should I perhaps ask one of my maids? What seems to be the… Ah...” Ah, yes. Sarah had opened the door and demonstrated the back of her dress. It would not close properly. That ought to have struck her earlier; the fact that Sarah’s not wearing corsets might be a problem. “Will you be going straight home after this?” Rebecca wondered. “…Because if you are not going anywhere in particular, then perhaps the cape would do as a cover-up for the time being?” She reminded herself to suggest that they added to the price of her next creation. This was indeed a misfortune.

At the humiliating suggestion that she might wear a maid's dress, Sarah's eyes narrowed a little at the corners; she would rather be seen in the spoilt dress than in servant's livery. She kept her face as smooth as possible, however. Most likely, the Countess intended no insult, and was honestly trying to think of some practical solution and simply speaking her thoughts as they occurred to her without first logically qualifying them. Even if Rebecca did intend insult, Sarah could not be seen to take offense at it. The Lady of Lindeboshire was by far her most important patron, and Sarah would bend over backwards and wink her eye at almost any amount of abuse for a client of such value.

The couturière put up with a good deal of insult from several of her less influential customers. One in particular liked to put on airs and snub Sarah at every opportunity; she would face that very customer quite soon this day. The thought of Miss Jamesson and having to put up with her haughty, supercilious attitude made Sarah want to grit her teeth, but that was the way things worked. She was only the widow of a minor lord, and as a result stood low on the ladder. Money was her only chance to get ahead. Some-day she would stand higher than Miss Jamesson, and then the girl would smart for what happened now.

Rebecca's next words struck the Countess with all the force of the blindingly obvious fact that one should have noticed for oneself but hadn't. Of course the cape could be used to cover the back; the heavy silk, if she kept it wrapped close about herself while driving, would conceal all that needed to be concealed until Sarah reached home. At which point, of course, she could don fresh fitting clothing of her own. She did have another appointment, but Miss Jamesson was late as often as not, and Sarah had just worked herself up into a contrary mood. To-day she would be late, and she would not apologize or offer any explanation.

"Yes," she answered. "You are quite right. I will be going directly home." She pasted on a smile, feeling an uncomfortable mix of foolishness, irritation, vindictiveness, and embarrassment, on top of a reminder sting of pain. This accident really had shaken her a little.

As quickly as politely possible, with all necessary expressions of gratitude and farewell, Sarah excused herself and ended her call. A few minutes later her gig drove away from the castle with rattling haste.

((OOC: Rebecca's next post is in: "What are you looking for?"))