Whisper of Jasmine Read Free Page A

must have had ballet lessons at some point. Didn’t they teach you about posture?”
    Evie stiffened her spine, darting a glance out of the tail of her eye. “I did, but it never seemed to take. I probably ought to have been corseted like you.”
    “Corset? Rubbish. Never wore the beastly things. They aren’t healthful,” she said, tacking a sleeve into place. “No, the best training for good posture is a nice, heavy tiara.”
    “A tiara?”
    “Nothing to make you hold your spine straight like the fear of dropping a few thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds onto the floor. Now, turn around and let me take a good squint at you.”
    Evie did as she was told, turning smoothly.
    “When I asked you to do this, I thought you might have something pretty lying around in a trunk somewhere,” Evie said as Aunt Dove frowned at the hem. “I never expected you to cut up a Worth gown.”
    “Don’t be daft, child. It’s just fabric,” she said, but distractedly. She knelt, joints creaking in protest, to pin the hem tighter.
    “Aunt Dove, I won’t be able to walk in it!”
    “Stop fussing. You want a fashionable skirt, don’t you? It must be properly pegged to get that lovely tulip shape,” Aunt Dove told her firmly. She thrust another pin into the emerald-green satin for good measure, and Evie tried not to think about the masterpiece Dove was carving up for her. The original gown had been ornately embellished in the overblown style of the 1870s, but Dove was working magic upon it. She had already torn off the long train and ripped out the inner petticoats so the skirt hung long and slim about Evie’s legs. The sleeves had been the next to go, snipped away with a few passes of her flashing scissors while the intricate lace had been unpicked leaving only the satin foundation behind.
    “Where did you wear this?” Evie asked, stroking the cool satin.
    “Hmm? Oh, Turkey. I had a rather tempestuous encounter with the French ambassador to the sultan’s court in Constantinople. He had the most divine moustaches. Very tickly on the thighs they were,” she added absently. Before Evie could respond, Aunt Dove went on. “That should do for now. Let’s get you out of it and we’ll make a pile of hot buttered toast and exchange savage gossip.”
    “You realise your memories are more interesting than my actual life, don’t you?” Evie said, holding up her arms for her aunt to ease her out of the dress.
    Aunt Dove stepped behind her and looked at her reflection in the cheval glass. “You haven’t been to India, pet, but in the Nilgiri Hills, there’s a flower called a kurinji flower. It doesn’t bloom often. In fact, you can go a dozen years or more without seeing a single blossom. But then, just when you’ve given up hope of ever seeing one, they burst into flower, whole mountainsides at the same time, carpeted in the most astonishing shades of purple. It’s as if God himself shook out a rug of petals and spread it at your feet. It’s unexpected and magnificent, and very much worth the wait.”
    Evie rolled her eyes. “Are you honestly comparing me to a rare flower that happens to be a late bloomer?”
    Aunt Dove grinned. “No. I was simply reminding you the world is full of miraculous things the likes of which you have yet to see. If I were going to compare you to a flower, I would have chosen a carrion flower from Sumatra. Six feet tall, smells like death, and blooms long after you’ve given up hope of it ever doing anything interesting.”
    “I do not smell like death!”
    Aunt Dove gave her a pitying look. “No, you don’t smell of anything, actually. Except soap. It’s high time I introduced you to Guerlain, child. Come along. You’ve much to learn.”
    * * *
    “Taste this and tell me what you think,” Delilah ordered. She ladled out a cupful of punch and handed it to her husband.
    Johnny gave it an experimental sniff, admiring the pale ruby colour. “Looks harmless enough,” he told her with a grin.