overlong, little
Isobel. Although you are not quite so little after all, are you?” Kit offered
her an easy grin. Naturally he expected her gratitude for buying her a few extra
hours with the girls. Why could she not manage a simple thank you?
“Good night,” she said instead as she gathered up her brown
skirts to leave.
“Good night,” he responded, somewhat distractedly. Then,
“Ahh, Isobel?”
His deep voice halted her on the threshold. She glanced back
and found Kit regarding her ankles with open amusement. She dropped her hem and
primly smoothed her skirts in place again.
“I also promised Taggart you’d bring along a fine trousseau.
We’ll go for your first fitting tomorrow.”
“‘We?’” She bit her lip.
“Of course. You don’t suppose I’d send an innocent alone
into town? Madame Louise could come here, of course, but then we’d miss out on
an amusing outing. I fear your London education has been sadly neglected. Besides,
I am accounted quite the expert on fashion, and that alone will assure us of
Madame’s undivided attention.”
“As you wish.” Isobel refused to be drawn into jovial
banter, not when her whole life was crumbling about her. What use would she
have for such finery at Land’s End? A miner’s drudge was all she would become,
that and doubtless the mother of a dozen children in due time.
Chapter Five
“ G racie’s
telling stories again.” Anne accused her sister the moment Isobel stepped into
the nursery the next evening. “Make her stop!”
“Am not!” Grace’s eyes flashed as she clutched her mop-headed,
much-loved doll to her heart. “Judith was just where the man told me, under a
bush in the garden.”
“What man?” Anne scoffed. “You said Saint Anthony was going
to come down from heaven to help you find her.”
“I guess he couldn’t come,” Grace shot back. “An’ anyway,
Judith’s found. ’Twas the other man who showed me — an angel-man,” she added in
a mysterious whisper, her green eyes sparkling from what Isobel suspected was
far more deviltry than angelic revelation.
“Girls, how many times have I told you not to tease one
another so?” Isobel’s voice was as weary as she herself felt. She’d spent all
day at Madame Louise’s looking at bolts of beautiful material and useless,
exotic accessories merely to please Kit. Why couldn’t he see it was pure
torture for her merely to touch such rarefied cloth? Silk and satin, velvet and
damask, the colors and textures had dazzled her senses, and struck her nearly
dumb.
Every gown was a masterpiece; like precious jewels they
would soon line her wardrobe — ruby, sapphire, emerald, pearl; amethyst-colored
velvet, topaz damask. Then there was Isobel’s secret favorite, the
lavender-blue silk night rail, christened “hyacinth” after the vain Greek youth
of the ancient myth. She understood why when she ran her fingers over the
watered silk; it rippled against her skin like a moth’s delicate wings and even
caused her to give a faint, envious gasp. It was far more like something
“Madame Mysterie” would wear than a plain, brown wren like Isobel Weeks.
“That’s the one,” Kit had said, and grinned when he saw
Isobel’s mixed reluctance and delight. “Oh, and make it the most beautiful of
the lot, Madame. No expense must be spared on this bride-to-be.”
“Of course, monsieur ,” the French modiste murmured
deferentially, though not without a curious glance at Isobel, as if wondering
why a gentleman like Sir Christopher wasted perfectly good coin on such a drab.
It had taken all the courage and dignity Isobel could muster
to stay still during the interminable fitting. Surely the Continentals did
things differently, she thought, for none of the fluttering French butterflies
at the shop seemed to find anything amiss in Kit’s presence, not even when she
was relegated to her old yellowed petticoats before him and stood shivering
with patent embarrassment.
“A
Isobel. Although you are not quite so little after all, are you?” Kit offered
her an easy grin. Naturally he expected her gratitude for buying her a few extra
hours with the girls. Why could she not manage a simple thank you?
“Good night,” she said instead as she gathered up her brown
skirts to leave.
“Good night,” he responded, somewhat distractedly. Then,
“Ahh, Isobel?”
His deep voice halted her on the threshold. She glanced back
and found Kit regarding her ankles with open amusement. She dropped her hem and
primly smoothed her skirts in place again.
“I also promised Taggart you’d bring along a fine trousseau.
We’ll go for your first fitting tomorrow.”
“‘We?’” She bit her lip.
“Of course. You don’t suppose I’d send an innocent alone
into town? Madame Louise could come here, of course, but then we’d miss out on
an amusing outing. I fear your London education has been sadly neglected. Besides,
I am accounted quite the expert on fashion, and that alone will assure us of
Madame’s undivided attention.”
“As you wish.” Isobel refused to be drawn into jovial
banter, not when her whole life was crumbling about her. What use would she
have for such finery at Land’s End? A miner’s drudge was all she would become,
that and doubtless the mother of a dozen children in due time.
Chapter Five
“ G racie’s
telling stories again.” Anne accused her sister the moment Isobel stepped into
the nursery the next evening. “Make her stop!”
“Am not!” Grace’s eyes flashed as she clutched her mop-headed,
much-loved doll to her heart. “Judith was just where the man told me, under a
bush in the garden.”
“What man?” Anne scoffed. “You said Saint Anthony was going
to come down from heaven to help you find her.”
“I guess he couldn’t come,” Grace shot back. “An’ anyway,
Judith’s found. ’Twas the other man who showed me — an angel-man,” she added in
a mysterious whisper, her green eyes sparkling from what Isobel suspected was
far more deviltry than angelic revelation.
“Girls, how many times have I told you not to tease one
another so?” Isobel’s voice was as weary as she herself felt. She’d spent all
day at Madame Louise’s looking at bolts of beautiful material and useless,
exotic accessories merely to please Kit. Why couldn’t he see it was pure
torture for her merely to touch such rarefied cloth? Silk and satin, velvet and
damask, the colors and textures had dazzled her senses, and struck her nearly
dumb.
Every gown was a masterpiece; like precious jewels they
would soon line her wardrobe — ruby, sapphire, emerald, pearl; amethyst-colored
velvet, topaz damask. Then there was Isobel’s secret favorite, the
lavender-blue silk night rail, christened “hyacinth” after the vain Greek youth
of the ancient myth. She understood why when she ran her fingers over the
watered silk; it rippled against her skin like a moth’s delicate wings and even
caused her to give a faint, envious gasp. It was far more like something
“Madame Mysterie” would wear than a plain, brown wren like Isobel Weeks.
“That’s the one,” Kit had said, and grinned when he saw
Isobel’s mixed reluctance and delight. “Oh, and make it the most beautiful of
the lot, Madame. No expense must be spared on this bride-to-be.”
“Of course, monsieur ,” the French modiste murmured
deferentially, though not without a curious glance at Isobel, as if wondering
why a gentleman like Sir Christopher wasted perfectly good coin on such a drab.
It had taken all the courage and dignity Isobel could muster
to stay still during the interminable fitting. Surely the Continentals did
things differently, she thought, for none of the fluttering French butterflies
at the shop seemed to find anything amiss in Kit’s presence, not even when she
was relegated to her old yellowed petticoats before him and stood shivering
with patent embarrassment.
“A
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