On Gentle Wings by Patricia McAllister Page A

complete trousseau, oui ?” the modiste tactfully
suggested.
    “Aye, Madame. Toes to top. Red, I think, rather than white.
The better to favor her golden skin.”
    So Isobel found herself the recipient of red petticoats,
which seemed more shocking somehow than all the low-cut gowns combined. And
along with such fine attire came other necessities, like farthingales, which
supported the enormous, widespread skirts. The French version was more popular
at court now, Madame informed them, due to its sleeker style.
    But what possible use would Isobel have for such nonsense in
Cornwall? She’d merely nodded, trying to look as bored and sophisticated as the
ladies at Summerleigh . She feared Madame Louise wasn’t fooled a bit, but
the woman was too well bred to remark on her customer’s threadbare gown or
missing stockings.
    Isobel held her silence until the end, but murmured a protest
when Kit insisted on seven of everything (for good luck, he said): elegant
fan-shaped ruffs and finely embroidered collars; dainty lace caps and stylish
riding hats, even small fur muffs and fringed silk scarves. Then there were
delicate silk slippers and heeled walking shoes and hose of sheerest silk gartered
embroidered sashes in every color to match her gowns.
    When they finally left the dressmaking shop, it was already
late in the afternoon. Kit remarked cheerily, “Now that’s done, all that
remains is your wedding gown. I fear I didn’t anything I particularly fancied
in there, Isobel. Did you?”
    She shook her head, hoping he didn’t suspect the real reason
for her quiet misery. “Thank you for everything. But please, you’ve done far
too much already.”
    “Nothing is too good for one of the family. Surely you did not
expect me to send you to the altar in that dismal brown sack?”
    Kit’s playful tone revealed he was teasing her again; yet Isobel
felt far from laughter. “This dress has served me very well over the years,”
she said stiffly.
    “Seven years, at least, from the looks of it. Is’t one of Elspeth’s
cast offs?”
    She nodded, surprised at his knowledge. But she was still
cautious. Mayhap he was merely testing her, as Elspeth often had, to ascertain
she was not some sort of greedy baggage.
    “Great Zeus! I knew I could not forget something so hideously
ugly. But I prayed she’d cast it into the rag bin years ago,” he added wryly.
    Isobel almost smiled, remembering Anne’s pert comments to similar
effect. How like their sire those impertinent darlings were. “’Tis a perfectly
good gown,” she said, striving to look both serious and frugal, as her cousin
always had.
    “Aye, if one favors mud, I suppose. Are you as ravenous as I
am?” Kit asked, changing the subject at a dizzying pace and clearly not
expecting an answer. “There’s a charming inn just down the lane apace called The
Cock and Garter . They’ve little lamby pies baked brown as you please, and
tarts that melt in your mouth like butter.”
    “I usually sup with the girls,” Isobel murmured, not wanting
to admit how delicious such fare sounded.
    “What, whey porridge and mashed vegetables and all that?”
Kit shook his head, determined to show her a good time. “Nay, not today,
Isobel. I want you to remember this outing for a long time to come.”
    Oh, she would. But not for the reason Kit assumed. Rather,
like his kiss, she would clutch these few precious moments to her heart
forever, knowing they were all she’d ever have.
     
    ~*~
     
    T he impromptu
meal with Kit, despite its underlying purpose, served to restore Isobel’s
spirits somewhat. He’d always had that effect on her; however glum or
distressed she felt, it was impossible to remain so in his exuberant presence.
Her obvious delight in the simple, good fare at The Cock and Garter pleased him; and when she suggested they take a few extra tarts home for the
girls, he readily agreed.
    “Strawberry, I think, to match your lips,” he mused,
planting his chin in his hand as he