breath , Daphne lurched upright in her bed, in what had become an all too common occurrence, after napping with the brooch affixed to her dress. As always, the dream gave no hint or clue to the owner of the curious object, other than the respective lore that indicated the item belonged to her one true knight. But how could she solve the mystery? Should she enact impromptu interrogations? Was she to rifle through the pockets of the entire local population of townsmen?
Of course, deep down inside, where she was always honest with herself, she had to admit that only a single prospective suitor had captured her attention, in defiance of the artifact’s predictive nature. Although she would deny it, should anyone ask, she had grown fond of the dashing Sir Dalton Randolph, as never had she met anyone of his stature, and he stirred something within her, something magical, which she could neither identify nor explain.
“Oh, you are awake.” Mrs. Jones carried an outdated gown to the foot of the bed. “I mended the sleeves and let out the hem, as much as possible, Miss Daphne.”
“What time is it?” Sitting, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “It seems as though I slept an eternity.”
“You needed the rest, given the amount of work you have assumed.” The housekeeper, more a second mother than a servant, smoothed the skirt of her latest alteration. “And it is just after six.”
“ What ?” Panic broke the calm, as she scrambled to the floor. “How could you let me linger so long? I want to look my best for our guest, and he will be here in less than an hour.”
“That sea captain is a fine, sturdy one.” Mrs. Jones chuckled. “They did not make them like that when I was your age.”
“Sir Dalton is one-of-a-kind.” If she were smart, Daphne would have concentrated her efforts on locating her true knight, but she could not resist the handsome gentleman from London and could only hope she found her fated suitor half so appealing. So she sat at her vanity, picked up her brush, and arranged her hair in her most flattering style. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she frowned, as a particular wayward curl refused to cooperate. “And he has been so generous with his time and money, to the benefit of our community, which is why I issued the invitation.”
“Then we should endeavor to present him with a most pleasant evening, as well as an elegant escort, in grateful appreciation of his admirable altruism.” The housekeeper stood behind Daphne and assumed command of her coiffure. “Lord, but you look more and more like your mother, every day, and she would be so proud.”
“Do you really think so?” Daphne sighed, as she pondered how different their situation would have been, had her mother survived the nasty fever she had contracted, while caring for some of Portsea’s most unfortunate citizens. “Dear mama, how I miss her.”
“There, now.” Mrs. Jones yielded the silver-backed brush, folded her arms, and assessed her work. “I don’t expect the most expensive stylist could have done better.”
“You are a miracle worker.” With a quick glance from side to side, Daphne stood. “Oh, if only I could purchase a new dress.”
“Why will you not wear some of Mrs. Harcourt’s things? We could take them in much easier than altering your old clothes.” The housekeeper cupped Daphne’s chin. “She would want you to make use of them.”
“I know, as yours is a logical suggestion.” At the mere prospect, tears welled, and she gulped, as Mrs. Jones loosened the laces of Daphne’s morning dress, which slipped to the floor. “But I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“Then what about the shoes, given yours pinch your toes?” Mrs. Jones frowned. “Do not even try to convince me you are comfortable.”
“Everyone must sacrifice something, and my feet pale in comparison with what others have surrendered.” With a wiggle of her hips, Daphne shimmied into the unflattering and
Of course, deep down inside, where she was always honest with herself, she had to admit that only a single prospective suitor had captured her attention, in defiance of the artifact’s predictive nature. Although she would deny it, should anyone ask, she had grown fond of the dashing Sir Dalton Randolph, as never had she met anyone of his stature, and he stirred something within her, something magical, which she could neither identify nor explain.
“Oh, you are awake.” Mrs. Jones carried an outdated gown to the foot of the bed. “I mended the sleeves and let out the hem, as much as possible, Miss Daphne.”
“What time is it?” Sitting, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “It seems as though I slept an eternity.”
“You needed the rest, given the amount of work you have assumed.” The housekeeper, more a second mother than a servant, smoothed the skirt of her latest alteration. “And it is just after six.”
“ What ?” Panic broke the calm, as she scrambled to the floor. “How could you let me linger so long? I want to look my best for our guest, and he will be here in less than an hour.”
“That sea captain is a fine, sturdy one.” Mrs. Jones chuckled. “They did not make them like that when I was your age.”
“Sir Dalton is one-of-a-kind.” If she were smart, Daphne would have concentrated her efforts on locating her true knight, but she could not resist the handsome gentleman from London and could only hope she found her fated suitor half so appealing. So she sat at her vanity, picked up her brush, and arranged her hair in her most flattering style. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she frowned, as a particular wayward curl refused to cooperate. “And he has been so generous with his time and money, to the benefit of our community, which is why I issued the invitation.”
“Then we should endeavor to present him with a most pleasant evening, as well as an elegant escort, in grateful appreciation of his admirable altruism.” The housekeeper stood behind Daphne and assumed command of her coiffure. “Lord, but you look more and more like your mother, every day, and she would be so proud.”
“Do you really think so?” Daphne sighed, as she pondered how different their situation would have been, had her mother survived the nasty fever she had contracted, while caring for some of Portsea’s most unfortunate citizens. “Dear mama, how I miss her.”
“There, now.” Mrs. Jones yielded the silver-backed brush, folded her arms, and assessed her work. “I don’t expect the most expensive stylist could have done better.”
“You are a miracle worker.” With a quick glance from side to side, Daphne stood. “Oh, if only I could purchase a new dress.”
“Why will you not wear some of Mrs. Harcourt’s things? We could take them in much easier than altering your old clothes.” The housekeeper cupped Daphne’s chin. “She would want you to make use of them.”
“I know, as yours is a logical suggestion.” At the mere prospect, tears welled, and she gulped, as Mrs. Jones loosened the laces of Daphne’s morning dress, which slipped to the floor. “But I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“Then what about the shoes, given yours pinch your toes?” Mrs. Jones frowned. “Do not even try to convince me you are comfortable.”
“Everyone must sacrifice something, and my feet pale in comparison with what others have surrendered.” With a wiggle of her hips, Daphne shimmied into the unflattering and
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