I studied the folded fabrics. They were organized by color, starting with red and ending with purple. Some were printed while others were plain, but all were beautiful. “My maid dresses me in green.”
“Doyoulike green?” Amelia asked.
“I’ve never really thought about it,” I admitted. I looked over the column of green fabrics, considering. There were many shades—evergreen and celadon and emerald and everything in between. I ran my hand over the bolts of fabric, thinking about their potential.
The evergreen was so deep and dark it was almost brown, like the slimy silt at the side of a riverbank or on a frog. And the celadon was so bright it almost looked yellow, like the first buds that appeared in spring. My fingers trailed over the emerald fabric. It matched my mourning ring.
I withdrew my hand and dropped it to my side.
The fabrics were all lovely. But even if they carried the potential to highlight the green in my otherwise muddy eyes or matched Mama’s ring, none made me feel beautiful.
“No, I do not suppose I do like green,” I said to Amelia.
“Then you must select something else. What color do you like?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Well, what color makes you feel happy?”
“Whatever the opposite of green is, I suppose.”
“Red,” Amelia said matter-of-factly. “The opposite of green is red.”
“Hmm.” Most of the fabrics in this store were pale pastels and creamy whites—as was most fashionable and appropriate for young, unmarried women—but there was also a sizable selection of patterned prints—most likely imported from India—too. Mama had always loved to dress in bright colors no matter what was in fashion.
“Then I think I like red the best.”
“For a minute, I worried you were about to say dark blue was your favorite.” Amelia laughed a little, then, glancing at her mother and the modiste measuring out the blue print, sighed. “Truly, mothers can be so infuriating.”
“I suppose mine was too,” I said quietly.
Amelia grimaced. “I should not have said that. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It is fine, really.”
“I’m sorry if I have upset you.”
“On the contrary. I love talking about my mother. Most people don’t feel comfortable talking of those who have passed, but I wish they would.”
“Does your father speak of her?”
“On occasion but usually with heartache.”
“May I ask . . .” She hesitated. “How did she pass?”
“Of course.” I allowed my gaze to roam over the brightly colored fabrics, trying to imagine which one she would have selected for herself, which one she would have chosen for me. “Mama took ill just after my thirteenth birthday, but her illness progressed slowly. Papa hired the best doctors he could afford. We even moved to Bath in hopes of finding a cure, but nothing could alleviate her symptoms. She persisted as long as she could, but just after my coming-out, she took to her bed, and there was nothing to be done.”
“You must miss her greatly.”
“I do. So much.”
“Lady Winfield and your mother were close?”
I nodded. “They grew up in the same town. And as girls, they were inseparable, but then they married very different men—Lady Winfield’s rank rose, and my mother’s fell—and the only thing that remained fast from their former lives was their friendship. They wrote letters often, and Mama and I visited Summerhaven every summer. My fondest memories are of those days.”
Our conversation lulled, and we returned to the task of choosing a fabric. Amelia held up a deep shade of ruby.
“Too matronly,” I said, and she returned the fabric to the wall.
