She glanced up at him. “About what?”
“Marrying your industrialist.”
“No, none.” Louisa looped her arm through his. “Maxwell is very kind to me, and extremely generous.”
“I’m glad to hear it, though it seems these absences of his will be a regular occurrence.”
“Yes, but he made it quite clear how things would be, so I can’t really complain.”
“Well, at least we’re nearby, so you don’t have to feel abandoned.”
To Louisa’s dismay, her brother’s remark hit a hidden, sensitive nerve. She swallowed over an unexpected rise of tears and glanced up at him. “I don’t feel abandoned, Julian.”
“Sorry, Lou,” he said. “A bad choice of words. I simply meant that you don’t have to stay at the manor by yourself. You know you can always come here whenever you feel the need.”
She summoned up a smile. “I know. And, of course, you’re always welcome to visit me. Orus, when Maxwell is home. In fact, I must arrange a family dinner party. Our cook is excellent.”
Julian gave her arm a squeeze. “Just say when.”
Louisa left a short while later, her saddlebag now holding another souvenir, that being a rather well-worn lady’s hat, complete with pheasant feathers and the odd freckle of dried mud. Once back at Northcott Manor, she placed the hat atop the armoire in her bedroom.
*
Early Wednesday morningsaw Louisa and Archer on their way to Knaresborough, seated comfortably in the carriage with McKinney at the reins. The plan was to shop, have luncheon, and return to Northcott Manor with daylight to spare.
Francesca Corvinelli’s dressmaking-enterprise was not the kind of place one might expect to find in a small Yorkshiretown. But, despite its unassuming location on Knaresborough’s High Street, the little shop possessed a reputation worthy of any London address.
Francesca Corvinelli’s real name was actually Martha Swithenbank, who came, not from thenobiltàof Italy, but from a fine Yorkshire family of coopers. However, where her father, uncles, and brothers excelled in the manufacture of barrels and all manner of wooden implements, Martha excelled with a needle and thread and an eye for fashion. Due to demand, she also employed two seamstresses who worked under her close watch. Her patrons knew she didn’t have a drop of Italian blood in her, but none of them cared. She was known to everyone asFrancesca.
McKinney dropped Louisa and Archer off outside the shop mid-morning, with arrangements made to collect them from the Castle Tea Rooms at two o’clock, after luncheon.
“Your timing is absolutely perfect, ma’am,” Francesca said, by way of welcome. “I have, only yesterday, received an order of some marvelous fabrics from Paris. Come through.”
Almost an hour later, orders had been placed for three new dresses, two sets of underclothes, and a fur-trimmed jacket. “I think that might do for now,” Louisa said. “If you could write up the invoice, Francesca.”
“Oh, but this green silk is beautiful, ma’am.” Archer gestured to the bolt of fabric. “I think it would look lovely on you. Maybe just one more outfit?”
“I agree. With your hair color, ma’am, it would be very flattering,” Francesca said. “Perfect for evening attire, when entertaining your guests. May I suggest a layered skirt and matching bodice with a peplum, similar to this?” She turned to a page in her design book. “Perhaps some Brussels lace on the sleeves and collar?”
“Mmm, it is rather lovely.” Louisa fingered the silk and surrendered to temptation. “Add it to the list, then. I’m not quite decided about the blue shawl, though. It looks almost violet in this light. I think I might change it for the darker indigo.”
She took the shawl and wandered over to the shop window to better examine it in full daylight. No, it was definitely a lovely cornflower blue. She’d keep it, she decided, and turned her eyes, casually, to the street.
Her gaze fell upon a couple walking arm-in-arm on the other side of the narrow road. They appeared to be engrossed in conversation. The woman wore a becoming dress of pale blue, matched with a fringed, cream shawl. Her free hand, gloved in cream lace, gesticulated as she spoke, as if painting an invisible picture in the air. Then she laughed at something the man said. They were obviously quite familiar with each other.Happywith each other. Indeed, one might easily have assumed them to be man and wife.
The two continued on their way, quite oblivious to the fact they were being observed. Louisa had no idea who the woman was, though she appeared to be petite and pretty, with blonde ringlets peeking out from her straw bonnet.
Louisa knew who the man was, however. She’d recognized him instantly, but her brain had yet to fully grasp the truth of what, or who, she was looking at. The only thing she knew for certain was that, despite outward appearances, the couple were not married. At least, not to each other.
They couldn’t possibly be.
“Ma’am?”
She flinched as someone touched her shoulder and spun round to see Archer’s smiling face. The smile dissolved, replaced by a look of concern. “Are you quite well, Mrs. Harlow?”
Mrs. Harlow.
Louisa still wasn’t used to hearing it. She blinked and turned her gaze back to the street, seeing only strangers going about their business. The man and woman had disappeared from sight.
