In the elegantparlor of Orla’s dressmaking establishment, Farah sat perched on a cushioned chair, her fair hair cascading in loose waves around her shoulders. Orla, a seasoned dressmaker with a keen eye for fashion, bustled about the room, pulling out bolts of fabric in an array of colors and textures.
Farah was having fun. Mrs. Ahearn—Fiona—was so obvious in her need to learn all about her “brother.” Talk about infatuation. Mrs. Ahearn almost hero-worshipped Rockwell. It wasn’t every day a young lady got to spend time with a man’s paramour.
“Your coloring is nothing like your brother’s,” the woman said as they poured over some fabrics.
“I take after my mother. The rest of my family are dark haired. I like light blues and greens,” she suggested to Orla.
“How many gowns will you require?” Orla, the dressmaker, said.
Remembering what Rockwell had said—another lie—she said, “My trunk went overboard, so I have nothing. I really need about three dresses for everyday wear and two that I could use if going out on a social occasion. And I’ll need undergarments too. Plus a night robe—a warm one. The nights are cold here.”
Right now, all she had was the gown she wore when she’d been locked in the trunk.
“When will you require the gowns?”
She hesitated. They would travel north in a few days. “As soon as possible, I’m afraid. Perhaps you could add a warmer cape, with some muffs if you have them. I didn’t realize it would get so cold at this time of year.”
“When the storm fronts come through, the temperature drops. It should be warm again in a few days.”
There was no way she was letting Rockwell leave her behind. She could just picture him thinking she could stay with Mrs. Ahearn, but that would not happen. She wasn’t about to be pawned off on his ex-mistress, even if the woman was entertaining. “Could I have them all within two days? Rockwell will pay whatever is needed to make it happen.” He had said he would pay, and Rockwell had plenty of money.
“I can do that. But we need to get on and choose fabrics and then take the measurements,” Orla said.
Then she walked over to the other side of the room. “And Lady Ashley, my dear, I have just the thing for your gowns,” Orla declared, her voice brimming with excitement as she presented a selection of fabrics before her client.
Farah leaned forward, her green eyes alight with interest as she examined the offerings. It was quite odd to be playing the role of Rockwell’s sister. “What do you suggest, Mrs. Ahearn? I want something that will complement my complexion and flatter my figure.”
Mrs. Ahearn nodded thoughtfully, her fingers deftly unfurling the delicate folds of fabric. “For your fair complexion, I recommend soft-pastel shades that will bring out the rosy undertones in your skin. Perhaps a blush pink or a pale lavender?”
Farah’s lips curved into a smile of approval. “I do adore pastels. They lend such a delicate charm to any ensemble.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Mrs. Ahearn agreed, her eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. “And for the fabric, I would suggest a lightweight silk or muslin, something that will drape gracefully and move with your every step.”
She looked at Orla for confirmation. Farah nodded in agreement, her mind already envisioning the finished gowns. “That sounds perfect, Mrs. Ahearn. But I would also like to incorporate a touch of richness into some of the designs. Perhaps a deep emerald green or a regal sapphire blue?”
Orla’s smile widened at the suggestion. “Ah, a pop of jewel tones to add contrast and sophistication. An excellent choice, my lady.”
As they continued to discuss colors and fabrics, Farah and Mrs. Ahearn worked together to curate a stunning selection of gowns that would not only showcase her beauty but also capturethe notice of a man. This was the first time she’d created a wardrobe just for her, not worrying what her brother would think. It was so very liberating. So why then did Rockwell’s face swarm into view. It infuriated Farah that she wanted Rockwell to notice. But she couldn’t compete with a woman of Fiona’s beauty and experience.
With each bolt of fabric chosen and every detail meticulously planned, Farah’s anticipation grew, knowing that the gowns would soon come to life in Orla’s expert hands. Dublin wasn’t nearly as backward as she thought. These were very rich French fabrics.
Mrs. Ahearn picked up on her thoughts. “The French and Irish trade freely. The Irish are more aligned with France than England. It’s wise to remember that if you are out and about by yourself. The English are not well liked here.”
“Have there been other uprisings since the one in 1803?” she asked. Orla’s head popped up. “My best friend lost her fiancé in the uprising,” she added.
“Is that why Rockwell—Lord Ware is back? He’s still looking for this friend?” Fiona asked. “I told him that no Englishman wounded in the uprising, who was captured by the Irish rebels, would still be alive.” She sighed. “I admire his loyalty, but it’s a waste of his time.” She gave a saucy smile. “I can think of other ways to amuse your brother.”
“He is quite focused on his task. We only came back to search for our friend.”
Fiona sighed. “I knew he was not looking for anything other than amusements when he was last here. Lord Ware is a wanderer. A restless soul. I pity any woman who marries him, for his heart desires only adventure.” She winked at Farah. “But a woman can enjoy him while she can.”
Farah tried to hide her shock. “My brother does like to travel. But I’m sure the lure of hearth and family will soon catch up withhim as he gets older and realizes there is more to life than sailing around the world by himself.”
“Perhaps. Although I got the impression that since he lost his fiancée all those years ago, he’s quite reluctant to let his heart engage.”
Farah almost tripped over the trail of fabric she was holding. “I beg your pardon. What fiancée?”
Fiona’s face colored, and she cursed under her breath. “Oh, no. He said no one in his family knew the story. But he let slip Charlotte’s name one night in—that is—I asked him who Charlotte was. He didn’t want to tell me, but I persisted and he told me the story.”
