Chapter Three
Grace resisted the urge to scratch along the rough collar of the new gown that was being fitted. She tried to distract herself with the various baubles around the edge of the fitting room. When that failed, she turned her attention to the salt and pepper hair of Mrs. Bourne, who was meticulously, and rather slowly, pinning the hem of the new gown. Grace fancied that the woman’s coiffure had seen better days, but that could also be attributed to the fact that this was the third gown that Grace was being fit for, and there were certainly other ladies with appointments after her.
It was at this point that Grace decided that she didn’t wish to be a bluestocking, as much as she had romanticized the idea. Perhaps just a bluestocking in personality, not in actual labor. Could that be an option? Mrs. Bourne stood and arched her back before evaluating her handiwork.
And Grace held her breath, hoping for the words that meant she was finished.
But alas, Mrs. Bourne’s brow puckered, her green eyes narrowed, and she bent down again and set to work.
It was exceedingly difficult to not slouch, or sigh in irritation, but Samantha was just beyond, sitting on a chair and watching with that expression that let Grace know she was expected to behave well.
Not for the first time, Grace imagined herself a young girl just out of leading strings, yet it wasn’t too far from the truth. Her attention span was probably comparable to that of a tot.
Samantha had the patience of Job, Grace reminded herself.
For that, Grace decided to be thankful and try her best to act civil.
A few minutes later Mrs. Bourne stood up once more, and evaluated the hem.
Grace tried to keep her expression from looking too hopeful.
Samantha covered her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her amusement.
Grace decided that hiding one’s feelings was overrated.
Mrs. Bourne nodded, gave a bright smile to Grace, and then turned to Samantha. “My lady, I do believe I’m finished with this one. The alterations are minimal so I expect to have this and the other two dresses ready tomorrow afternoon, if that will be satisfactory?”
Grace eyed the floor just below the stool she stood upon, wondering whether, if she stepped without assistance, would that pull out a pin? She wanted to get down and dart to the dressing room, but . . . it wasn’t worth the risk, she decided.
“That will be more than satisfactory. Thank you.” Samantha stood and walked toward Grace
“Miss Grace?” Mrs. Bourne offered her hand and Grace stepped carefully from the stool and onto solid ground.
“Thank you.”
In short work Grace was redressed in her walking dress and she and Samantha quit the modiste and stepped into the not entirely fresh London air.
Several clouds loomed threateningly overhead and Grace gave them an irritated glare. “Does the sun ever appear?”
Samantha chuckled. “When it wishes to, but I’m afraid it doesn’t bow to our will as often as I’d like.”
Grace arched a brow and continued on their stroll down Bond Street. The carriages and hacks rolled by, the horse’s hooves clicking on the cobblestones while the harness jingled like little bells. There was an odd music to the bustle of the city, one that was familiar to Grace. In all of her travels she had come to the conclusion that large cities had a life of their own. The sounds, smells, and culture were just different enough from the surrounding area to give the places their own flavor. It was quite fascinating. In India, the scent of curry was the first memory that hit her. In Egypt, the dry heat and the scent of the Nile when you came close, fishy yet tainted by the desert air. And London, as she breathed in deeply, wondering what identity it would claim. Smoke, humanity, and rain. Not exactly exotic, but relevant most certainly. It could be worse, she supposed.
“What are you thinking so strenuously about?” Samantha asked, her expression kind and curious.
Grace colored. “I was woolgathering.”
“Apparently. About?”
“How each city I’ve visited has had defining features.”
“Oh?” Samantha nodded. “One day I will actually learn to predict where your mind takes you.”
“I hope not,” Grace muttered, feeling heat in her cheeks.
Samantha gave a small laugh. “I probably never will, but it would be fascinating to see what you’ve seen, and be able to compare it to new things. Tell me, what did London compare with? Anything?”
Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid it defies categorization,” she teased. “But I must say that when I think of it, I’ll remember smoke”—and before she could continue, a fat raindrop hit her nose, creating a small splash onto her cheek—“and rain,” she finished.
