“Thank you,” Catherine said. And paused, as a thought occurred. “May I ask a probing question of my own?”
Narayan blinked and some of the worry crept back into her expression, but she nodded.
“Do you earn more than your sister does with the Honorable Miss Cuthbert?”
“I make a little more in wages, my lady, but—if you’ll pardon a little more frank speaking—Sara enjoys quite a bit more in the way of secondhand clothing. The Honorable Miss Cuthbert is very much in demand amongst the social set, and there is always something new expected for her wardrobe.”
Which meant, Catherine knew, there would always be something older departing—something that a fashionable London debutante had enjoyed until either the novelty or the style had worn thin, but that would still be worth a considerable sum when gifted to an attentive lady’s maid who knew all the right secondhand shops. Catherine sighed and shook her head, knowing that she must have cost Narayan some pain in comparison with her sister’s position. She had never gone about much in those circles, and she never expected to. “I could speak to Mrs. Shaw about increasing your wages, to compensate for my appalling hermitish tendencies...”
The maid drew herself up stiffly. “You don’t have to buy my silence, my lady. Discretion is a virtue in any good servant—Mr. Brinkworth often says so.” Catherine could only stare into the mirror, but Narayan squared her shoulders. “The sky-blue dress today, do you think?”
Catherine thought of how Lucy had looked at her the last time she wore the sky-blue, when she thought Catherine wasn’t watching, and nodded. “Perfect.”
Chapter Seven
Lucy slipped into her bedchamber with barely a minute to spare before Eliza arrived to help her dress for breakfast. The girl looked startled to find Lucy already out of bed, and garbed in a dressing gown that had so clearly come from another woman’s wardrobe.
“The countess loaned me this, as we were up rather late last evening,” Lucy explained, and was proud at how her cheeks maintained only a hint of a blush.
“Of course, miss,” Eliza said. “The color suits you, though—very springlike.” She threw open the wardrobe doors, and both women went grim as they contemplated the veryun-springlike spectrum of blacks, grays, lugubrious purples, and muted lavenders hung therein.
Lucy sighed. “I do miss proper colors. I share just enough of my brother’s artistic temperament to be drawn to brighter shades than these. My mourning period has been over for months.” She’d written to Stephen and he’d dutifully sent on her allowance since coming to London, but her funds weren’t nearly enough for even one new frock at town prices. At least, not the kind of frock she could wear around a countess. Or above a countess. Or underneath a countess...
“It’s not so bad as that, miss.” Eliza fingered the sleeve of one lavender muslin. “Something might be done with some of these, to brighten them up,” she offered. “Gold and green would pretty this one up in a trice. A little something around the hem, or a border at the bodice.” She caught Lucy’s surprised eye, and schooled her features back into a proper maidly serenity. “That is, if you like, miss.”
Lucy glanced at the dress with Pris’s embroidery, trailing vines over it like clinging tentacles. “I’m rather out of humor for florals, I’m afraid.”
“Doesn’t have to be florals, miss. Something like this, maybe?” Eliza’s face brightened as she pulled a small book out of her pocket. It turned out to be a primer, well-thumbed and nearly falling to pieces—but every space that wasn’t taken up by the printed text had been filled in with chalk and charcoal and pencil sketches. Portraits, cartoons, animals and ships and buildings... but also patterns: lines and circles and dots, odd wiggly organics and precise geometric areas sharp as broken glass. Eliza turned to one page near the back, where a blank space between nursery songs had been filled in with a profusion of dots, scattered at first but then more and more crowded.
It made Lucy’s eyes water to look at it.
“But with colors, of course,” Eliza said. As though this were the most obvious thing in the world.
Lucy cocked her head, in awe of the sheer amount of work in that little book. “How often do you find time to draw, Eliza?”
“Depends on how often Mrs. Shaw catches me at it.”
Lucy chortled.
Eliza went full scarlet. “I shouldn’t have said that, miss.”
“I won’t tell.” Lucy looked again at her wardrobe, and heaved a sigh. “And anything you can do for my gowns will be welcome. Time and Mrs. Shaw permitting, of course.”
The maid ducked her head. “Of course, miss.”
She must have persuaded the housekeeper, for by the next morning, Eliza had utterly transformed one of the purples with a slender border of white knots on bodice and hem, with extending columns of more knots that shaded into gray and then black toward the waist of the gown. Lucy admired the effect in the mirror and traipsed down to breakfast, happier than she had any right to feel.
Catherine looked up with joy—and a self-conscious blush, since Lucy had shared her bed again last night—but when her gaze drifted down to the embroidery her expression went shuttered.
“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked at once.
“Nothing.” The countess shook her head, attempting a smile. “It’s a silly thought I had, unworthy of being spoken.” Her eyes dropped to Lucy’s bodice, then away. “Pris really was a very talented needlewoman.”
“Yes, she was,” Lucy confirmed, puzzled—then her wits caught up with her and the significance all but bowled her over. “Oh! This wasn’t Pris’s work. This was something Eliza did, after I lamented the state of my wardrobe.”
Catherine set her coffee aside and peered more closely, while Lucy piled a plate full of food and brought it to table. “She isverygood. Did you direct her to place those colors that way?”
“Not at all,” Lucy said. “It was entirely her own notion. I couldn’t have thought of such a thing if you gave me a thousand years and silk in every color of the rainbow.” She held out one hand and turned it back and forth, admiring the way the dots danced along the length of her arm. “It’s incredible how such a simple technique—just a smattering of stitches—can have such a powerful effect. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
