Mama waved over a servant, who carried our boxes out the door and, I assumed, to our waiting carriage. After paying, she squeezed my arm and led me down the road to the dress shop.
Mrs. Lane, the dressmaker, greeted us as we entered. She was a woman in her forties with ribbons wrapped around her neck and pins in a band around her waist. “Your dress is ready,” she said with a kind smile.
Her small shop could not have been more filled. Everything seemed to have its own spot—bolts of the latest fabrics and prints, spools of ribbons in every shade of the rainbow, and jars of buttons and needles and thread. I could spend an entire day rummaging through it all.
“Here it is,” Mrs. Lane said, lifting a long box upon the counter. “I brought in the sleeves a quarter inch and added three layers of white lace to the hem, sleeves, and around the neckline.”
Mama lifted the lid and the paper, then drew in a breath.
Except this time, she frowned. Mama’s eyes flicked to mine with evident worry. “But this lace is ivory.”
Mrs. Lane pulled the dress out of the box, and the fabric cascaded along the table like waves. She glanced to me. “Forgive me, Mrs. Newbury. This is the white I carry in my shop. The very one we discussed.”
I reached out and fingered the buttery fabric. My wedding dress. It was stunningly beautiful. Fit for a queen. For me.
Mama’s lips were tighter than a straight line. “My daughter, the future Duchess of Marlow, wanted a peach gown withwhitelace. You will fix this.” Mama tapped a sharp finger against the box. “We need white.White.”
Mrs. Lane and I exchanged a confused glance. Mama never took such a tone. And in truth, the ivory—or white?—complemented the dress better than I could have hoped.
I tugged at Mama’s arm and walked her a few paces away. “Mama, we do not have much time left to make alterations. Indeed, the difference in the lace color is minuscule, and I am content with my dress as it is.”
“You should not have to settle forcontent, Rosalind. You should be grinning. You should beflying. I see the truth written all over your face. You want white.”
I reared back. What on earth was she seeing? Not to say I did not wish to look the part of a glowing bride. But lace was simply lace and had absolutely nothing to do with my wedding day. Mama had gone mad.
“Might I encourage you to try the dress on?” Mrs. Lane called. “You might find the color more pleasing.”
“We shall find the color more pleasing when you have fixed it.” Mama tightened her lips once more and turned back to the table. “And we expect you to make this your priority.”
Mrs. Lane swallowed and nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Newbury.”
“The peach taffeta is perfection,” I added to soothe them both. What more could I say? If the lace was that important to Mama, after all her hard work preparing the estate and managing the wedding details, she deserved to have it as she wanted. I could certainly not care less.
Mrs. Lane nodded graciously and carefully secured the lid over the box. “I will send word as soon as possible.”
“Very well,” Mama muttered, then turned and strutted from the shop. Once outside, she pulled me close and said, “Do not fret, Rosalind. Every detail will be perfect. You will be the happiest, most glowing bride.”
I closed the door and lengthened my steps to keep her pace. “I am so grateful to you, Mama. Not just for the lace. For all you’ve done.”
She softened on a breath and tucked me into her side. “You will remember your wedding day for the rest of your life. You will recall each moment—the smells, the music, how you felt in your dress, and how your husband complimented you. Such little details might seem insignificant, but they all combine into the memories you will pass down to your children. I will not forfeit nor compromise on a single one. Not for your happiness.”
“Mrs. Newbury!”
My ears perked. Liza?
“Dear girl! How delightful to find you here,” Mama cooed, and Liza came hurrying forward. Mr. Winston, dressed in an olive-green coat, sauntered close behind. “And Mr. Winston.” Her voice fell decidedly flat.
“Good day, Mrs. Newbury.” He removed his hat and bowed. His bruises were more prominent in the daylight than they’d been last night, but less so than when we’d first met. He cast a smile just for me. “And Miss Newbury. How do you do?”
Mama huffed and shook her head, speaking to Liza. “The worst has happened. Mrs. Lane has utterlyruinedRosalind’s gown.”
Well, that was a bit severe.
“No,” Liza responded critically. “Does it not fit?”
“We could not stand to try it on,” Mama continued, moving closer. She lowered her voice and prattled on.
But I was focused on something—someone—else. “How chance running into you here,” I said, moving by Charlie’s side.
