“Three cakes,” Mrs. Bainbridge declared. “And I refuse to be told I can’t have all three. If Barrington has opinions, he may air them to the almond torte.”
Leticia glanced over, lips twitching.
Lady Eastbury didn’t look up. “He does object to almonds. Says they remind him of barracks soap.”
“Then he’s eating the apricot,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “But I am choosing the almond.”
She carved neat slices from each and passed the forks with decisive intent. Leticia tasted the apricot first. It was warm, soft, with a jam-like sweetness that made her smile. The taste took her back to late summer afternoons, before the world had shifted underfoot.
“The apricot,” she said quietly.
“The almond,” said her aunt as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth.
Mrs. Bainbridge grinned in triumph. “Almond it is. And pears in claret jelly for Lady Northwood, Barrington’s mother. She claims they aid digestion.”
“She also says they repel scandal,” Lady Eastbury added dryly.
Leticia looked up then, her smile thin but genuine. “We should serve them in buckets.”
Laughter softened the edges of the room. They moved on to flowers. A cloth-bound book of pressed samples was laid open between them, fragile petals preserved beside penciled sketches. Mrs. Bainbridge leaned over Leticia’s shoulder, rattling off names with delight: autumn roses, sprigs of yew, orange-tipped leaves, something oddly labeledspiked foxbrush.
Leticia reached for a tiny myrtle blossom before she realized her hand had moved.
“Your mother’s favorite,” Lady Eastbury said softly.
Leticia nodded, turned the page. “It suited her.”
Silence followed, the hush of remembered things, broken only by the rustle of skirts and the arrival of Mrs. Pembroke, the seamstress, her arms full of silk.
“Final fitting,” she announced.
“Now we shall see if I can still breathe in silk,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, vanishing behind the screen with an energy that bordered on dangerous.
Leticia stepped in to help when called, tightening the back laces, adjusting the neckline, and folding the hem slightly at the edge. When Mrs. Bainbridge emerged, the room stilled.
The gown shimmered pearl-gray, the embroidery catching the sunlight in quiet defiance. It was elegant, poised, and entirelyher.
Leticia stared.
Mrs. Bainbridge turned, hands on her hips. “Well?”
Leticia’s throat ached. “It’s perfect.”
Mrs. Pembroke smiled. “A dress should suit the heart of the woman who wears it. This one does.”
Leticia turned away before her expression could betray her.
They returned to the table, that last round of names waiting. Mrs. Bainbridge sifted through the envelopes, Leticia read the names aloud, and her aunt made elegant ticks beside each one with tidy precision.
“Lady Lennox and the Duke.”
“Marvelous,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “If she behaves, she’ll only insult three people. Four if the music offends her.”
“Lord Ellington and Lady Edythe.”
“Lovely woman. She has such kind eyes.”
Leticia continued. “The Baron and Baroness of Grenville. The Viscount and Viscountess Hollingsworth. Lord and Lady Rockford. Oh, and here is the response from Marquess and Marchioness of Glenraven.”
