A butterfly flitted closely, its bright orange wings taking it from bloom to bloom of the flowers that were arranged in massive pots near the tables.
Sipping the last of her lemonade, Clarissa patted her stomach. “That hit the spot. What do ye think Nicholas and his friends are doing now?” she asked. Curious for any glimpse into what men did when they went into town.
“Och, I am certain they are at one of the gentlemen’s clubs, talking about the devil kens what.”
“More than likely, things we dinna want to ken about.”
Gwen laughed. “Ye are probably right.” She finished her lemonade and licked her lips. “Shall we carry on?”
“Aye. To the modiste.” She held her arm out straight to point the way. “Are ye going to choose something?”
“Nay,” Gwen shook her head. “I will just look to see what she has. Mayhap get some ideas to give to our own back home.” She smiled wistfully, a faraway look in her eyes.
Clarissa studied her. Something was a wee bit off, but she could not put her finger on it and when the modiste’s shop came into view, and they ascended the steps to enter, the thought left her mind.
Inside, the shop smelled of lavender and the space was warm and inviting. Bolts of fabric covered one full wall, stacked on racks for customers to see. Gowns, shawls, bonnets, aprons, everything you could think of were hanging on sale racks for those that didn’t want their items custom made. On the far wall, a bank of mirrors was set up with a small dais in the middle. When someone stood in the center, they would be able to see themselves from all angles.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” a middle-aged woman emerged from a cloth-covered doorway. “Welcome. How may I help ye?” She gave them a warm smile, her hands clasped in front of her. She studied Clarissa and clapped her hands. “I have just the gown for ye. Your coloring is perfect.”
Clarissa and Gwen exchanged glances as the woman rushed about the shop, mumbling to herself about where she put the dress.
“Och! I believe I have it in the back. One moment, I shall go get it.” She disappeared behind the cloth, and they listened at the sound of rustling fabric. “Got it!” The woman yelled to them. Bursting through the door, her arms full of silky scarlet material.
Unsure what to do, they waited and watched.
“Now, come here,” the woman ordered gently, dipping her head to the corner of mirrors. “Ye must try this one on.” She titled her head, assessing Clarissa.
The intense scrutiny caused her to blush, but she did as she was told and approached the woman.
“This may be a wee bit large for ye, but I can alter it without issue.” The woman suddenly stopped. “How rude of me. I didna e’en introduce myself. My name is Alma, and I am the proprietor of this lovely establishment. I have the best gowns in town.”
“’Tis verra nice to make your acquaintance, Alma. I am Clarissa and this is Gwen.”
“I havena seen ye two around. Are ye visiting?”
“Aye. We’re from Huntly. Visiting A—,” she paused. She almost said Alexander, which would have been so wrong. “The Duke of Argyll,” she finished.
Alma’s brows lifted. “And what did ye say your surnames were?”
“We didna. But we are Gordons. Gwen is the Duchess of Gordon.”
Alma quickly dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace. Forgive me for no’ realizing sooner.”
“Please,” Gwen said softly. “No apology needed. We were just strolling through town to enjoy the day and noticed your shop.”
“Well, I am verra honored for your visit.” She looked at Clarissa as if she were waiting to hear a title that she had not mentioned.
“Miss Gordon is fine,” she offered. Though Duchess of Argyll had a nice ring to it. She took a deep breath and blew it out. She did not need to have her mind running with such thoughts.
“All right then, Miss Gordon. I believe this gown will look positively ravishing on ye.”
Ravishing. She would never describe herself in such a way.
“Step up, let’s have ye try it on.”
Clarissa glanced at Gwen, who just nodded and waved her hands at her in encouragement.
Alma pulled on a curtain that hung with wire and offered privacy while she helped Clarissa undress and put on the new gown.
