Matilda gave a short laugh, though it held little humor. “I do not make a habit of changing my mind.”
Evelyn leaned forward, her green eyes shining with tenderness. “But changing your mind about a gown is not such a serious thing at all.”
It was such a simple remark. Yet something within Matilda cracked at those words, as though a small fissure had given way to reveal the storm beneath. All this while, she had told herself she was content to fade quietly, to slip into her future with as little notice as possible. But suddenly she thought: why not one last moment? One final breathtaking glimmer before she stepped into the silence of the convent.
Her pulse quickened. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “perhaps I shall allow myself one indulgence before I join the nunnery.”
At once, Cordelia gasped and Evelyn clapped her hands together. Even Hazel, who was usually very composed, allowed herself a pleased smile.
“Marvelous!” Cordelia cried, nearly knocking over her box in her excitement.
“About time,” Hazel said warmly. “But you know, Matilda, it is far too late to order anything new. It will never arrive in time.”
“Then we must make something of what she already has,” Evelyn declared, her expression alight with purpose. “Tomorrow, we shall go into town. There are shops with beads, ribbons, even ready-made appliqués. We can transform this gown together.”
Matilda’s breath caught, and for the first time in years she felt a thrill rush through her at the thought of fabric beneath her fingers. Her late husband had kept her to her embroidery frame as a prisoner might be kept to a cell, but in those endless hours she had perfected the art. She knew every stitch, every flourish, every way to bring dull fabric to life.
The idea of turning this plain gown into something breathtaking made her chest swell with a strange, giddy anticipation. Her friends were chattering now, plotting colors and arrangements, exclaiming over the brilliance of Evelyn’s plan. Matilda smiled despite herself.
And in the privacy of her thoughts, she allowed another image to form. The smug, unshakable grin of the Duke of Harrow wiped away in a single instant, when he beheld her not as a shadow in dove-grey, but as something far more dazzling.
The notion pleased her immensely.
Chapter Fifteen
“Itrust you more than a servant in this matter,” Robert had said that morning, pressing a folded letter into Jasper’s hand. “It is from the Archbishop’s secretary. The silver font for the baptism was sent ahead by carriage but did not arrive last night as expected. The vicar in the village believes it may have been delivered to him in error. I would be obliged if you might see it safely retrieved.”
And so, Jasper found himself riding into the village early that morning. It was hardly a task suited to a duke, fetching misplaced church silver, but Robert’s request had been earnest, and Jasper had long ago learned that friendship sometimes demanded the ridiculous.
Besides, the exercise was preferable to lingering about the manor. He had grown restless under the suffocating air of domestic bliss. The Duke and Duchess of Aberon were forever exchanging tender glances, their child was the subject of every conversation, and their friends were spilling over with laughterand plans. Jasper felt like an intruder at his own amusement, the odd piece in a set that otherwise fitted perfectly.
And then there washer.
Lady Matilda had taken to haunting the edges of his mind, whether he wished it or not. She avoided him with admirable precision, yet the memory of her sharp words on the terrace lingered like a thorn beneath his skin.
He had told himself it was irritation, nothing more. But irritation ought not to leave a man awake half the night, replaying every flicker of her expression, every tremor in her voice.
He cursed under his breath as he swung down from his horse before the modest stone vicarage. It was best not to dwell on her. After all, he had a task at hand.
The vicar greeted him with excessive nervousness, bowing and fumbling his words at the sight of the Duke of Harrow himself upon his threshold. But the man soon recovered enough to produce a large chest wrapped in protective cloth.
“The silver font, Your Grace. Delivered here by mistake, though we kept it safe.”
Jasper lifted the lid, inspecting the gleam of polished silver within. All was present and undamaged. He closed it with a firm snap and gave a curt nod.
“You have done well. Lord Aberon will be relieved.”
The vicar beamed at the praise, and Jasper arranged for the chest to be loaded into a hired cart, ensuring its return to the manor.
The vicar, still hovering anxiously, clasped his hands together. “Then all is ready for the baptism, Your Grace?”
Jasper gave a slight shrug. “I should think so. The Archbishop’s secretary will have the final word, but the font is safe, and that was the chief concern.” He inclined his head in polite thanks. “You have done your duty well. Lord Aberon will be most appreciative.”
The man flushed with pride at the acknowledgment once more, bowing so deeply that his spectacles nearly slid from his nose. Jasper gave him a curt nod once more before turning back to where his horse waited.
As he took up the reins, he paused. The village square was just beginning to stir in earnest. The shutters were drawn back, shopkeepers were laying out their wares, the market stalls were still being set in order. A handful of villagers called greetings to one another, their voices carrying in the clear air.
For a fleeting moment, Jasper considered remaining. He could wander among the stalls, perhaps allow the bustle of ordinary life to occupy him, rather than the thoughts that had dogged him of late.
