Like a mother hen pecking around the barnyard, the modiste scurried off, returning a moment later with a measuring tape in hand. A young woman followed closely behind.
“I checked the notes for Lady Dyson’s fittings. The fabric was cut exactly to the same measurements as always,” protested the girl.
Bridget stood silent. Not only did she not wish to become involved in any argument, but she was still struggling with the aftermath of this morning’s bout of nausea and vomiting.
When the modiste slipped the measuring tape around Bridget’s back and drew the ends together tightly over her bust, she held her breath.
Please don’t let me cast up my accounts in the dressmakers. I would never live it down.
The woman leaned in close, peering through her spectacles to read the numbers on the tape measure. “Hm,” she murmured. She adjusted the tape before taking a second reading. “Polly, my dear, would you please go into the storeroom and start packing away the new bolts of silk which arrived this morning?”
The girl gave Bridget a brief glance before curtsying and leaving the room.
As soon as the dressmaker’s assistant had left, the modiste turned to Bridget. “Lady Dyson, you have always been strict on your eating and maintenance of your figure. Have you perhaps been eating a little more of late? Indulging in even the odd extra tea cake or bun can make a difference.”
Bridget sighed. “No. In fact, I have been ill every morning for the past few days. I have barely kept any food down. By rights, I should be swimming in my gowns.”
The modiste met her gaze. “Would you allow me to touch your breasts?”
It was an odd request, but Bridget was intrigued. “If you must.”
She pulled the top of the badly fitting gown down, leaving only her silk chemise covering her breasts. The modiste lay a hand over Bridget’s left breast and gently squeezed.
Bridget instantly flinched.
“Is it tender to my touch?” asked the woman.
Bridget nodded. “Very. My breasts have been particularly sensitive over the past few weeks. I plan to see my doctor later today.”
The modiste looked away, giving a pensive “hmm”.
“What is wrong?” said Bridget.
“This is all rather awkward, considering that you are a widow. Rest assured, Lady Dyson, that because of your marital status, I am choosing my words with great care. When was the last time you had your courses?”
A cold chill settled over Bridget.
I can’t be.
Her pulse began to race. When had she last bled?
Today was the first day of December. She counted out the weeks on her fingers. November, no. October, no. All the way back to mid-September. The last time she’d had her courses was shortly before the incident with the blackmailer.
Right before she had met Sir Stephen Moore.
But it was impossible. She was unable to have children. The doctors had said so. Rupert had made certain that all of London society knew his wife was theBarren Baroness.
She put a hand to her chest as tears broke free. “How can this be?”
“Well . . .”
“No. I know how it happens, but I was married for four years and never fell pregnant with my husband’s child.”
The gown suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. She fought to get out of it as a rising tide of panic gripped her.
“I need to leave. I must go home,” she stammered.
The modiste reached out and took a hold of her arm. “Your husband has been gone for over a year. But obviously another gentleman has caught your eye. Let me promise you that my discretion is absolute. If a miracle has indeed occurred, Lady Dyson, you won’t be the first client whom I have made home visits to over the years in order to keep such a matter private. Just send word and in the note mention that you have injured your leg and are unable to travel to fittings. I won’t send any of my girls, rather I shall handle this personally.”
