Dorothea raised an eyebrow, curiosity tugging at the corners of her unease. She followed the housekeeper through the back entrance of the townhouse. They passed through a quiet corridor until they reached the parlor.
Dorothea stopped in the doorway, and her breath caught in her throat. Gowns—dozens of them—were draped over the settees and chairs, a sea of muslin and lace in every shade imaginable. Pale rose, rich greens, a daring burgundy, and a soft periwinkle blue that reminded her of twilight skies. They were beautiful. Exquisite. The kind of garments she had only seen on women of far greater means than her own.
“Ah, you must be Lady Warwicke,” came a voice laced with a thick French accent.
Dorothea turned, startled, to see a woman of about forty with black hair and intelligent eyes. She wore a simple pink gown, but there was nothing simple about her presence.
“I’m Madame Duchon,” she announced, stepping forward with the air of someone entirely in control. “When I received word that you were in urgent need of a wardrobe, I knew it must be fate. A young lady commissioned these gowns, then promptly eloped to Gretna Green and left me unpaid. Tragic for her, fortunate for you.”
Madame Duchon continued. “They’ll need a few alterations, of course, but with your figure, I don’t imagine that will be difficult.”
Drawn to the nearest gown—a dark blue muslin with delicate ivory embroidery—Dorothea reached out and let her fingers glide down the fabric. “They’re stunning,” she whispered. “I’ve never worn anything so fine.”
Madame Duchon’s smile softened. “You will. Though you’ll need more than these. A proper wardrobe requires walking dresses, morning gowns, riding habits, and, of course, ballgowns. But my team of seamstresses can handle that.” She motioned to a petite girl who stood silently at the edge of the room. “Shall we begin with your measurements?”
Dorothea nodded and stepped forward, lifting her arms. Madame Duchon circled her with a professional eye, measuring tape flicking with practiced precision. Then she paused. “Did you dye this gown black?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she examined the fabric.
“I did,” Dorothea replied, lowering her arms self-consciously. “My brother wouldn’t purchase mourning attire for me after my father’s passing.”
Madame Duchon clicked her tongue. “A lady does not dye her gowns, especially not like this. Black should be reserved for the finest silks, not—whatever this is.”
Dorothea flushed slightly. “Most of my clothing was already worn thin. I accompanied my father during his service on the Continent. We moved constantly.”
“Your father was a soldier?”
“With honor,” Dorothea said with quiet pride. “And yes, so was my husband. They served together.”
Madame Duchon gave a thoughtful nod, then returned to her task. After a few more measurements, she stepped back, clearly satisfied. “Yes. These gowns will suit you well—if you agree, of course.”
“I do,” Dorothea said.
“Excellent.” Madame Duchon snapped her fingers. The petite seamstress stepped forward obediently. “Let’s get you out of that dreadful thing. The blue gown will be perfect for dinner.”
Dorothea glanced down at her dress, suddenly self-conscious. It was clean, well-mended, practical—but compared to the finery in this room, it might as well have been a rag. Still, it had served her well.
“Do you require assistance, my lady?” the young assistant asked politely.
“No, thank you,” Dorothea said. “I’ve grown rather used to dressing myself.”
Madame Duchon gasped, hand fluttering towards her chest. “You have no lady’s maid?”
“I used to,” Dorothea admitted. “Before I followed my father to war. My brother didn’t see the need to replace her afterward.” Her voice remained calm, but bitterness tugged at the edges of her words, especially when she recalled how her brother’s wife had a lady’s maid.
Mrs. Cameron, who had been quietly observing from the doorway, stepped forward at last. “That will be remedied immediately,” she said with finality. “Until a permanent maid is hired, I’ll assign someone to assist you.”
Dorothea hesitated. “I don’t want to be any trouble?—”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Cameron said briskly. “You are Lady Warwicke now. And no lady of this house will go without proper care.”
Dorothea bit her lower lip. “Are you certain Lord Warwicke won’t object to the additional expense?”
“I am quite certain,” Mrs. Cameron replied.
Madame Duchon clapped her hands. “Then it is settled. Now, let us banish that somber gown. Just looking at it makes me sad.”
As Dorothea began to undress, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in her chest—anticipation, maybe even a hint of joy. It had been so long since she’d worn anything new, let alone something elegant.
Once she was fully dressed, the petite assistant began the painstaking task of fastening the endless row of covered buttons along the back of the gown. Her fingers worked quickly, each button drawing the muslin snug around Dorothea’s form.
