Page 104 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Vera took advantage of the silence and plowed forward. “You must forgive me for my behavior when we last met. I’ve regretted it ever since it happened; I only didn’t know what to say to make it right. Which is no excuse, of course. I should have written to you.”

Dahlia shook her head emphatically before Vera had even finished, setting her lovely ribbons fluttering. “Absolutely not. The fault lay entirely with me. I should have considered how it would feel, having a near-stranger interject themselves into your private affairs. I can only assure you that any conversation that took place which mentioned your name wasn’t at all at your expense. If you will accept my apology, let us consider the matter fully settled.”

“Of course.” Vera smiled—she felt much better with that resolved.

“Are you here to see Madame Aubert?” Dahlia wrinkled her nose. “How silly of me. Of course you are. Would you like some company while you browse the mourning fabrics, or would you like to be left alone?”

The question was asked openly, with no insinuation of offense were Vera to refuse. Dahlia’s lovely eyes were wide with the earnestness of her inquiry. Vera found suddenly that she wouldn’t mind the company at all.

“If you have the time to spare, I’d love your help.”

It was the truth—though Vera had imagined it many times, she’d never been to Madame Aubert’s alone. The thought of facing all those fabric options without a friend to run them by was overwhelming.

Dahlia beamed. “I always have time for you. And for clothing,” she added with a wink.

Vera laughed and followed her into the polished hallway. The maid who usually occupied the chair by the front door was nowhere to be seen, but Dahlia led them through to the fabric room, where the gas lamps were already lit.

“I assume you’re here for mourning clothes? Or is it another gown that you need to shop for?” She asked the question with a tilted head, but added no sly smile that hinted of gossip.

Vera found herself regretting their last meeting all the more—she thought she could like Dahlia, very much.

“Mourning clothes. This is the only one that’s truly appropriate, and it’s one Mother chose.” Vera drew a hand down her person as if to better display the awkward cut of the gown.

Thankfully, since the dress was stark black, it wasn’t nearly as offensive as some she’d donned in the past. Vera had felt a strange sort of nostalgia at the bulk of the shoulders, the excess of clumsy pleats at the waist that made her look much larger than she was.

“Indeed.” Dahlia took her in at a glance. “Any fabric preferences?”

“Well, this might be a strange request, but do you know of any fabric that might hide stains well?”

“Stains?” Dahlia tilted her blonde head and blinked her clear blue eyes. “What sort of stains are you expecting?”

“Er— blood stains?” she whispered.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re assisting the baron; I’d nearly forgotten. Do you intend on returning to Devon, then? You’ll be wanting wool or cotton. Very clever of you, to find another use for these dresses, past the mourning period. I’d recommend a dark charcoal instead of a flat black—no one will know you’ve ordered them out of anything other than practicality.”

Dahlia crossed to one of the walls filled top to bottom with bolts of fabric. She deftly pulled four options, humming to herself before choosing another two. She lay them upon the large table in the center of the room, one by one. Two lampstands were clamped at the ends of the table, offering excellent light.

“Now, this is a lovely stripe. It’s very muted, but I think it would look stunning in a walking dress with a trim jacket.” She gestured to the next. “This one would lend itself to a more formal setting—accepting visitors over the next few weeks, perhaps. And this one…well, if I were you, I’d have Madame create a slim skirt with just the hint of a train, and ask for two tops—one, a stark jacket with a nipped waist that would go over a black shirt with a tuft of lace at the throat; the other, the top for a dinner gown, off the shoulder, to show off your lovely collarbones, and decorated with cloth roses of the same fabric.”

It was only through good manners that Vera’s mouth didn’t drop open. “Dahlia, you’re a genius.”

“Yes, but don’t tell anyone.”

Though there was a twinkle in her eye and good humor around her lips, Vera somehow got the impression that the young lady was quite serious in her request.

“Of course. I’ll give all credit to Madame Aubert, if you wish.”

“Thank you.”

Vera considered the fabrics and nibbled her lip. “Do you not think it shocking, to reuse a mourning dress as a dinner gown?”

“It’s only shocking if you tell people. Otherwise, no one will ever know.”

Vera slid her fingers across the fabric. Something about Dahlia’s words spoke of one with experience keeping secrets. Secrets that were far deeper than turning a mourning gown into a dinner gown. But Vera couldn’t muster the courage to ask about it—what would she even say?

Before she could capitalize on the strange moment, Dahlia moved on. “Of course, you’ll need more than just those.” Dahlia pointed at a subtly patterned twill at the end. “This would make a lovely walking or travelling dress. It also could be paired with a matching shirt for the time being, but after mourning, a crisp white lawn would do very nicely.”

“Forgive me, Dahlia, but is everything all right?” Vera finally managed to ask.