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“Parkem died ten years ago,” said her brother.

“I’m no less a widow now than I was then,” she said.

As a dressmaker, perhaps she should’ve been more inclined toward a wider color palette than the black, gray, mauve, and lavender assigned to women occupying that limbo between full mourning and being completely out again, but she found the hues suited her. The half mourning colors showed off the precision and detail of her workmanship without distracting the eye with bold patterns or flashy colors.

“All I’m saying, darling girl, is that you don’t have to remind every man in Edinburgh over and over again that you were once another man’s wife. A man you didn’t even like,” said her brother.

She drew in a deep breath. “Caleb, it’s time you went.”

He snuck another quick kiss in penance. “Good-bye, Livy.”

The door shut, and she closed her eyes. Her brother hadn’t intended to be cruel in reminding her of Alistair, but it still hurt. He was right though. She hadn’t wanted to marry the man, but the option to say no had been taken away from her.

In her darkest moments, Lavinia let herself think the nasty truth: the best thing Alistair Parkem had ever done was die two years into their marriage. He’d left her with almost nothing, but she hadn’t cared. For the first time in her life, she’d been a free woman. As soon as the debts were paid off and the funeral was over, she’d escaped to Edinburgh against the wishes of her parents and the Parkems alike, vowing to never again let anyone else be responsible for the rise and fall of her fortunes.

In the middle of their fights, usually spurred by her refusal to lend him any more money, her brother liked to point out that, as the daughter of a vicar, her status in the world had plummeted when she opened her shop. That wasn’t how she saw it at all. As the owner and sole proprietor of Mrs. Parkem’s, she’d made something out of herself.

The back-door bell jangled, announcing the arrival of Siobhan ahead of the other girls. Lavinia shut the appointment book, tucked it under her arm, and went to greet her head seamstress to officially begin the day.

The next few hours passed quickly with the arrival of the Fosters. Each of the women had to be attended to, with Lavinia hurrying back and forth between salons. It had been worth the frenetic rushing, however, because Mrs. Foster had decided that she couldn’t live without a new wardrobe—not just an evening dress—for the upcoming royal visit from the Prince of Wales. There would be a royal parade through the streets from Waverley Station to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, a military display, concerts, charitable events, and, most important, a ball held in honor of the heir to the throne. Who was invited to that particular event had been speculated over shamelessly. The week the invitations had been issued in a flurry of activity, men and women across the city had jumped at every knock or ring of the doorbell in anticipation of receiving one of the prized cream-colored envelopes. For all of the hubbub, however, there’d been few surprises: Edinburgh’s elite, from barons to businessmen, had been invited to the ball. Lavinia had no illusions that she’d get anywhere near the ballroom at Holyrood Palace, but her creations would, making her the happy recipient of a healthy profit.

Lavinia had gone up to her workshop to pull books of silk and brocade samples when she rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Siobhan.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” said the seamstress, catching Lavinia by the elbow.

“It’s my fault. I’m rushing,” said Lavinia.

Siobhan nodded to the samples. “Mrs. Foster?”

“Her gown for the prince’s ball,” she said with a grin.

“God save the future king,” said Siobhan.

“I never thought I’d hear those words from an Irishwoman.”

Siobhan snorted a laugh. “I’ve never had much of a head for politics. If the Prince of Wales visiting means more orders, then I can stand to be a royalist until his visit is over. In the meantime, we’re going to need another seamstress to help with all of these orders.”

“Do you know anyone?” asked Lavinia.

“My cousin, Bronagh, has just come over and is looking for work,” said Siobhan. “She’s handy with a needle.”

“And her story . . . ?”

Siobhan bit her lip. “The same as ours in so many ways.”

The girl was running from something. Lavinia never asked the women who worked for her what it was that had driven them away from home, but each of them had found their way to her shop for a reason. It had taken Siobhan five years to finally tell her about the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her husband, and although they rarely spoke of it, Lavinia knew what it meant to have a place to go and money of one’s own. For her small band of women tucked away on Victoria Street, Mrs. Parkem’s was a haven, a chance to begin again.

“Bring Bronagh in and start her on some of the simpler dresses for the younger ladies,” she said. “We’ll see how she gets on from there.”

“Thank you,” said Siobhan. “She’s a good girl, and I’ll make sure she works hard.”

“See that she does, and we just might get all of these orders filled.”

Lavinia hurried downstairs to help Mrs. Foster select a rich blue brocade shot through with gold thread that would complement the lady’s white-blond hair. She said farewell to the Fosters in the front of the shop, promising to deliver the three day dresses the ladies had had fitted in two days’ time.

When the door shut behind them, Lavinia turned her attentions to Fiona, the shopgirl who tended the front counter and helped those looking for ribbons and other accessories when Lavinia was busy.

“Anything to report?” she asked, lifting the hinged flap that allowed the staff to slip behind the counter.