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Ella
“Did you forget that I’m riding in this carriage with you?” Mary startles me out of my daydream.
“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I’m just a bit tired today.” Distracted is more like it. But I can’t tell Mary that yesterday was the worst and best day I’ve ever had. Alasdair was right—the kiss we shared has completely overridden the awful fear Lord Percy left me feeling. The warmth and strength of Alasdair’s arms around me and the indescribable desire his kiss ignited inside me has been in the forefront of my mind ever since.
“Are you going to attempt to convince me that dreamy look on your face has nothing to do with you and Lord Stallion disappearing from the Burtons’ yesterday?”
My head turns to her abruptly, only to find her tittering behind her fan. The humor I see in her eyes is contagious, and I can’t help laughing at her play on his name. “Well done, Mary. Lord Stallion. I hope that doesn’t slip off my tongue in his presence. I would be mortified!”
“Why should you be mortified? It’s the truth, and don’t think for a minute he doesn’t know it! Did you see his shoulders? Broad and set perfectly square, not sloped and droopy and weak. He likely has a body like the men in those paintings at the museum that Mother doesn’t want us looking at.”
She stops then and studies my face. “But you already know that his body looks like skin stretched tightly over thick muscles, don’t you? How do you know that, Ella?”
“Mary! I have never seenanyman unclothed, and certainly not Lord Stewart! I should be offended by such a suggestion.”
“But you’re not.” She pauses to fan her face and eyes me a bit longer. “Something happened. Nothing so far as losing your maidenhead before your sweet papa has given you away, butsomething.”
“No. However, I will not deny…thethoughtof him unclothed is very intriguing and is certainly worthy of a blush or two.”
“Did he kiss you yesterday?”
This could be my opportunity to steer her away from the truth, which she seems hell-bent on getting me to confess, and this is surely the lesser of all evils. “Yes. Are you happy now?” It almost feels good to say it, to get it out in the open.
“I knew it! Oh, please tell me it was as fantastic as I imagine it would be. He is simply swoon worthy! You are so lucky.”
“Mary, it was absolutely amazing and almost completely overshadows his insufferable ego.” A very true statement.
“How did you ever get away from Lord Slimy-and-Gross long enough to get a kiss from your thoroughbred? I felt so sorry for you when Percy approached. He was acting more oddly than he normally does.”
“Thankfully, Lord Stewart scared him away so we could take a stroll through the garden.” I still can’t make eye contact with Mary.
“Well, I am truly happy for you, Ella dear. We must pray that another stallion comes from a land far away and sweeps me off my feet. Now that I know it is a possibility, I cannot settle for less. Oh! We are here!” Mary finishes her statement with a squeal of excitement.
The carriage slows as it approaches Sylvie’s dress shop. It’s a quaint storefront painted white with big display windows that feature colorful paintings of ladies in ornate gowns. The canvases are surrounded by ceramic pots, big and small, filled with flowers fashioned out of a kaleidoscope of fabrics. They must be from remnants of all the dresses she’s made. It is a fantastic display, and I wonder if Sylvie created them all herself.
“Well, this certainly is charming,” Mary says as the footman helps us out of the carriage.
“Yes, it is. I’m excited to see her inventory!”
As we stop outside to admire the display windows, I glance over at a group of women nearby pointing at us and talking in hushed tones. I ignore them, yet I cannot help but notice the chill that comes across my skin.
Inside, Mary is overjoyed as she goes from fabric bolt to fabric bolt, and trim displays that are too numerous to count. Finally, Sylvie comes from behind the curtain in the back of the store and gleefully greets us.
“Ladies! You’ve arrived. I am so happy to see you!” Her French accent is thick through her enthusiasm. “Come here, my darling,” she says to Mary. “My goodness, you are lovely. Look at dis coloring! You are a dressmaker’s dream!” Mary is practically purring like a kitten, no doubt wondering what ideas the apprentice to the famous Rose Bertin has in store.
This place is like candy to a woman’s soul, and I am so happy we planned this visit to Sylvie’s shop. The quality of her fabrics is the best I have ever seen, and her artistry could very well be beyond that of the master under which she studied. But I am a little unnerved that two other women, with whom I am acquainted, have come in, looking at me with an abnormal degree of shock, then left as though I have the plague.
Something has happened. That is blatantly obvious, and the longer I stand here, the bigger the rock becomes that is weighing heavily in my stomach.
“Are you alright, dear?” Sylvie asks with sincere concern.
“I don’t know. I suddenly feel like I am the focus of something untoward, but I do not know what that could be.”
“Come here, my darling. Come.” Sylvie pulls me to the back of the shop, behind the curtain that hides her workspace. “Sit right here,” she says in a comforting yet commanding way. “I know too much. Ladies are vipers, and society is their breeding den. You are a good woman. I know dis because I know what people are made of. I learn dis so I survive. A rumor has spread…it is malicious. I have seen dis before. Someone wants to harm your reputation. Say you have been in action like that of a whore with a Scotsman.”
I think I’m going to faint…or vomit. Everything is spinning, and I’m trying to balance myself, so I don’t topple out of this chair. “This cannot be happening. Please tell me this is not happening.”
Sylvie kneels in front of me and grabs my face. “Look at me! You look in my eyes. Trust me when I tell you, it could be worse. I know who you are and where you come from. You are far more protected dan thousands of other women. Your family will see to dat. Now we must be hopeful dis man will honor you with his hand in marriage.”
