Chapter Ten #2
The garments had been perfumed heavily with a sweet lavender scent, a signature of Audette’s. But far more intriguing to me
were the dyes and the lingering essences left by the hands that had woven and delivered the fabrics to the modiste’s shop
on Bridle Street—the so-called Bride Street, where the young ladies of society flocked to prepare for their season.
I ran a hand over each shelf in disbelief, eyes widening as I found the small pile of delicate blouses, fichus, and chemisettes
to layer with. There was a cloak, as well as a cropped jacket and a long pelisse. Too much. It was . . .
Too much. I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around it all.
“How do ladies wear so many dresses?” I asked, amazed.
Felicity lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Well, they’ve their morning attire, walking gowns, dresses for promenading and riding in carriages, and then there’s the riding habits, and dresses for dinner, and, of course, ball gowns . . .”
It occurred to me then that Mama must have had a wardrobe larger than the room we’d shared, and yet I’d only ever seen her
in two or three wool dresses.
My mind tallied up the cost for the fabric, the accessories, and the shoes, goodness. The sum at the bottom of the mental ledger would have had me reaching for smelling salts, if I’d had them on hand.
Felicity smiled at my stupefied reaction. “His lordship has excellent taste, doesn’t he?”
All at once, the pit of my stomach filled with cold ash.
“Could you gather the names of all of the shops and modistes?” I asked, turning away from the lovely assortment before it
softened my heart. Curse my unbelievable weakness for beautiful things. “I would like to settle those accounts myself.”
“I . . .” Felicity watched me for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she chose her words. “Of course, Miss Lockwood.”
“Please,” I nearly begged her. “Call me Viola.”
That brought her up short again, but perhaps hearing the embarrassing crack in the words, she nodded. “Certainly. What would
you like to wear today . . . Viola?”
I managed a smile. “You choose.”
Felicity all but skipped over to the wardrobe, selecting a few things with obvious delight.
I performed my morning ablutions and dressed in a clean chemise. Felicity helped me into another new, wonderfully comfortable
short corset and slipped the petticoat over my head to drape around my waist. After fastening the tapes and helping me tie
the garters on my stockings—silk stockings that were like a sweet prayer on the skin—Felicity placed a thin chemisette around my neck, fluffing its ruffle with delight.
Finally, she held up the dress she’d chosen for my inspection. I gave the gorgeous butter-yellow walking dress a morose look,
inwardly cursing the earl for his good taste. The delicate fabric had been woven with a floral pattern that gleamed as the
light struck it. Expensive cording, dyed to match, lined the high bust and tufted sleeves.
My mood only worsened when I gazed upon my reflection in the bedroom’s tall mirror. The shade was perfect, bringing a natural warmth to the otherwise sickly pallor of my skin. Though my cheeks had thinned, and my eyes were underscored by dark circles, I looked more alive, if not every bit a lady.
“I . . . think the pelisse may be in order for the day,” Felicity said carefully. “It will give you some warmth if the rain
starts up again, but it will also give you some . . . coverage.”
It was only when Felicity helped me into the long overcoat, and I felt the silky fabric brush the bandages covering my back,
that I realized some of them must have been visible.
“Perfection,” Felicity declared, fastening the delicate buttons of the long over-jacket. “How pretty you look!”
I returned my attention to the mirror, and a little sigh escaped me.
“Oh, do you not like it?” Felicity asked, deflating. She was discreetly pinning the bodice to better fit the hollows that
hunger had left on my body. “We can try another.”
“No,” I said, rubbing at my suddenly aching temples. “That’s not it . . . I just . . .”
How could I possibly explain the rush of emotions pouring through me? The way they’d seized even my confidence. Because despite
the bruising and exhaustion, the person staring back at me was a vision of everything that might have been, had fate unspooled
differently. She was a vision of what could be, what would need to be, when I took control of the House of Rosebourne.
And still, I couldn’t reconcile the image of that woman with myself.
“You know,” Felicity began, retrieving the last of the pins she’d clenched between her lips as she worked, “I was quite out
of my depth when the late Lord Foxcourt—God rest his soul—hired me. I had none of what you’d call ‘town polish’—I hadn’t any
notion that’s what such manners were called. And, as it should be quite obvious by now, I have only the barest grasp on what
it is to be a lady’s maid.”
I twisted around to look at her in earnest. She answered my question before I could ask it.
“Lord Foxcourt had been told about me by an acquaintance in Northbrook—my village, that is. He wrote to me, and it was a miracle
of the highest order the letter reached my hands before my father’s.”
Felicity stepped back, disguising the ripple of emotion on her face by pretending to study her work.
“My childhood was . . . quite peculiar, you see,” Felicity said, now forcing the brightness into her tone.
“I saw glints and glimmers here and there, especially in the nearby woods. I heard little whispers in the leaves and faint songs carried on the wind. I adored them. I knew all the old stories, of course, but these were gentle beings. They were my friends.”
“The second sight,” I said, my shock turning to awe. So Felicity was fairyborn herself then, and possessed the ability to
see magic in its truest form.
“Not exactly,” Felicity admitted, motioning for me to sit at the vanity. “It’s more that magic has no effect on me.”
Oh, that would account for her lack of essence. If she was invulnerable to magic, my own would be useless in reading her. Perhaps
it was the same for Foxcourt? It was an easier explanation to swallow than him being a changeling.
“That’s remarkable,” I told her. One heard murmurings of fairy sightings, especially in Albion’s ancient forests, but they
had always seemed just as likely to be tales to sell papers. Having grown up in colorless, overcrowded streets, I was beyond
envious of that touch of whimsy in her childhood.
Felicity nodded, though she didn’t seem as convinced. “They were nothing like those cold, trickster fairies, you see. They