Chapter 4
Dorothea sat alone on the iron bench nestled beneath the arching branches of a flowering dogwood. The air smelled of freshly turned earth and blooming roses, and birds flitted from tree to tree, singing bright, cheerful notes that only made her feel more hollow.
It was beautiful here—peaceful, even—but she felt none of that peace.
Her hands, clasped in her lap, trembled slightly as she held a single rose she'd picked during her walk, its petals soft as velvet against her thumb. She stared down at it. The gardens were everything that had been described to her—lavish, well-kept, idyllic—but they weren’t hers.
Nothing here felt like it belonged to her.
Least of all her husband.
Dominic was alive. That should have filled her with relief, with joy.
And yet, she had never felt further from him.
He barely looked at her, barely spoke, as though the affection that once blossomed between them had withered during his recovery.
She missed his quick wit, their shared stories and easy silences.
When had their friendship turned into this quiet, aching distance?
How did one reclaim something so lost?
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind her, and Dorothea glanced up, her heart giving a startled little leap. But it wasn’t Dominic.
It was Mrs. Cameron, the housekeeper, her hands folded neatly in front of her, a kind smile on her face. “The dressmaker has arrived, my lady,” she informed her.
My lady.
Dorothea still wasn’t used to hearing that—wasn’t sure she ever would be.
She stood, brushing her skirts with faintly trembling fingers. “That was quicker than I expected.”
A glint of amusement danced in Mrs. Cameron’s eyes. “Wait until you see the gowns she’s brought with her. I daresay you’ll be spoiled for choice.”
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.
Madame Duchon stood back, her hands clasped before her, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Magnifique. You look beautiful, my lady.”
Dorothea turned slightly towards the nearby mirror, catching her reflection in the tall glass. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
She looked… radiant.
And for the first time in what felt like years, she felt something close to beautiful.
She smoothed a hand over the fabric at her waist, still half-convinced she would wake from the moment. That this version of her—Lady Warwicke, adorned in muslin and lace—was just another dream she wasn’t meant to keep.
The final button slipped into place, and Dorothea felt like spinning across the room, like she used to when she was a girl, barefoot and dizzy with joy. But she caught herself. That was a foolish habit—a childish impulse. And she was no longer a girl.
Madame Duchon’s voice broke her out of her musings. “These gowns will serve you well until the rest of your wardrobe is complete,” she said, lifting a brow. “Properly clothed, properly admired. As you deserve.”
Dorothea met her eyes and replied with sincerity, “Thank you. I’ve never worn anything so fine in all my life.”
Madame Duchon waved a hand dismissively, but her smile warmed.
“Well, you’d best get used to it, my lady.
You are a baroness now, and you must dress like one.
” She swept a hand towards her assistant.
“We shall take our leave for now. But expect word soon. I have designs in mind that will leave Society breathless.”
With a final nod, Madame Duchon glided from the room, her assistant scurrying behind her, arms full of folded fabric and measuring notes. The parlor door closed with a soft click.
Dorothea stood in the sudden stillness, turning slowly to gaze at the gowns draped across every available surface. These were her gowns now.
Mrs. Cameron stepped to her side. “I shall have the gowns moved to your wardrobe. But it’s nearly time to dress for dinner.”
“I’m ready.”
“You are dressed,” Mrs. Cameron agreed, then added, “but perhaps we might consider a more elaborate hairstyle, my lady. Something befitting your new station.”
Dorothea reached up instinctively, smoothing her fingers along the loose twist of her hair. “Yes… perhaps you’re right.”
Mrs. Cameron gave a pleased nod. “Allow me to escort you to your bedchamber. We can style your hair there.”
Dorothea followed her out of the parlor. They climbed the wide staircase in silence, the hush of the corridor broken only by the soft rustle of their skirts. At the far end of the hall, Mrs. Cameron opened a door and stood aside.
“I hope it is to your liking,” she said.
Dorothea stepped inside—and stopped.