Chapter Seven
The three of them headed to the nursery for tea, Amelia talking the whole way up the stairs to Henry. Sophia was too distracted to pay much attention, though. He had the marriage license. It was all unfolding as they’d hoped. And God, it was scary.
The nursery was warm and bright, afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Lucy had set out a proper tea service on the small table—a pot of tea for the adults, milk for Amelia, and a plate of Mrs. Mills’s biscuits that Amelia had been so enthusiastic about.
Sophia poured tea for Henry and herself while Amelia arranged her dolls in a semicircle on the floor.
“They want to watch us have tea,” Amelia explained seriously. “So they can learn proper manners.”
“Very educational,” Henry said, accepting his cup from Sophia. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she felt that now-familiar flutter in her stomach.
Lucy hovered near the door. “Shall I stay, Miss Sophia?”
“No, thank you, Lucy. We’ll manage beautifully.” Sophia smiled at her. “You’ve earned a rest.”
After Lucy departed, Sophia settled into one of the small chairs that was far too low for adult comfort. Henry looked equally awkward in his, his long legs folded at an odd angle, but Amelia seemed delighted to have them both at her level.
“This biscuit is very good,” Amelia declared, taking a large bite. Crumbs scattered across her dress.
“Small bites, love,” Sophia said gently, brushing the crumbs away. “And chew with your mouth closed.”
Amelia nodded solemnly and took a much smaller bite, chewing with exaggerated care.
Henry caught Sophia’s eye, and they both chuckled. How fond she was of him. How natural it felt to have him sitting down for tea with her and Amelia.
Henry set aside his tea. “Amelia, Miss Sophia and I need to tell you something. Something very important.”
Amelia looked up, her expression curious. “What is it, Uncle Henny?”
Sophia reached over and took the child’s small hand. “It’s good news, love. Very good news.”
“Are we getting a puppy?” Amelia’s eyes went wide with hope.
Despite her nervousness, Sophia had to smile. “Not exactly.”
Henry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Miss Sophia and I are getting married. To each other.”
“Married?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, your uncle and I are getting married. And that means I’ll be your stepmother. And I’ll live here always, with you and Uncle Henry.”
For a long moment, Amelia said nothing. She looked from Sophia to Henry and back again, her small face working through this information.
“Married?” she repeated. “Like a real mama and papa? Like in our books?”
“That’s right,” Sophia said.
A slow smile spread across Amelia’s face. Then she launched herself at Sophia, wrapping her small arms around her neck. “You will be my mama.”
Sophia caught her, laughing as she held the child close. “That’s right.”
“Do I call you Mama now?” Amelia asked.
“I think that would be best,” Sophia said, trying to keep her voice steady when inside she was a mess of emotions. Mama. She would be Amelia’s Mama. What more could she ever ask for?
Amelia turned to Henry, her forehead creasing. “Then shouldn’t he be my Papa?”
“Um, well, yes, you may call me that if you wish,” Henry said, stiffly.
“I will. Starting now,” Amelia said, moving to hug Henry. “Hello, Papa.”
He pulled her onto his lap, kissing the top of her head. “Hi, Amelia.”
“Papa, can we have a puppy?”
Sophia and Henry laughed.
“I think a puppy would be a great addition to our family,” Henry said. “We shall discuss it further.”
Amelia snuggled against Henry’s chest. “A real family. With a dog.”
Sophia and Henry exchanged a glance as she fought tears. This beautiful child was so innocent, so accepting of such a change. Surely it meant that this was truly a good thing. It had to be. For Amelia.
*
The next morning, Sophia waited in her room for Mrs. Bromley and the dressmaker. Amelia was down in the kitchen for her breakfast with Lucy.
“Miss Ashford? It’s Mrs. Bromley. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Sophia turned from the window as the housekeeper entered, followed by a woman Sophia recognized from the village—Mrs. Fletcher, the dressmaker, a spare woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and capable hands. Both women carried what appeared to be enormous bundles of fabric.
“Good morning, Miss Ashford.” Mrs. Bromley’s smile was warm but knowing, as though she understood exactly how overwhelming this moment would be. “Mrs. Fletcher has brought samples for your consideration. We thought it best to begin immediately, given the compressed timeline.”
Three days. Three days to create an entire wardrobe suitable for a lady.
“Yes, of course. Thank you both for coming.” Sophia gestured helplessly at her small room. “Though I’m afraid there’s not much space here.”
“We’ll make do, miss,” Mrs. Fletcher said briskly, already spreading fabrics across Sophia’s narrow bed. “I’ve worked in tighter quarters than this, I assure you. Now, let’s have a look at you.”
She circled Sophia with a critical eye, studying her from every angle. Sophia fought the urge to fidget under the scrutiny.
“A lovely figure,” Mrs. Fletcher pronounced finally. “With your fair hair and those blue eyes, you’ll wear pastels beautifully, and jewel tones will bring out your complexion. Avoid anything too orange or yellow, they’ll wash you out entirely.”
“Avoid oranges and yellows completely? I have never given it much thought before now.”
“You must start,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “Everyone will be watching to see what you wear, how your hair is fixed, the flush of your cheeks.”
“Oh dear me. That sounds dreadful,” Sophia said.
Mrs. Bromley laughed softly. “Mrs. Fletcher has dressed half the ladies in Kent, Miss Ashford. You’re in excellent hands.”
“Indeed you are.” Mrs. Fletcher gestured to the bed, now covered in a rainbow of fabrics. “Now then, we’ll need to consider what you’ll require as Lady Montrose. Morning dresses, walking dresses, afternoon gowns, evening gowns, a riding habit. Do you ride?”
“I do not,” Sophia said. “I did as a child, but I haven’t for a long time.”
“No matter. We can address that later if needed.” Mrs. Fletcher moved to the fabrics, running her hand over them with obvious affection.
“For now, we focus on the essentials. Day dresses in practical fabrics like muslins and light wools. At least six, I should think. Evening gowns in silk or satin, three at minimum. A pelisse and spencer for outdoors. A walking dress or two. Nightgowns, of course, and undergarments. Chemises, stays, petticoats, stockings.”
Sophia’s head was spinning. “That is quite a lot.”
“It’s barely the beginning of what a lady of your station requires,” Mrs. Fletcher said matter-of-factly.
“But we must be realistic about what can be accomplished. Your wedding dress is my absolute priority—that I can have ready in time, though I’ll be working through the nights with my two assistants.
I’ve brought two dresses with me today that are already made up.
With alterations, they’ll fit you and you can wear them immediately.
One for receiving the Duchess this afternoon, and another for the days before your wedding. ”
“Do I really need so much?” Sophia asked.
“His lordship can afford the very best,” Mrs. Bromley said. “You’ll want clothing appropriate to your station when you make calls in London or attend society events.”
Society events. Sophia had been so focused on staying with Amelia that she hadn’t considered what being Lady Montrose would actually entail. Calls. Dinners. Perhaps even balls.
“But for now,” Mrs. Fletcher continued briskly, “we focus on what’s essential and what’s possible. The wedding dress and two altered gowns immediately. I’ll work on additional pieces as quickly as I can—perhaps have two or three more ready within a fortnight. The rest will follow.”
“I see.” Sophia took a breath, trying to calm her racing heart. “I’m grateful for whatever you can accomplish, Mrs. Fletcher. Truly.”
“Now, for the wedding dress.” Mrs. Fletcher pulled forward a bolt of ivory silk that seemed to shimmer in the morning light.
“Given the time constraint, we’ll keep it simple.
High waist, of course, long sleeves given the season.
Perhaps some embroidery at the neckline? Or lace at the cuffs and hem?”
“I don’t know.” Sophia reached out to touch the silk, then pulled back, afraid of marking it with her fingers. “It’s beautiful. But the cost is extraordinary. I am not the queen of England, after all.”
“His lordship was very clear,” Mrs. Bromley interrupted gently. “He wants you to have the finest of everything, Miss Ashford.”
“But surely this is too much. Perhaps something less expensive?”
“You are marrying a lord,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “You’ll be Lady Montrose, mistress of this manor. You cannot present yourself in anything less than what’s appropriate to your station. It would reflect poorly on his lordship.”
On Henry. Sophia hadn’t thought of it that way. She’d been so focused on her own discomfort with the expense that she hadn’t considered how her appearance would reflect on him.
“I see,” she said. “Then I defer to your judgment. Both of you. I should hate to embarrass him.”
“My dear, you are beautiful in anything you wear,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “But it will give your husband pleasure to see you in finery.”
Mrs. Bromley’s expression softened. “Come, stand here by the window where the light is better. Mrs. Fletcher needs to take your measurements, and then we’ll discuss the styles and fabrics.”
For the next few minutes, Sophia stood and turned and lifted her arms while Mrs. Fletcher measured every conceivable part of her body, calling out numbers that Mrs. Bromley recorded in a small notebook.
Then came the fabric selection—bolt after bolt spread before her while both women debated the merits of each.