The Wrong Bride Page 12

  Lance found Winnie in the kitchen the next morning. “What are you doing, Winnie?”

  Her head turned away from him, she watched over the pans on the stove. “I’m cooking breakfast. Isabelle isn’t in condition to work today.” He looked and Isabelle’s head was down and resting on the table.

  “You’re mumbling. I didn’t hear you.”

  Her head made a half-turn, but she didn’t, couldn’t, look at him. “I said…” She stopped as her chin began trembling. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she held it for a time before starting again, gaining time to steady her voice. “Isabelle isn’t in condition to work today, so I’m cooking breakfast. It’s almost ready.”

  “Good, because I’m starving.” He looked down to Isabelle. “That will teach you, Isabelle, not to overdo. But,” he added, more gently, “it’s something we all have to learn.” He looked up. “Isn’t that right, Winnie?”

  “Yes,” she muttered huskily, her eyes still watching the bacon to keep it from burning and to avoid looking at Lance. She exhaled upon hearing him leave the room.

  “May I just have a piece of toast and coffee?” Isabelle said in a whining tone.

  The girl woke Winnie from her own thoughts. “What?”

  “I asked for…”

  “Oh, yes, I remember. A piece of toast and coffee. Or perhaps a cup of ale to start?”

  “Yes, please.” Isabelle raised her head from the table. “Ooh, so woozy. It all felt very good last night, but now it hurts.”

  “Master Lance was right,” Winnie said, a reluctant, sympathetic smile tugging the corners of her mouth in spite of herself. Winnie served Isabelle before making a tray for Lance.

  The smile gone, face solemn and mouth turned down, Winnie took the tray to the dining room. She set the table and began putting together a plate for Lance. “You’re not joining me?”

  “No,” she answered, still not looking at Lance and pouring two cups of coffee for him as usual. “Since Isabelle isn’t feeling well, I’ll just join her in the kitchen. I’m going to send her back to bed after she has a bite to eat.”

  Lance watched her leave with a frown.

  Inside the kitchen Winnie sat down quickly, afraid she’d fall she was shaking so. Isabelle had finished the ale and coffee but eaten only half her toast. “Go back to bed, Isabelle. Sleep until you feel better. The work can wait just once.”

  “I’m sorry, Missus Winnie. I won’t do it again.”

  Winnie sighed softly. “Yes, you will. Now off with you.” Isabelle lurched to her feet and staggered to her room. Winnie got up and closed the door, Isabelle already with her shoes off and under the covers fully dressed.

  Her own breakfast devoured, Winnie rose, put on the old coat, tied a scarf around her head and went outside after wrapping up a pan of food for Jem. It was snowing, but not with any enthusiasm. Whatever fell wouldn’t stick, though the flakes wear a harbinger of weather to come.

  Jem came running when he saw he. “Is that fer me?”

  “It is. I figured you’d be hungry. Isabelle isn’t feeling too well, and Frances likely won’t stir for a while.” She smiled at the eager face of the ten-year-old boy she’d once found wandering the streets of town with no one to claim him and no place to go. “Do you need any help?”

  “Naw.” He sat down on a bench in front of the stable and began eating, and she sat beside him.

  “Did you have fun in town yesterday?” Jem tore into a recital of what happened in town with enthusiasm, stuffing his mouth and chewing hungrily. “You oughtn’t eat so fast. Your stomach will rebel.”

  “No ‘twon’t. It’s like iron, it is.”

  “Well, iron rusts, and that’s not so good either.”

  He shrugged. “I’m glad to be home, though, no matter all the fun in town.” Winnie nodded slowly, stood up and Jem offered the plate back.

  “I’m going to check on the chickens.” Jem mumbled something, still munching on the last bit of bread. “Come by the kitchen at midday or a little after. “We’ll stir something up for you.”

  Finished with breakfast, Lance began wandering the house. Upstairs in the corridor past the bedrooms and a sitting room he looked out the tall slender back window and watched Winnie with Jem. It was clear there was longstanding affection between the two. Jem was lucky. He had shoes and a decent coat for a boot-boy, stable boy, and all-around helper. His coat was in fact much newer that the one Winnie wore for every day.

  By the time one o’clock rolled around, Frances was up, though moving slowly, and the routine was back to the usual, with Winnie and Lance avoiding each other.

  He became restless in the days ahead and decided to make the trip to town. He was surprised when he asked Winnie if she would like to go and she agreed.

  “This is the time of year when people have greater need because of the cold, and the parish women sort through donated clothing.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly nothing to donate, Winnie,” he said crossly, irritated because he’d wanted to be alone to think. He couldn’t with Winnie around, or any of the others, for that matter. Barnaby tended to bring up the past, a past that no matter how Lance tried to clutch at it and mix the man he was now with the young fellow he’d been, it wasn’t working. “You might want to visit the dressmaker’s again. I’ll be inviting people in for the holidays, and we’ll be visiting around, and your little wardrobe is nothing to brag about.”

  “I’ve a couple of very nice dresses,” Winnie said defensively.

  “But now, you’re the wife of a baronet and you must dress the part. We’re not paupers, Winnie.”

  No, we’re not, not married, she wanted to protest. As for the other part, it is because of me that we are not paupers, my care, my forgoing help and keeping the place together. She’d brought in Jem, taught him his duties, tutored him along with Barnaby and made Barnaby work to repair the buildings, to take care of the stock and he like. “We’re not rich, either.”

  “You will let me worry about finances, Winnie,” he told her coldly. “They’re my responsibility now. Have your dressmaker friend send the bills to me, as is proper.”

  Winnie bowed her head in defeat. “Very well, I shall do as you request.”

  “And, as for me, I need new clothes, too. I’ll be visiting the tailor and shoemakers.” He would visit the tavern and call at some of the other shops just to identify himself to the townspeople. Perhaps he would reacquaint himself with some of them. Maybe he would do likewise with people who knew his family. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he wasn’t alright, hadn’t thrown himself into the traffic of life like some of his comrades. He just needed more time, perhaps.

  “I’ll just check to see if Frances and Isabelle need anything, too.”

  “Good. The little jaunt will be good for both of us. We’ll leave early tomorrow, arrive in town just when it opens. You’ll have to make arrangements to have something to eat. I expect I’ll be in the public room for dinner.”

  Winnie looked away from his searching gaze and mumbled something about seeing to herself quite well, thank you.

  The greetings Winnie got from the parish women were unexpected, strained even, and Winnie felt their hesitation. Was it because her husband had returned, elevated in stature by some extraordinary bravery in the war? Or was it because they, too, had heard the gossip. It must have been Isabelle, letting down to her family about her position and work in the Brevard household, and then, beyond that, who knew? Gossip was like running water, finding the least resistant path and veering off into uncertain rivulets to go who knew where.

  After an hour of work sorting and separating, mending what was useful, and throwing away or giving to the ragman what was useless, they had achieved a lot for the poor of the parish. But women who had been her friends were now not more than acquaintances, and Winnie felt none of the rush of warmth, of familiarity she’d experienced coming here on other occasions. There must have been a further expansion of gossip to this place. Church had been li
ke a haven to her once, the women around her spreading their wings of welcome at one time, but this refuge was lost to her at present. If, when, she corrected herself, she and Sir Lance separated, she would have to move away where she was not so well known. For a midday meal, there was thin soup and bread and butter, a glass of ale. It was enough. Winnie struggled to make it through the meal, her heart sore due to the distance that all at once separated her from her erstwhile compatriots.

  Now, what to do? Winnie headed to the dressmaker’s bending down and holding onto her hat against the brisk wind, gasping as it nearly took away her breath. Thinking deeply and not watching ahead, she was shaken by a sudden collision. “Oh!” Her head came up abruptly, the bonnet flying off her head, and the young man with whom she’d collided laughed and took off after it, chasing it down and returning it with a rueful smile. “I am indebted to you, kind sir. Thank you.” She took it, face turning a deeper shade of pink than that driven into her cheeks by the chill. Winnie put the hat on quickly and fastened it securely. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He bowed. “My fault as well. I was turning to rubberneck and walking backward. If I had only turned a moment sooner, we might have avoided the crash.”

  Winnie smiled. “I believe I have seen you before.” She struck out her hand. “At the town ball. You won’t remember me. I’m Winifred Brevard.”

  He took her hand and smiled warmly into her face, his own decidedly handsome. Lively green and brown eyes assessed her. “But of course I remember you, Lady Brevard. You wore a lovely soft white gown, most becoming, though it might be imprudent of me to mention it.”

  Winnie’s smile broadened and her blue eyes softened. “I thank you for saying it, however, as I had a part in its design and making. And you are…?”

  “Forgive me.” He bent to touch his still smiling mouth lightly to her glove. “I am Winston Trueblood. My friends call me Wins. I hope you’ll be among them one day.”

  His appraising lovely eyes clearly liked what he saw, and that sentiment coming to Winnie made her blush again. He let go of her hand slowly. “My friends call me Winnie.” The grooves of her smile wore deeper, producing charming dimples on either side of her mouth. His gaze took them in with another smile before lifting to look deeply into the guileless, friendly blue eyes. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Trueblood.”

  “No Wins?” He cocked his eyebrows and grinned.

  She laughed softly. The experience of being flirted with was new and Winnie liked it. “Next time, perhaps.”

  “I shall hold you to it. It’s as good as a promise.”

  She looked down from the warm, shining light of his steady gaze. “Well, I must be on my way.” Her eyes lifted to those that nearly embraced her. “I’m on my way to the dressmaker’s.”

  He touched his hat. “Please give my regard to Mistress Goodwill.”

  “Oh! Very well, I shall,” she said. He stepped out of her path and around her with the quick grace of a man who would be a good dancer, and Winnie walked on, her heart suddenly lighter. Unaware she was grinning like a giddy schoolgirl, she glanced across the street to see Lance scowling at her. Steps faltering, the smile was wiped away at once. Her chin rose and she hurried onto the shop, the memory of what had happened between her and Lance a night earlier making her insides turn over. And there was no way to pretend she wasn’t affected just by merely recalling it.

  Inside the outer door of the shop and out of Lance’s judgmental view, Winnie paused to bring herself together, sighing helplessly. Then, the cheer of the bell ringing when she opened the inner door and feeling the warmth that enveloped her, she pushed herself forward. “Good afternoon, Lady Brevard.”

  So recently flustered by one man’s eager attention, then struck with the thought of Lance and his profoundly affective treatment of her in his bed, Winnie forced a smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Mistress Goodwill.”

  “You’re my second customer. It’s a bear outside today, isn’t it?”

  “It is, most definitely,” Winnie replied, only now catching her breath.

  Approaching Winnie with a discerning look, the tall, stout, and healthy-looking Mistress Goodwill asked, “Would you like to know who the first was?”

  Winnie’s troubled eyes focused. “Is it someone I know?”

  The proprietress chuckled. “It was your husband.”

  “Oh! Yes, he told me he was going to the tailor’s today. So,” Winnie said, a tiny line making its way across her fine brow, “are you the tailor, too?”

  “I am,” the woman said proudly. “My husband was the tailor, you see, and when he died, I was left the business. Truth to tell,” she shrugged, “I did as much of the work or more than did he.”

  “How interesting, Mistress Goodwill. It’s very rare, almost unheard of, a woman proprietor of a business. The question had been in the back of my mind when I thought about it, then forgot just as quickly, seeing how well you run the shop.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned her head to one side. “And what may I do for you today?”

  “I’d like dresses made up. My husband has said I should, since we’ll be making calls soon and that kind of thing. He has told me to have you send the bills to him…”

  “He’s already paid the last, so…”

  “Really, how very prompt of him.” Winnie stared at the woman for a moment. “But, I’ve a couple of ideas to discuss. We’ve not a fortune, but…”

  “How would you like to come behind the shop, Lady Brevard? I’ve been standing on my feet a good part of the day, and I could use a cup of tea.”

  Winnie’s reply was quick. “How nice of you to ask. I would very much like to see the insides of your business. And, before it escapes my mind, I was asked to remember a gentleman to you, a Mister Trueblood. He sends his regard.”

  “Oh, yes. He and I are of old acquaintance.” She smiled. “That one’s a charmer, he is.” She raised her thick brows meaningfully before leading the way through a corridor, down a series of steps to a kitchen. Another set of stairs turning off the corridor apparently led to the story above. “I live here; up the other set of stairs is where I put my feet at the end of the day.” There were two women working on one side in the well-lit kitchen and they were introduced. Mistress Goodwill made tea herself and the two women put off working to gather around the small table and enjoy a break. Winnie spent several minutes in enjoyable conversation, after which Mistress Goodwill showed her the rooms where the supplies, fabrics, scissors, threads of all colors and other items were kept, as well as books with measurements of her clients, and other books with all sorts of fashion designs. “I can fairly well assess the height and breadth of a fellow or woman and needn’t take measurements, but, if in doubt, it’s better to check. A good eye does help to cut down on fittings, however.” Winnie closed her mouth, vivid eyes scanning every direction to take in all that was there. “Now, you said you have some ideas you would like to talk about?”

  “Yes. What I had in mind was this: a peplum or vest, just at a certain height, might hide the buttons or other fastenings for a couple of different skirts attached to the top of the dress thus made. In that way, I could have several outfits without the expense of making a whole wardrobe of frocks.”

  The woman frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Now Winnie frowned. “You don’t approve?”

  “I think it’s a strange idea. But it’s also very clever.”

  “We might start off with a common color, like black, or blue velvet, or brown. One dress would be all, say, black velvet. We might remove the black skirt, add another, perhaps a patterned fabric of a matching black…”

  “What an original idea! The mind can suddenly dream up all sorts of things. We might make the buttons sparkle through one peplum. Another top might be in the patterned fabric, and the buttons would be plain. The skirt for the first might work as a skirt for the second top, as long as the combinations work well together.” She c
huckled and shook her head. “Shall we take a look at our offerings of materials?”

  The two women spent another hour choosing what patterns would go with what plain fabrics, while Winnie peppered Goodwill with all sorts of questions about how the woman went about doing her business. Winnie sat on a little stool making crude drawings of dresses, three of them, with three skirts to either match or mix. For three dresses Winnie could have nine outfits, and they would all be beautiful. One of the peplums would be scalloped, and another end in peaks, and the third…they hadn’t decided on the idea for that one yet. “It won’t be quite as inexpensive as three dresses, because there will be extra detail, but it will certainly be less expensive than nine dresses, or even six.” They settled on a price, and Winnie walked away still smiling. The materials were rich, mostly warm for the season, wool or velvet, or of taffetas and satins. The time had been exciting for Winnie, and Mistress Goodwill remarked to her seamstresses that she hoped the new customer wouldn’t go into trade to compete with her. Everyone chuckled, Winnie too, but it was an idea she wouldn’t discard soon.

  Leaving the shop just as the sun was setting, turning the horizon clouds into streaked pink and orange, just past the public house in an alley between buildings across the street, Winnie saw a couple in close conversation. Hurrying because Lance might be waiting for her at the carriage, she slowed all at once with a frown marking her face. Something about the set and breadth of the shoulders halted her altogether. The man could be Lance, but surely not. It was only that she had him on her brain constantly since their intimate encounter, that was all. But the woman, who was she? Trying to see, but not to draw attention to herself, she noticed the other woman in the shadows of the public building. And Winnie knew that woman. It was Lady Blackwater’s servant waiting for her mistress. Then the man turned. It was Lance. Winnie felt her heart lurch, her cheeks warm, and she forced herself to walk ahead as if nothing was amiss. The woman’s high laughter caught her ear, making the hair on the back of her neck stand. What was happening to her, Winnie, that the episode had this strange effect on her? She stopped in the bakery and picked out the largest iced bun she could find for Jem, who would be waiting to drive them home, and a dozen fresh yeast rolls. Hands shaking, she handed the coins to the baker’s assistant, forced a smile and went outside, studiously avoiding looking across the street.