She’d held her tongue while they discussed walking gowns—as though she couldn’t walk unless she was dressed a particular way. She’d even stayed quiet while they debated whether fichus had run their course. What on earth was a fichu? A kerchief women wore to cover their bosoms, evidently. Why couldn’t the gown’s bodice do its job properly? She didn’t know. No one did. Instead, dressmakers shaped bodices indecently low, requiring women to stuff spare fabric into their necklines to prevent exposure.
Fichu. It sounded like a sneeze. The word was French, according to Huxley. Annie thought French women must be fond of displaying their bosoms, and French men rather clever for encouraging such fashions.
Still, she hadn’t uttered a single protest during the fichu debate or the ermine discussion or the walking gown nonsense. But opera dress? This was too much.
Huxley turned, blinking as though he’d forgotten he’d anchored her by his side to “observe.”
“I’ve never been to an opera, English. And I dinnae intend to go. Why should I pay for a gown made especially for doin’ somethin’ I’d never do?”
“Ladies in London—”
“I’m nae goin’ to London.”
“Edinburgh, then. Regardless, London sets the fashions.”
She crossed her arms and glowered up at the man who knew far too much about ladies’ clothing. “I thought that was Paris.”
His sigh was pure exasperation.
“Isnae that where yer mistress was from?”
Ruddy color stained his cheekbones. “Former mistress. You asked how I knew so much about—”
“The modest one, aye?” She snorted. “Doesnae sound so modest to me.”
“Modiste, Miss Tulloch. She was a modiste.”
“I dinnae need an opera dress.”
The yellow-haired dressmaker, who’d been gaping throughout their exchange, decided to add her nonsense to the conversation. “You may call the ensemble an evening gown, if you prefer, Miss Tulloch. One needn’t wear it solely to the theatre.” Mrs. Baird was pleasant for a shop owner. She had a bonnie face that made it difficult to tell her age. And she spoke with the light Scottish inflection Huxley had been encouraging Annie to adopt.
Annie hated her. Which made no sense, since the woman had been perfectly polite since they’d entered the Inverness shop an hour earlier. She hadn’t sneered at Annie’s hair or mocked Annie’s trews or implied Annie was mad even once. Rather, she’d welcomed them into her shop with a warm smile. Mrs. Baird had remarkably lovely teeth.
Another reason to hate her.
The shop was a pleasant place, large and airy with white draperies everywhere and clean windows looking out on High Street. It was the kind of place where her mother might have worked, had she not had Annie to care for.
Annie imagined it was the kind of shop Huxley’s not-so-modest mistress might have run in Paris.
Her stomach burned. She narrowed her eyes upon Mrs. Baird before replying, “Mornin’ dress. Evenin’ dress. Dinner dress. Walkin’ dress. What a load of shite.”
The woman’s yellow eyebrows arched. Huxley ran a hand over his jaw.
“I’ll nae be changin’ my gown every time I visit the privy. I’d never get anythin’ done.”
Huxley’s jaw flickered. “Please excuse us, Mrs. Baird.” He grasped Annie’s elbow. “We’ll only be a moment.”
The yellow-haired, bonnie-faced, white-toothed woman smiled. “Of course.”
Annie’s stomach burned hotter as Huxley tugged her to the opposite corner of the shop, near the windows and the small sofa where Mrs. MacBean appeared to be dozing. “Well, now, ye appear to be developin’ quite the affection betwixt ye, English. Ye’ve a taste for dressmakers, I see. Mayhap ye should make her yer mistress.”
He spun her to face him. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
“Nothin’ at all.”
“Do you want to be a lady or not?”
Her chin went up. “Aye.”
“Then, you must dress like one.”
“A gown or two will do fine.”
“No. It won’t.” He released her arm to prop his hands on his hips. Then, his gaze flickered to the window as though he was having trouble looking at her without throttling her. “You clearly don’t understand the task you’ve taken on.”
“Are ye callin’ me daft?”
Bright hazel eyes came back to fix upon her. “I’m saying you will fail. Is that what you want?”
She snorted. “Now, who’s daft?”
“Bloody hell, woman.” His glower darkened into a storm. “Listen carefully. Ladies do not concern themselves with their skirts catching fire in the kitchen. Do you know why?”
She didn’t bother answering. It was