The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,61

corset. Ergh. It’s—unh—a bluidy vise.”

“Nearly done,” Mrs. Baird huffed, giving the laces a firm yank. “There.” The yanking stopped. The dressmaker breathed a sigh of relief.

Annie would do the same if she could gather more than a teaspoon of air. She glanced down. What the devil had this contraption done to her bosoms? They were enormous. Hiked up from beneath, they resembled great mounds of rising dough.

Cupping herself incredulously, she felt the boning along her waist and intricate stitching flaring over her hips. “I look like a stuffed pigeon. What have ye done?”

Mrs. Baird chuckled, grasped her shoulders and turned her to face the full-length mirror in the corner of Annie’s bedchamber.

Annie gasped.

“What we’ve done, aye?” The dressmaker grinned, her lovely teeth gleaming in the light from the window.

“Wh—why do I … That’s not …” Swallowing, Annie wandered closer. She moved her hands along the center, where a wide busk separated her bosoms and drew a flat line down past her belly. The corset was exquisite—satiny-soft white cotton with flared rows of quilted stitching. She traced the delicate crisscross pattern over her hip.

“The quilting is trapunto. I used silk thread for strength.” Mrs. Baird turned away to sort through the gowns she’d brought with her. “Ye’ll find the corset does soften over time, but the stitching and boning will ensure it keeps its structure. Now, where did I put my pins? Ah! There.”

Slowly, Annie shook her head. Somehow, watching her own movements in the looking glass startled her. This woman with the small waist and swollen breasts and fine linen petticoat could not be her.

“Let’s begin with the morning gowns.”

Annie’s head spun. “I dinnae want to.”

Holding pins in one hand and a pile of flounced white in the other, the dressmaker tilted her head and gave a gentle smile. “Remember what we discussed? These are your garments. Fitting them properly does not mean ye must wear them. But I must finish my work.”

God, Annie wished she could hate this woman. But from the moment Mrs. Baird had arrived at MacPherson House—after fully twelve letters begging Annie to come to Inverness for her final fittings—the dressmaker had been nothing but kind. Firm to the point of motherliness, but kind.

And she was quite the most talented seamstress Annie had ever met. Once again, Annie traced the curvaceous stitching along her belly. It even extended onto the gussets covering her breasts, a wee panel of crisscrosses. “Trapunto,” she whispered.

Mrs. Baird hummed lightly. “Arms up.” White flounces descended over Annie’s arms and head, cascading down over her figure. The dressmaker clicked her tongue and patted Annie’s waist. “Ye’re a wee bit smaller here than before. Have ye lost yer appetite?”

She had, but she didn’t wish to discuss it. “If I wear this gown in the kitchen, I’ll be singed inside a week.” She plucked at the sleeves. “Lace and ruffles. Hmmph. Might as well add beeswax and a wick. Are ye tryin’ to kill me?”

The woman arched a yellow brow. “With so much cookery, I’d have predicted ye’d be bigger, not smaller.”

Annie tightened her lips and held her tongue.

“How does Mr. Huxley fare?”

Silence. That was the best defense.

“When he sent his last payment, he seemed unaware that ye hadn’t yet taken delivery of the gowns.” The dressmaker plucked and fussed and pinned. When she paused, Annie dared to meet her eyes in the mirror.

Heavens, they were a pair. The well-groomed Mrs. Baird with her pretty face and perfect hair. Annie with her unruly crop of fire pinned in a lopsided knot. Mrs. Baird’s motions were graceful, like a doe crossing a stream. Annie’s movements might charitably be called efficient. Mrs. Baird’s language was crisp and proper. Annie’s was coarse and blunt.

Annie was a hoyden, just as John Huxley claimed. She was not a lady. Certainly not enough of one for him.

“Surprisin’ that he mentioned me at all,” she muttered, dropping her gaze to her hands. “I havenae heard from him in some time.”

Again, Mrs. Baird hummed. “’Tis hard not to miss such a handsome face, aye?”

Annie swallowed a lump while Mrs. Baird tied a lavender silk sash around her waist. Yes, it was hard not to miss him. Annie had tried. She was still trying. But when she closed her eyes, there he was, a maddening, tempting, bonnie Englishman with a smile she had to work for. Some