in America, and I do plan to hire one here, but I haven’t quite found the time. So you will need to forgive me if I have forgotten the finer points of being dressed for an English ball.”
Her eyes widen. “I’ll be no help there, ma’am. I’ve never even seen one myself.”
I wink at her. “Well, then it’s a good thing Lord Thorne hasn’t attended one in a while, either. We’ll muddle through, and I suspect he’ll be none the wiser as long as my dress isn’t backward.”
She laughs at that and lifts her basket. “We’ll have no trouble with the dress. I’m a seamstress by trade. That’s what I’m mostly here for—to be sure the dress fits properly. I’ve also brought a hair iron and pins and a bit of face paint. I’ve never been to a ball, but I do dress my sisters for the village dances.”
“Excellent. Then let us begin with the dress.”
Her gaze moves to another article of clothing, this one on a side table. The corset.
I sigh. “Yes, I nearly forgot that. Tried to, at least.”
That makes her laugh, and she assures me she won’t tighten the stays more than necessary.
“We aren’t in London,” she says. “I hear they lace them so tight there that ladies faint at balls. I don’t know why they just don’t make the dresses larger. Fortunately, Lord Thorne chose one with a generous cut.”
I’m about to make a joke about that when I look at Mary—who is larger than me—and hold my tongue. On a conscious level, I know that I shouldn’t fret about my weight. I’m healthy and active. When I feel the need to joke about my extra twenty—or thirty—pounds, I’m succumbing to cultural pressure when the truth is that I’m happy and comfortable and haven’t actively tried to lose weight since I met Michael. This is how I’m built, and I need to quit the self-effacing comments. At best, they’re a sign of low self-esteem. At worst, they seem like a cry for validation.
I tuck my sandals away quickly enough that if Mary notices, she dismisses them as some strange American fashion. My undergarments are a larger issue. I play shy and get her to turn away until I can stuff my bra away and yank a chemise over my underwear. I should have drawers on, but there aren’t any here, and again, I can only hope she presumes that, under the chemise, I’m wearing a short pair, another American fashion.
I slide into the corset, and Mary tightens it just enough that I can look into the mirror and be very pleased with a modest smoothing of my figure and rounding of my breasts. Next should come the under-petticoat, followed by the crinolines and the over-petticoat, but we’re missing both petticoats, and I’m not unhappy about that.
The dress fits like a dream, though Mary still tut-tuts and fusses with it, pinning to achieve a tighter bodice. The neckline plunges lower than I like, and I tug it up when she’s not looking. Otherwise, the fabric flows over me, hugging and accentuating my curves in a waterfall of shimmering copper.
As Mary pins and stitches the dress, she prattles nonstop, encouraged by my questions about village life. While I don’t ask about William specifically, she takes pains to let me know how generous and kind he is.
“Like all the Thornes,” she says as she sews. “We’ve been lucky in High Thornesbury. Lord Thorne may have his strange ways, and outsiders may whisper, but we are pleased to have a lord who stays close, especially when he is such a fine gentleman.”
She pulls the thread tight. “I know you have lived abroad, ma’am, so you may not have heard the whispers. You will, though. My ma says society ladies gossip even more than we village folk. Pay it no heed. The lord has his ways, and that makes people invent vicious stories. Everyone in the village knows there’s no truth to them.”
I could ask for details, and I have no doubt she’d tell me everything. However, I am almost certain the scandal involves a woman . . . possibly more than one. Whatever William’s eccentricities, he’s popular with the ladies, as August made clear when I overheard their discussion. William might have his “strange ways,” but that combination of outer roughness and inner kindness would mean he’d have no shortage of willing paramours.
William’s past affairs are his own business, and I’m glad he wasn’t lonely in that regard. Yet with