He set her up in the gig without further statement and climbed in beside her.
“You’ll like the village, I think. You may even find some scenes to add to your illustrations.”
This caught her attention, and he hoped the conversation about the gown had ended.
“Do you really think?”
He gave a nod as he set the gig in motion.
“Most certainly. Village life along the shore is ripe with interesting things to teach young ones. We should even have time to go down to the docks so you can see the fishing boats.”
She’d switched back into that damn bonnet again, likely because she would actually be seen, and when she turned with interest on the subject of fishing boats, he could only see part of her face.
“I should love that. Will it truly not be a bother for you? I know you wanted to go over the figures for feed for the piglets with Sheridan.”
He guided the horse around the end of the drive and directed it toward the road that led down into the village.
“You’ve been paying attention.” He slid a glance to find she’d turned her face to the road again.
“It’s hard not to pay attention when piglets by nature are so adorable in countenance.”
“Piglets are adorable?”
Now she did turn to him, and even the edges of her bonnet could not hide her smile.
“Of course, they are. Please don’t tell me you’re immune to their charm.”
At the word, his mind flashed back to the first conversation he’d had with Sebastian on just the very topic. He turned to find her still smiling at him, and he couldn’t help but return it.
“No, I am not immune to their charm,” he said, even as he realized he spoke of something entirely different.
Her smile grew soft as he continued to gaze at her, and it was as if some unspoken message passed between them. He was only lucky she broke it off or he may have driven them off of the cliff beside the road.
He kept his eyes firmly affixed between the horse’s ears for the remainder of the journey, and they arrived in Glenhaven proper without incident. He helped Eliza alight before taking her arm and tossing a coin to a village boy to watch the gig until he came back.
Mrs. Fletcher’s shop was not far into the village, and they strolled past only a few shop fronts before he drew Eliza up onto the porch of a small shop set into the cliffside. A bell rang above the door as they entered, and a woman emerged from the back of the shop. Gray touched each temple and lines bracketed her eyes, and it startled him to find Mrs. Fletcher had aged.
How long had it been since he’d been in her shop?
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Fletcher exclaimed, sweeping from behind the counter that lined the back of the shop. “We’d had rumors you were up at the manor house.” She didn’t pause to give him greeting but instead turned with a curtsy to Eliza. “And with your bride, no less. Welcome, Your Grace.”
Eliza let go of his arm to return the curtsy. “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
The seamstress waved her hands. “Oh, I’m just so delighted you’re here.” Her face cleared, and finally she addressed him. “But why are you here?”
She reached out a hand and without hesitation, pinched his cheek just as she’d done when he was a boy. Eliza stared, and he shuffled his feet.
“My wife requires a gown for the Ashbourne ball, Mrs. Fletcher.”
The older woman pressed her hands together in obvious delight.
“Oh, the ball!” She wiped a hand over her forehead. “Of course. How could I forget?” She turned to Eliza, narrowing her eyes as she studied her but without spending more than a couple of seconds, she waved at Dax. “Leave us if you will, Your Grace. I have much to discuss with your wife about her attire.”
He turned to Eliza. “I’ll just be along the shops should you have need of me.”
Eliza’s smile was quick. “No need to worry. I shall be just fine.”
He bid them goodbye and disappeared through the shop door but not before Mrs. Fletcher called for reinforcements from the back of the shop.
Chapter 13
“What an honor it is to have you in my shop, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Fletcher had led Eliza to a small dressing room off of the main shop floor and now she found herself standing atop a dais, her arms outstretched as Mrs. Fletcher took measurements, her fingers deft and sure.
As soon as Dax had left, Mrs. Fletcher called on her daughter for assistance, a Mrs. Longbottom, who was an exact replica of her mother if only several years younger. They shared the same soft smile and alert eyes, moving with precision to drink in a person and all there was to know about them.
The effect should have been disconcerting, but no one had ever taken such interest in Eliza before then. She found the treatment rather endearing.
Until Mrs. Fletcher straightened with hands to her hips.
“Well, Your Grace, I should like to speak frankly if I may. As I tell all my clients, it’s really in your best interest.”
Eliza stilled, her hands going to her stomach as tension boiled there.
“What is it, Mrs. Fletcher?”
The older seamstress raised her eyes to meet Eliza’s gaze as Mrs. Longbottom shook her head silently behind her mother.
“I assume it was a London modiste who dressed you in yellow, was it not?”
Eliza looked down as if just realizing she wore such a shade of sunshine.
“I was told it’s this season’s particular color.”
Mrs. Fletcher gave a soft snort. “I thought as much. The London modistes have only a concern for fashion as it is what keeps them in business. They must dress their clients to whatever the rage is that season even if it does nothing for the woman’s figure or coloring.” The seamstress pointed a finger at Eliza’s gown as if she were indicating a dead fish. “Are you at all attached to this particular style and color?”
Eliza had very little concern for dress at all, only in so much as it hindered her from working with Henry.
She gave a shrug. “I have no feelings on it whatsoever.”
Mrs. Fletcher’s smile was quick. “I was hoping you would say as much.” She gestured to her daughter. “Let’s help her out of it then.”
Eliza’s hands reflexively dug into her skirts.
“Take me out of it?”
Mrs. Fletcher wrinkled her nose. “You don’t wish to wear that out of here, do you?” She waved a hand at the back of the shop. “I have some designs that are nearly finished that will work well on you. They should keep you in fashion until I can get the rest of the gowns to you.”
“Rest of the gowns?” Eliza dropped her hands. “Mrs. Fletcher, that’s really unnecessary. It’s only the one gown—”
But Mrs. Fletcher was already moving away as Mrs. Longbottom came forward with a soft smile and began to undo the buttons that ran down the back of Eliza’s gown.
Before she knew it, she was swathed in a dressing gown of the most luxurious silk she’d ever felt, her feet up on a cushioned stool, a teacup in hand, and a plate of delectable treats at her elbow. She had never been fawned over quite so much in all her life. Trips to the modiste in London were always painful affairs with seamstresses poking her with pins and telling her to stand up straight. The problem wasn’t that she failed to stand erect. It was that standing up straight did little to address the problem of having nothing with which to fill out the gowns.