Page 47 of Immortal Rose

Last night, from the angle of the bath, I hadn’t been able to see inside the wardrobe. Now, the room seemed to spiral around me as I came to stand beside her.

The handful of dresses inside, folded neatly, were sumptuous. Pale creamy-white muslin confections, soft rosebud-pink and butter-yellow silks, a modest earthen-brown walking dress. There were even two with patterns: a lilac morning dress with green and white stripes, and a walking dress lavished with elegant florals.

The garments had been perfumed heavily with a sweet lavender scent, a signature of Audette’s. But far more intriguing to me were the dyes and the lingering essences left by the hands that had woven and delivered the fabrics to the modiste’s shop on Bridle Street—the so-called Bride Street, where the young ladies of society flocked to prepare for their season.

I ran a hand over each shelf in disbelief, eyes widening as I found the small pile of delicate blouses, fichus, and chemisettes to layer with. There was a cloak, as well as a cropped jacket and a long pelisse. Too much. It was . . .

Too much. I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around it all.

“How do ladies wear so many dresses?” I asked, amazed.

Felicity lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Well, they’ve their morning attire, walking gowns, dresses for promenading and riding in carriages, and then there’s the riding habits, and dresses for dinner, and, of course, ball gowns . . .”

It occurred to me then that Mama must have had a wardrobe larger than the room we’d shared, and yet I’d only ever seen her in two or three wool dresses.

My mind tallied up the cost for the fabric, the accessories, and the shoes, goodness. The sum at the bottom of the mental ledger would have had me reaching for smelling salts, if I’d had them on hand.

Felicity smiled at my stupefied reaction. “His lordship has excellent taste, doesn’t he?”

All at once, the pit of my stomach filled with cold ash.

“Could you gather the names of all of the shops and modistes?” I asked, turning away from the lovely assortment before it softened my heart. Curse my unbelievable weakness for beautiful things. “I would like to settle those accounts myself.”

“I . . .” Felicity watched me for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she chose her words. “Of course, Miss Lockwood.”

“Please,” I nearly begged her. “Call me Viola.”

That brought her up short again, but perhaps hearing the embarrassing crack in the words, she nodded. “Certainly. What would you like to wear today . . . Viola?”

I managed a smile. “You choose.”

Felicity all but skipped over to the wardrobe, selecting a few things with obvious delight.

I performed my morning ablutions and dressed in a clean chemise. Felicity helped me into another new, wonderfully comfortable short corset and slipped the petticoat over my head to drape around my waist. After fastening the tapes and helping me tie the garters on my stockings—silk stockings that were like a sweet prayer on the skin—Felicity placed a thin chemisette around my neck, fluffing its ruffle with delight.

Finally, she held up the dress she’d chosen for my inspection. I gave the gorgeous butter-yellow walking dress a morose look, inwardly cursing the earl for his good taste. The delicate fabric had been woven with a floral pattern that gleamed as the light struck it. Expensive cording, dyed to match, lined the high bust and tufted sleeves.

My mood only worsened when I gazed upon my reflection in the bedroom’s tall mirror. The shade was perfect, bringing a natural warmth to the otherwise sickly pallor of my skin. Though my cheeks had thinned, and my eyes were underscored by dark circles, I looked more alive, if not every bit a lady.

“I . . . think the pelisse may be in order for the day,” Felicity said carefully. “It will give you some warmth if the rain starts up again, but it will also give you some . . . coverage.”

It was only when Felicity helped me into the long overcoat, and I felt the silky fabric brush the bandages covering my back, that I realized some of them must have been visible.

“Perfection,” Felicity declared, fastening the delicate buttons of the long over-jacket. “How pretty you look!”

I returned my attention to the mirror, and a little sigh escaped me.

“Oh, do you not like it?” Felicity asked, deflating. She was discreetly pinning the bodice to better fit the hollows that hunger had left on my body. “We can try another.”

“No,” I said, rubbing at my suddenly aching temples. “That’s not it . . . I just . . .”

How could I possibly explain the rush of emotions pouring through me? The way they’d seized even my confidence. Because despite the bruising and exhaustion, the person staring back at me was a vision of everything that might have been, had fate unspooled differently. She was a vision of what could be, what would need to be, when I took control of the House of Rosebourne.

And still, I couldn’t reconcile the image of that woman with myself.

“You know,” Felicity began, retrieving the last of the pins she’d clenched between her lips as she worked, “I was quite out of my depth when the late Lord Foxcourt—God rest his soul—hired me. I had none of what you’d call ‘town polish’—I hadn’t any notion that’s what such manners were called. And, as it should be quite obvious by now, I have only the barest grasp on what it is to be a lady’s maid.”

I twisted around to look at her in earnest. She answered my question before I could ask it.