The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

and took the card from Sophie and replaced it in the box. She closed the lid and set it on a high shelf. “I’m sorry. Those aren’t for sale.” She sent a stern look toward Betsy. “Don’t open things that don’t belong to you, miss.”

Betsy’s eyes grew round, and her bottom lip quivered.

“Never mind, Betsy. It’s my fault. I should have told you to look but don’t touch.” Sophie cupped the child’s head, trying to hold on to her temper. The chiding of Madam Stipple had brought out a fierce protectiveness in Sophie.

Sophie’s memory clicked. At church. That’s where she’d seen that distinctive wide lace pattern. The public house owner’s wife had that same trim on her dress. Mamie had asked her about it. The woman had claimed it had come from an old dress and been sewn onto a new one.

And yet here was the same lace in the dressmaker’s shop. Sophie could see why the dressmaker wouldn’t want anyone poking around in that box. The lace was clearly French contraband. How had she acquired it?

Penny dithered between the pale-blue and the pale-pink muslin until Thea lost her patience. “Close your eyes and poke one with a pin, for pity’s sake. You’d think you were picking out clothes to go to court. It’s just a country dance.”

Betsy had fallen in love with a bundle of rabbit skins used for trimming coats, capes, and muffs, and with Sophie’s permission stroked the soft fur over and over. Sophie tucked this knowledge away for future use. Though it was August now, Christmas was coming. Perhaps a hooded cape for Betsy trimmed in fur would be a nice gift.

Thea slumped into a chair.

“Sit properly, Thea. You’re not a bag of wheat.” The words were out before Sophie knew she’d said them, and she paused. It was a correction her mother had spoken often when Sophie was little.

The child struggled upright and put her feet primly together, folding her hands in her lap, but her jaw jutted at a rebellious angle. Sophie stifled a laugh. She had a feeling that Thea was obeying on the outside but not so much on the inside.

When Penny finally chose the pink, because she liked the pink ribbon the best, Sophie applauded her taste. “You will look like a rose. I’m certain you won’t lack for partners for this dance.”

For herself, Sophie chose a light-green gown with gold trim. She had nothing like it in her wardrobe, and Charles had a forest-green coat that would look well if he wore it alongside her. Once that was settled, she consulted her list for the girls.

Madam Stipple, when she discovered the size of the order, grew more accommodating. Nightgowns, caps, dresses, petticoats, pinafores, stockings—the items added up. Betsy stood sweetly to be measured, but Thea squirmed.

“She’s sticking me,” she complained as Madam Stipple pinned pattern pieces.

“If you’d stand still, she wouldn’t.” Penny had no sympathy. She picked up an ostrich feather, running the barbs through her fingers and then poking the feather into her hair, studying her reflection in the triple mirror. “I can’t wait to be old enough to wear all the colors and all the accessories.”

Don’t rush things, Penny. There’s plenty of time to be an adult. Don’t miss out on the life you have now hoping for something in the future. But Sophie remembered what it was like to want to hasten her growing up, to have some say in what happened to her.

The door opened, and the vicar came in. “Good afternoon, ladies. What a pleasant surprise. I saw your carriage outside. Doing a bit of shopping, are you?” He spoke to Sophie, but he locked eyes with Madam Stipple.

“Yes, and I must say how happy I am to find such a well-stocked dressmaker’s shop here in the village,” Sophie said.

Reverend Dunhill rested his hand on the cutting table. “Harriet, I thought you were going to visit Gateshead with your wares rather than put Lady Rothwell out, forcing her to come here?” He phrased it as a question, but an edge to his voice drew Sophie’s attention.

“That was my plan, Reverend.” The seamstress took a few steps back and put the table between herself and the preacher.

“I’m afraid we stole a march on her,” Sophie said. “Penny and I were in such a hurry to procure dance dresses that we decided to come to town.” What was going on here? Like any village, there were undercurrents in relationships that one couldn’t decode until one had been a resident for some time. That must be why there were so many signals being sent that Sophie couldn’t decipher.

“I see. I hate to interrupt, but are my shirts ready, Harriet?”

“They are. I finished the last buttonhole this morning.” She took a paper-wrapped package from one of the shelves. She held it at arm’s length, eyes wary.

“Thank you, madam. I am much obliged. I do hope you won’t keep the countess and her charges long. I’m certain they have a busy schedule.” He tucked the parcel under his arm, sending a sharp look at the seamstress. “I’ll see you at the assembly, no doubt.” Touching the brim of his hat, he ducked outside.

Glancing through the window, Sophie watched the reverend approach Miles, who leaned against the hitching rail. As the preacher neared, Miles straightened. Dunhill leaned in, his finger in Miles’s face, and whatever he said hit hard enough for Miles to wince and retreat.

Perhaps Dunhill was having a bad day. Sophie supposed preachers were like anyone else, sometimes waking cross-grained and ill-tempered. He’d been so cordial at Gateshead. Was this the real Dunhill, or was it an anomaly?

“He didn’t pay you,” Thea pointed out to Madam Stipple. “Do you want me to run after him and bring him back?”

The shop owner shook her head quickly, picking up her tape measure and setting it down, smoothing the hair at the nape of her neck. “There’s no need. I’ll send him a bill.”

The vicar jabbed the air once more in front