A Wallflower Christmas (Wallflowers #5)(22)

To make matters worse, the new fashion in gowns featured a slim-fitting, dropped-shoulder sleeve that prevented a lady from reaching for anything higher than shoulder level. As Lillian emerged from beneath the tree, they all heard the sound of splitting fabric.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Lillian exclaimed, twisting to view the gaping hole beneath her right sleeve. “That’s the third dress I’ve torn this week.”

“I don’t like this new style of sleeve,” Annabelle commented ruefully, flexing her own graceful arms in their limited range of motion. “It’s quite vexing not to be able to reach upward. And it’s uncomfortable to hold Isabella when the cloth pulls over my shoulder so.”

“I’ll find a n-needle and thread,” Evie said, going to hunt in a box of supplies on the floor.

“No, bring the scissors,” Lillian said decisively.

Smiling quizzically, Evie complied. “What shall I do with them?”

Lillian raised her arm as much as she was able. “Cut this side to match the other.”

Without batting an eye, Evie carefully snipped a gap beneath the sleeve and a few inches along the seam, exposing a white flash of skin.

“Freedom at last!” Lillian raised both arms to the ceiling like some primitive sun worshipper, the fabric gaping at her armpits.

“I wonder if I could start a new fashion?”

“Dresses with holes in them?” Annabelle asked. “I doubt it, dear.”

“It’s so lovely to be able to reach for things.” Lillian took the scissors. “Do you want me to fix your dress too, Annabelle?”

“Don’t come near me with those,” Annabelle said firmly. She shook her head with a grin, watching as Evie solemnly held up her own arms for Lillian to cut holes beneath her sleeves. This was one of the things she most adored about Evie, who was shy and proper, but often willing to join in some wildly impractical plan or adventure. “Have you both lost your minds?” Annabelle asked, laughing. “Oh, what a bad influence she is on you, Evie.”

“She’s married to St. Vincent, who is the worst possible influence,” Lillian protested. “How much damage could I do after that?” After flexing and swinging her arms, she rubbed her hands together. “Now, back to work. Where’s the box of candles?…I’ll wire more of them on this side.”

“Shall we sing to pass the time?” Annabelle suggested, tying a little angel made of cotton batting and a lace handkerchief onto the tip of a branch.

The three of them moved around the tree like industrious bees, singing the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” The song and the work progressed quite well until they came to the ninth day.

“I’m sure it’s ladies dancing,” Annabelle said.

“No, no, it’s lords a-leaping,” Lillian assured her.

“It’s ladies, dear. Evie, don’t you agree?”

Ever the peacemaker, Evie murmured, “It doesn’t m-matter, surely. Let’s just choose one and”

“The lords are supposed to go between the ladies and the maids,” Lillian insisted.

They began to argue, while Evie tried to suggest, in vain, that they should abandon that particular song and start on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” or “The First Noel.”

They were so intent on the debate, in fact, that none of them were aware of anyone entering the room until they heard a laughing female voice.

“Lillian, you dunderhead, you always get that wrong. It’s ten leaping lords.”

“Daisy!” Lillian cried, and went in a mad rush to her younger sister. They were uncommonly close, having been constant companions since earliest memory. Whenever anything amusing, frightening, wonderful, or awful happened, Daisy had always been the first one Lillian had wanted to tell.

Daisy loved to read, having fueled her imagination with so many books that, were they laid end to end, would probably extend from one side of England to the other. She was charming, whimsical, fun-loving, butand here was the odd thing about Daisyshe was also a solidly rational person, coming up with insights that were nearly always correct.

Not three months earlier Daisy had married Matthew Swift, who was undoubtedly Thomas Bowman’s favorite person in the world. At first Lillian had been solidly against the match, knowing it had been conceived by their domineering father. She had feared that Daisy would be forced into a loveless marriage with an ambitious young man who would not value her. However, it had eventually become clear that Matthew truly loved Daisy. That had gone a long way toward softening Lillian’s feelings about him. They had come to a truce, she and Matthew, in their shared affection for Daisy.

Throwing her arms around Daisy’s slim, small form, Lillian hugged her tightly and drew back to view her. Daisy had never looked so well, her dark brown hair pinned up in intricate braids, her gingerbread-colored eyes glowing with happiness. “Now the holiday can finally begin,” Lillian said with satisfaction, and looked up at Matthew Swift, who had come to stand beside them after greeting Annabelle and Evie. “Merry Christmas, Matthew.”

“Merry Christmas, my lady,” he replied, bending readily to kiss her proffered cheek. He was a tall, well-formed young man, his Irish heritage apparent in his coloring, fair skinned with black hair and sky-blue eyes. Matthew had the perfect nature for dealing with hot-tempered Bowmans, diplomatic and dependable with a ready sense of humor.