The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(8)
With a mouthful of pins, the seamstress grunted a greeting. “You’re next.” The woman pricked March with a pin when she took the final waist adjustment, payment for March’s inability to stand still. “I believe I’m finished.”
The woman had a flair for communicating her ideas while balancing at least twenty straight pins between her lips. Indeed, if her talent for sewing was as accomplished, maybe March would look like something other than a sack of feed.
“Mrs. Burton, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, perhaps I can come to the village later?” Faith asked softly. “I’m not certain I can stand long enough for a proper fitting.”
“Just send a note when you’re feeling better.” The seamstress nodded and gathered her belongings. “Miss March, I’ll see you tomorrow for the bookkeeping?”
March nodded. “Shouldn’t take much more than a half hour.”
Mrs. Burton scowled at the hem of the puce gown. “You add and subtract those numbers in your head. The first time you came to the shop you finished so quickly I didn’t believe you could’ve balanced a single column of figures. When I checked the calculations, there wasn’t a single mistake. You have a quick mind and a remarkable talent for mathematics.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Burton.” If only she was as quick with her sewing. March presented a pleasant smile while taming her errant thoughts. Mrs. Burton had been kind to Faith and Julia, her other sister. That was all that mattered. Her sisters needed the gowns before the Season. If she pressed the seamstress, they might have them before the end of the month. What else could she do? She was trading her bookkeeping skills for dresses. She released a pained breath. Beggars couldn’t complain or be choosers when desperate for morning gowns.
Mrs. Oliver, their housekeeper and only servant, escorted Mrs. Burton to the door all the while chatting about the upcoming foxhunt. Alone with Faith, March changed into her day dress, a sturdy, muslin frock the shade of mud. It matched March’s hair color perfectly.
“Dearest, let me help you pick out the colors for your new dresses,” Faith gently suggested as she gazed at March’s attire. “With your beautiful dark hair and coloring, brighter colors such as jewel tones would favor you more than those muted colors you prefer.”
“Nothing would help me. I’m a simple sheep farmer, but if you want to accept the challenge, then by all means, you have my permission,” March said.
Her sister’s offer to help with the impossible task was a true testament to her patience. Faith was all things lovely with a sweet disposition to match. Her hair glowed with a color best described as warm sunshine, and she possessed velvety-blue eyes. Faith caught the attention of every young man in the area, until she walked. None chose to call upon her in any serious fashion. Faith never said a word, but March knew it hurt deeply.
Faith grimaced as she rested against the bed. Some days her limp was slight, and March could forget that her middle sister had suffered an injury as a young toddler. Today, the cold dampness haunted her sister.
Memories of the accident were permanently seared in March’s mind—all the blood, the shouts, and her father rushing forward to scoop Faith into his arms after she’d been trampled by a horse. Her sister’s recuperation took six months. From that day forward, she was always at the forefront of March’s thoughts and deeds.
Faith’s lack of suitors would soon change. March intended to open the viscount’s London townhouse for the sole purpose of giving Faith and Julia a Season. The city offered the opportunity to seek out the best medical treatment from experts who might relieve Faith’s suffering. As important, Bennett needed a proper education, one that would prepare the young viscount for his entrance to Eton.
The bedroom door burst open with a whoosh, and Julia rushed in waving a note in her hand. “My word, I’ve never seen such a sight! The most handsome liveried footman brought this note to me,” she squealed. “And asked if I would see it delivered to you.”
“And good morning to you, too!” March chided as Julia handed the note to her.
Julia stopped and blinked hard. “Oh my, I didn’t see you, Faith. I apologize for my haste.” Then she gave a quick wink. “Good morning, my dear sisters.” She gave a grin and looked to March for approval. “Better?”
March narrowed her eyes then returned the grin. “Better. Next time, call us ‘my dearest and most superior sisters.’”
Julia raised an eyebrow in protest. Her eighteen-year-old body was burgeoning into full womanhood. Julia favored Faith and was as much a beauty as her sister. Young men waited for March’s littlest sister after Sunday services and the community gatherings always under the pretense to chat. While their efforts were entirely innocent, March kept a watchful eye. One could never be too careful, particularly when their cousin Rupert had started to take an interest in Julia.
“This is no time for games, March. The footman is waiting,” scolded Julia.
“Who’s it from?” Faith asked.
“The wax bares the seal of the Marquess of McCalpin.” Her heartbeat accelerated in a staccato rhythm. “I wonder what he wants with me.” She suspected his summons related to the rash of small withdrawals she’d made within the last several weeks. She swallowed the panic that started to rise. Whatever happened, she’d explain her actions and hope for the best.