Thinking about him isn’t helping me, it’s pulling me into the past. It’s something I know, even though I don’t like it. I’m here at Whitley to get better, not regress.
But I’ll address that a different day.
There’s no reason to ruin today.
After breakfast, Jones takes me into London.
As we pull through the crowded city streets, I lean forward. “Do you have any suggestions on where to buy formal clothes, Jones?”
I’m thinking of my bank account nervously. The last I checked, it only had $237.26 in it.
Jones meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“I have orders from Mrs. Savage about where to take you, Miss Price. She’s got it all arranged and has an account in the store.”
Well, that’s a relief.
I settle back into the seat.
“I’ve never had a tux before,” Finn muses. Grief slams into me, because I know he hasn’t. And now he’ll never have the chance.
“You’d look amazing,” I assure him. “Everyone looks stunning in a tuxedo.”
The limo glides to a stop on the curb, and Jones is opening the door for me, his hand extended to help me out.
“Here you are,” he says politely, motioning toward the door of a glitzy shop. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
I nod, and I’m greeted at the door by women in black uniform dresses and perfect red lipstick.
“Welcome, Miss Price,” they tell me. “We’ve been expecting you.”
It’s a bit overwhelming as they usher us in and press warm drinks into our hands. One of them pulls me over to a tufted velvet sofa and settles me onto it.
“My name is Ginger,” she tells me. “I’ll bring out the gown Mrs. Savage ordered for you.”
She turns on her high heel and disappears into a room, and I’m astounded. Eleanor ordered me a custom dress? When the heck had she done that? When we arrived?
Ginger returns after a mere moment with a demure pink silk gown draped in her hands.
She holds it up and I eye it.
It’s long, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate hem, the palest of pinks.
I shrug. “Can I try it on?”
I’m not overly impressed and Ginger seems surprised.
“Of course, miss,” she tells me, and leads me into a dressing room. She begins to undress me and I freeze.
“I can do this myself,” I dismiss her.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve been doing it all my life,” I assure her. Do rich people really let people dress and un-dress them? Holy cow. This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for.
I pull the whisper-soft fabric on, and it drapes against me, fitting like only something expensive can. It’s an innocent dress and it’s beautiful, but to me, it washes my coloring out.
“I… um.”