“You have sorted me,” he said. “Letter writing is amongst my favorite of all pastimes.”
Some people, upon learning how often he composed and sent letters, laughed at the idea, or smirked a bit at how superior they considered their own interests. Gillian Phelps did neither. “That must be particularly helpful, living as far from your childhood home as you do now.”
That was one of the decided benefits. And while he’d lived in America, he’d written to people he’d met during visits to England, keeping those connections alive as well. Letters were of tremendous importance to him—they were sustaining in a critical way. For Gillian, who had treated him with such wariness early on, to acknowledge that so easily and without dismissal, meant more than she likely realized. It was a moment of easy acceptance. He needed that.
“Please, return to your writing,” Gillian said, motioning to his desk. “We’ll wander around a bit, and I’ll tell Daria far more about the flora than she cares to know, and she will indulge me because she is a generous friend, and you can ignore it all.”
He bowed once more. “Enjoy your floral lecture.”
They continued onward along the garden path. He resumed his seat.
But instead of returning to the examination of his estate ledger, he pulled out a sheet of parchment and all the writing implements he needed to begin the letter he’d been neglecting in favor of staring at an extremely unhelpful ledger.
Dear Sarah,
I am currently seated in a garden, which I have been told is magical, having just been instructed by a Miss Phelps to ignore her as she waxes long on the subject of plants. In short, this house party is proving heavenly.
He did his best to not eavesdrop on Gillian’s description of various plants and flowers, but her voice was proving melodic and her knowledge of nature quite interesting. He wrote more slowly than he usually did, on account of his distraction, but he wasn’t upset by the pace.
His problems hadn’t disappeared. Disaster still loomed on the horizon. But for a time, he meant to lose himself in a letter to the sister he deeply missed and listen to a lady he found far more intriguing than he would have guessed when he’d first encountered her glare of utter distrust. And he would do so in this garden, the first place he’d truly felt peace in years.
Chapter Eight
There were many benefits ofbeing particularly close friends with two ladies who secretly owned a dressmaking business. Artemis and Rose had created a gown for each of the Huntresses, designed specifically for them in the most personally flattering designs and colors. They had done this before, and Gillian suspected they would continue to do so.
It was Rose’s explanation that had helped Gillian reconcile herself with what had at first seemed like an act of charity. “When you are mingling in Society, wearing the gowns we have created for you, and people comment about how wonderfully beautiful they are or how excellently made they are, you simply tell them you obtained the gown from Miss Martinette’s modiste shop. They will come flocking to our door, and we will be more than repaid for our efforts.”
Though Gillian suspected it was a bit of an exaggeration, she’d appreciated it. When that exact scenario had played out in London only a few months earlier, she had been quite certain to not merely give the name of the dress shop, which Society assumed was owned by someone named Miss Martinette, but had also given very precise directions on how to find it.
The current selections they were all donning in the round sitting room that adjoined Artemis’s personal bedchamber were as stunningly perfect as those previous offerings.
Daria’s gown was a soft shade of yellow—a bright color perfectly suited to both her coloring and her disposition—with ruffles rather than lace, no doubt because Daria’s lady’s maid was, in actuality, a chambermaid given the position by Daria’s skinflint of a father to avoid paying an upper servant, and the woman did not know how to properly care for more delicate clothing.
Lisette’s was a soft rose, a dainty enough color to not overwhelm her, but with opulent silver trimmings, making it lush enough for her painfully grandiloquent parents to approve of upon her return to France.
Artemis was excitedly explaining to Nia and Eve about their gowns. “Both are gem-inspired colors: sapphire”—she indicated Nia—“and emerald”—she motioned to Eve. “Though your coloring is very . . . not pale, but—”
“I believe the word you are searching for isIrish,” Eve said.
Artemis struck a pose of pretended indignation. “I was attempting to be discreet.”
“How very British of you,” Nia answered.
Holding back an outright laugh but not bothering to tuck away her smile, Gillian met Daria’s dancing gaze. How wonderful it was to have nearly all the Huntresses together again.
“While your gowns are not the same color, they are made from fabrics in colors that are complemented by the same things,” Artemis said to Nia and Eve. “And the cuts are a little different but not so different that they cannot be accessorized in the same ways as each other.”
Nia shook her head. “We are attempting to convince Society that we are honestly not twins. Dressing us too similarly seems a step in the wrong direction.”
“Oh, my genius does not allow for such a strategic misstep as that.” Artemis tipped her chin at a proud angle and pursed her lips. “And Rose would never allow me to publicly acknowledge such a mistake if I ever made one.”
“What is your strategy, then?” Eve asked.
“Every bit of trimming and the sash on both dresses, even the ribbons at the sleeves, are removable without harming the gowns. And all of it, along with everything in the bundle”—Artemis motioned to a paper-wrapped parcel nearby—“can beused in any combination on either dress and will suit the color and style perfectly well.”
Understanding dawned on the sisters’ faces in perfect unison.
Eve spoke first. “By changing the trimmings, we could reuse the gowns any number of times with few people being the wiser.”