you have.”
The dressmaker looked closely at Phoebe. She saw a voluptuous young woman in a shabby, ill-fitting gown and unhappily revised her expectations. Expensive high fashion didn’t seem to be in order here. She disappeared into the sewing room, reappearing in a very few minutes with several pallid gowns, all with delicate lacy shawl collars that covered the bosom almost to the throat. She laid them on a chair.
Phoebe felt a surge of disappointment. Portia said, “No, they won’t do at all. We want a gown that will make the most of her advantages.”
Phoebe was so unaccustomed to thinking of herself as having advantages that she felt embarrassed, imagining that the woman would be wondering what on earth Portia was talking about. Once again this didn’t seem like such a good idea.
But the woman, looking immediately more cheerful, was now nodding as she walked all around Phoebe. “Yes, a lovely little figure, if I may say so, my lady. A touch of Rubens about you. It will be a pleasure to dress you.”
“Oh, I like this one.” Olivia had wandered off with her usual blithe curiosity into the back room and now came out with a gown of orange silk edged in black. “Isn’t this lovely?” She held it up.
“The color would suit you, m’lady, with your black hair,” the dressmaker said, “but it’s too harsh for Lady Granville.”
“Is it?” Phoebe asked with disappointment. “It’s very… very bold. I wish the gown to be bold,” she asserted as her ideas crystallized.
“Bravo.” Portia applauded softly.
The dressmaker stroked her chin where a little cluster of whiskers sprouted, much to Olivia’s fascination. “Blue,” she pronounced. “Dark blue for the eyes. I have just the gown. It was made for a customer’s trousseau, but alas, poor lady, her betrothed was killed at Naseby and she hadn’t the heart to take any of the trousseau.” She turned and dived into the back regions again.
“I wish I c-could buy this.” Olivia held the orange gown against her and examined her reflection in the mirror.
“It certainly suits you, but I don’t think we want to give Cato too many surprises all at once,” Portia said.
“Is that what you’re doing? Trying to surprise my father?” Olivia turned slowly from the mirror. “Is that why Phoebe won’t have a g-gown made up at home?”
“Exactly,” Portia said. “Men need to be surprised now and again. It’s good for ‘em.”
Olivia couldn’t imagine her father surprised. He was always so much in control of things. If any surprises were to be dished out, he’d be doing the dishing. Or so she had always thought.
“Now, try this, Lady Granville.” The dressmaker bustled back. She held a gown of midnight blue velvet. The color was so dark, the material so rich, it shimmered in the light of the oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling.
“Oh!” Phoebe said with a tiny gasp. She touched the gown, brushing the velvet with her fingers. “It’s like a river.”
Portia was already unhooking Phoebe’s dimity print. It fell to her feet and she stepped out of it, kicking it away impatiently.
The dressmaker dropped the velvet over her head and expertly hooked it at the back. She adjusted the skirts that looped over an underdress of figured blue silk.
“Now, that,” Portia declared, “is what I call dramatic.”
“I knew I was right,” said Olivia with satisfaction.
Phoebe stepped to the mirror and gasped. Her bosom rose creamy white from a decolletage so low her nipples were almost visible. A stiff embroidered collar rose at the back of the gown, framing her head and somehow accentuating the plunging decolletage. The gown was bound beneath the bosom with a girdle of braided silk and fell in luxuriant folds to caress the swell of her hips.
“I don’t look like me,” she said. “But it’s shocking. My breasts are going to tumble out.”
“No, they won’t, m’lady,” the dressmaker assured her. “But it does need a few minor adjustments. The sleeves are a little long, and the skirts. If you’ll leave it with me for an hour, I’ll have it ready for you.” She had a pincushion fastened to her wrist and was pinning and tucking as she spoke.
“How much is it?” Phoebe asked. Uncertainty mingled with exhilaration. She looked like a wanton. Cato would be horrified. And yet she was fascinated by this new image of herself. Wanton perhaps, but also undeniably fashionable. And she’d never noticed how white her bosom was, or how truly deep the cleft between her breasts. Her waist was not defined by the gown, and somehow that made it seem smaller than she knew it was. But that was the contrast surely between the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips.
“Ten guineas, m’lady.” The dressmaker was on her knees pinning up the hem of the underskirt.
“That means you can have two,” Portia said practically.
“No!” Phoebe exclaimed, then said almost without volition, “Unless… well, unless the poor lady…”
“I have just the very gown, m’lady.” The dressmaker disappeared into the back room again, reappearing with a dress of dark red silk. “The very thing,” she repeated, holding the garment up for inspection. “And I can let you have it for ten guineas.”
“Oh, yes,” Phoebe murmured. “What a wonderful color.”
“It’ll certainly look well on you,” Portia stated.
Phoebe glanced at Olivia, who was examining her with wide eyes.
“What do you think of this one, Olivia?”
“I think if you mean to surprise my father, you’ll certainly succeed,” Olivia replied. “In b-both gowns.” She hesitated, then asked somewhat tentatively, “But why do you wish to?” She had the feeling there were mysteries here to which she was not party.
Portia and Phoebe exchanged a glance, then Portia said, “Wait until you’re married, duckie. Then you’ll understand.”
“But I’m never getting married,” Olivia pointed out.
“What d’you think are the chances of that, Phoebe?” Portia said with a grin.
“Minimal,” Phoebe replied promptly. “Look what happened to us.”
“It doesn’t have to happen to me,” Olivia declared. “My father won’t compel me, not like yours, Phoebe. And I’m never going to fall in love like Portia, so of course I’m not going to get married.” She gave them a look as if defying them to disagree with her.
Portia chuckled. “No, of course you’re not.”
Phoebe turned back to the looking glass. She surveyed her image in the blue velvet gown with an almost fearful awe. “Do I dare?” she breathed.
“Dare all to win all,” Portia responded. “It really does look lovely… but…” She grinned. “It’s a very different you. Now you have to think of the games to follow.”
“Games… what games?” Olivia asked.
“If you’re never going to get married, you’ll never need to know,” Portia said with another grin.
Phoebe turned so the dressmaker could unhook the gown at the back. “I don’t really know what you mean, either.” Her voice was muffled in velvet as the gown came over her head. She stood still for the red silk and then examined herself in the glass with her head on one side. She gave an involuntary gasp of delight, forgetting all about games for the moment.
“Oh, it
“They’re very fashionable,” Portia said definitely and diplomatically. “Let’s go to the inn and find something to eat; I’m ravenous. We’ll come back for the gowns after.”
Phoebe scrambled into her old gown with something like relief at the return to normality. Portia and Olivia linked arms with Phoebe and bore her out into the street again before she could have second thoughts.
“I have no idea. When did you see her last?” He regarded them with a faint smile, thinking that for all their unruly grubbiness they were a very attractive pair of tykes.
“Oh, ages ago,” Luke informed him. “She went out with Phoebe and Olivia on horses and said she’d be back soon. But she isn’t.”
“Riding? They went riding?” Phoebe voluntarily on horseback? Cato’s eyebrows lifted. “Did they say where they were going?”
Toby shook his head. “An‘ we forgot to ask.”
“Well, they can’t be too long.” Cato glanced out of the window beside the front door. The afternoon was drawing in. “I’ll go to the stables and see if they told anyone where they were going.”
He moved to the door, the two boys trotting at his heels, Juno exuberantly bounding ahead. “We’ll all come too,” Toby informed him unnecessarily.
They reached the stables just as the small cavalcade trotted in. He saw with approval that the three Decatur men accompanying them were well armed, but he wondered why they hadn’t taken an escort of his own men.
“Where have you been? The boys were growing anxious.”
Phoebe was clinging to Portia’s waist, and when Portia dismounted, she gave a little squeal of dismay and grabbed for the pommel. “Don’t leave me up here, Portia! This beast’ll run away with me!”
“Don’t be absurd, Phoebe,” Cato chided, reaching up to loosen her death grip. “Let go now.”
Phoebe did so and instantly tumbled into his arms, so suddenly he staggered back before he regained his balance.
“Oh, thank you for catching me,” she said.
“I didn’t have much choice,” he observed, aware of her rounded arms encircling his neck and her swift breath rustling against his cheek.
He set her on her feet, but kept a hand on her shoulder for a moment. He looked down at her with a quizzical gleam in his eye.
He was close enough for Phoebe to see the little creases around his eyes, white against the weathered tan, and she could smell leather and wood smoke on his skin.
Portia said cheerfully above the excited barks of Juno and the insistent clamor of the boys, “I wanted to see some of the surrounding villages, sir. I don’t know this part of the world and once it stopped raining it seemed a good opportunity.”
The Decatur men were not about to contradict her.
Cato’s hand dropped from Phoebe’s shoulder and he moved away.
“How long will you be staying, my lord?” Phoebe found her voice again.
He paused and glanced back at her. “A while,” he said. “Now that Basing House has yielded, I’ll be working with Cromwell in headquarters for some time. There’ll be no need for me to spend too much time from home in the next weeks.”
Phoebe’s heart leaped. There was nothing stopping her now from implementing Portia’s advice. Her eyes darted to the package still fastened to Portia’s saddle.
Then she caught Portia’s eye. Portia winked as if she could read her thoughts, and Phoebe lifted her chin in answer. Dare all to win all.
“
