* * *
“These? All of these, My Lord?” The modiste practically tripped over the bundle of material which Allan had placed nearby.
“All of them, please.” He reached into the pocket of his tailcoat and pulled out a wallet, handing bank cheques to the modiste. Her eyes widened as she counted out the numbers.
“My Lord… this is extraordinary.”
“You deserve good payment for what I am asking,” Allan assured her. “I’ve been reminded there is a ball in two days that I must attend, so I’m afraid one would have to be made quite quickly. Would that be possible, please? How about this one?”
He picked up a blue silk, unlike any other he had ever seen. It was soft, shimmering from the sunlight gleaming through the windows of the shop in Covent Garden, but it also bore tiny white fleck marks, as if it was dappled with the lightest of snowflakes.
“Of course.” The modiste nodded at once, hurrying to put away the bank cheques. “Who is the lucky lady?”
“Lady…” Allan began then realized what he was doing. “My wife,” he said with a smile, addressing her as such for the first time in public. “I wish her to feel safe in our home. That it is hers as much as mine.” He didn’t add that he had noticed her wardrobe was somewhat limited.
Even at their wedding ceremony, she had picked uncomfortably at the gown. He’d caught sight of Lady Campbell adjusting it on her shoulder, and he had a hunch it was her mother’s choosing rather than her own.
“I’d also like to bring her here sometime, so she can pick out a selection for herself.”
“Of course, My Lord.” The modiste nodded eagerly. “Well, if it is a warm welcome you wish to offer your wife, may I make a recommendation?”
“Please.” He encouraged her then she disappeared out of the back of the shop. It left him to stare down at the pile of material and swatches he had placed together, wondering if this was too much of a gift or not enough.
When the modiste returned, she had something small in her hands. It was a small, embroidered box, bordered in one of the fine materials from the multiple bolts that were placed behind her on shelves. Pearlescent white, it was a very pretty thing.
“I have recently started making these. They’re for letters, a lady’s correspondence.” She handed him the box, beautifully made and petite. He lifted the lid, finding inside multiple compartments, so a lady could separate all her correspondence. “In my experience, a woman’s friends are the most important thing to her.”
Allan smiled when he recalled the way in which Frederica had smiled at the wedding breakfast with Dorothy and Charlotte.
“Thank you. I shall take this too.”
A short while later, Allan left the shop with the promise of the dresses being soon delivered to the house. The correspondence box he took with him right away, tucking it safely under his arm as he pulled himself up onto his horse and rode out of Covent Garden, toward his estate.
When he pulled up on the gravel driveway outside his house, he found it wasn’t empty. A small black carriage stood at the bottom of the stoop leading to the front door. The footman and driver remained with the carriage, standing to attention, as if they might be called at any minute.
“Gentlemen?” Allan called to them as he descended his horse, and the stable boy ran forward to take it from him. “Will you not rest a while if you are visiting?” It was customary in his home for any driver and footman to be welcomed into the kitchen to share a drink with the staff.
The driver and footman both shared alarmed glances at this suggestion.
“No, thank you, My Lord,” the footman said swiftly. “We have been given our orders to remain here in attendance.”
“Very well.” Allan called the stable boy back and whispered in his ear. “Do them a favor, lad. Bring them something to drink from the kitchens.” He gave an extra coin to the lad for his hard work. “Thank you.” The boy ran off with a smile on his face as Allan returned inside the house.
He placed the correspondence box down on the hall table, wondering who his guests were who could be so inconsiderate towards their staff. He didn’t have to wonder for long. When he heard their voices, he thought himself rather a fool for not realizing at once who it would be.
“Lord and Lady Campbell,” he muttered aloud.
CHAPTERTWELVE
Frederica stared numbly between her parents.
Ernest was walking around the parlor, clearly examining every inch of it with great interest. He even picked up some of the ornaments from the mantelpiece, turning them over in his hands, before replacing them again.
Margaret, on the other hand, didn’t examine anything other than Frederica. She sat in the chair closest to her, leaning toward Frederica, her eyes wide like a barn owl’s gaze.
“And you are being a good wife, are you not?” Margaret asked, restlessness in her tone. “You are attending to him in every way?”
“Mama, I am his wife, not his valet.”
