his home, miss. The babyâs, too. And you were the missusâs good friend, which makes you more than a nurse. If youâre goinâ to look after that littlesmidgen, then you got to make a place for yourself right here in Seattle.â
Maisie was right; for the time being, at least, she must make every reasonable effort to belong. Meeting Aubrey Fairgrieveâs friends and associates was apparently a part of that process, whether she liked the idea or not. Susannah finished her tea in a reflective silence, then, leaving the baby in Maisieâs charge, went upstairs to assess her wardrobe.
The four worn, unfashionable frocks she and Maisie had hung in the armoire the day before had undergone no magical changes in the interim. They were still drab and unsuitable for any formal occasion, and the sight of them filled Susannah with a kind of grief that bore no relationship at all to the loss of her friend. As a young girl, she had dreamed of dances and fetes and eventually marriage, and if she was no great beauty, she was attractive in her own way. She was intelligent and quite accomplishedâshe had read virtually every book in the library at St. Maryâs, and then in Mrs. Butterfieldâs considerable collection, and she played piano well enough to teachâand yet somehow she had been left standing on the sidelines, on onlooker instead of a participant.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Then, for the child, she sought out Juliaâs sumptuously furnished bedchamber, which adjoined Aubreyâs. Upon entering, Susannah was surprised to find her friendâs things laid out on the vanity and bureaus, as though she had just stepped out and would surely return at any moment. The place was neatly kept, and the faint scent of Juliaâs perfume lingered in the air, like the last shadowy remnants of a vivid dream. An open book rested spine-up on the nightstand, and Susannah traced the title with the tip of one index finger, frowning slightly. She had neverknown Julia to read for pleasure; she had always been too impatient, too restless to concentrate. Yet here was the latest of Sir Walter Scottâs novels, half read.
Along the far wall were two enormous, intricately carved armoires, stuffed with a profusion of gowns. Straightening her backbone, Susannah examined the lovely frocks one by one, finding the rich, colorful fabrics and exquisite designs much more appealing than she cared to admit. These were the garments of a princess in a fairy tale, not a mortal woman.
Holding her breath, she drew a sedate black velvet from its padded hanger, went to the mirror, and held the dress up in front of her. Although simple, the gown was also dramatic, trimmed at the high collar and cuffs with tiny white pearls.
She turned to one side, then the other, imagining herself clad in such a garment. It wouldnât fit, of course, for Julia had been plumper and not so tall, but with a few judicious nips and tucks, it could be made to suit her.
Even as she longed to wear the dress, Susannah found her pride, always her besetting sin, rebelled against the idea. She had loved her friend, her âblood sister,â and she would cherish Juliaâs child as her own, but it galled her to take the other womanâs castoffs, however attractive they might be.
In the end, however, she was left with no choice. She cared nothing for Aubrey Fairgrieve or his friends, but the baby had already claimed her heart. She would do whatever she had to do to protect the little oneâs interests.
After both Jasper and the baby had had their early suppers and been tucked into their beds, Susannah donned the black dress, and Maisie pinned it to fit. The bosom and waist had to be taken in, the hemline lowered, but Susannah had done her share of sewing, both at St. Maryâs and with Mrs. Butterfield, and she madeshort work of the alterations. When, after a leisurely bath, Susannah put on the gown again, it looked as
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