Page 26 of Bride of the Mad Laird
The housekeeper shook her head. “Nonsense, ye’ll need all. And, I daresay ye’ll need a good, warm tunic and petticoats and something of chemises tae wear with yer new gowns.”
Purdie brought out armfuls of rolled fabrics in all colors. There was saffron yellow, red the color of the deepest rose, pansy violet, a blue that could only have come from crushed lapis, pink, as soft and enticing as a baby’s cheeks, and green to match the grass.
“Yer choice me lady?”
This brought a giggle from Lyra. While her years of austerity at the nunnery had her in flux over the indulgence of so many garments, that little part of her already growing used to the outside world was secretly thrilled at Laird Tòrr’s sweeping decision. Left to herself she would have only dared to order two at most, and they would have been in the most inconsequential colors. Brown mayhap, or dark grey.
Claray took the fabrics of softest linen and wool, one-by-one and draped them under Lyra’s chin for the effect.
Purdie looked on and sighed as each fabric was displayed. “Why ‘tis impossible tae say which tae choose. They are all delightful and all of them suit yer yellow hair and yer rosy cheeks.”
“What d’ye choose, Lady Lyra?” Claray put down the last of them.
Lyra shook her head in confusion. “Why each of them is quite lovely. I cannae select me favorites.”
“In that case…” Claray handed the fabrics to Purdie. “She will have one in each of these colors, and one more in the silk.” She gestured to the two rolls of silk on the shelf beside Lyra. “Which of these d’ye like?”
Lyra did not hesitate. She pointed to the roll of lilac-colored silk. “That one is the most beautiful.”
“Now, I’ll take yer measure, and get started on the first of yer new gowns.”
After standing for what seemed forever, Lyra was finally released. Purdie seemed satisfied that she had as much information as she needed. She described the dresses she would make and showed charcoal drawings to emphasize the placement of a pleat or collar, and it was all finally decided.
The afternoon had fled and, as Lyra and Claray took their leave of Purdie, Claray reminded her that it was almost time to meet with Tòrr again in the hall.
They were nearing the door when Lyra gasped. “I’d almost forgotten. This gown I have on is much too low over the… over the chest. Is there a small piece of fabric I could have tae cover meself.”
Purdie pshawed. “Whatever d’ye wish tae cover lass?”
Lyra pointed to the swell of her breasts.
“Why lass, ye’ve such perfect alabaster skin it would be a crime tae cover it.”
It was impossible for Lyra not to giggle at that. “But surely this is most unseemly.”
Now it was Claray’s turn. “Nay, lass. This is more modest than many of the ladies wear. And, Purdie is right, ye look so lovely it would indeed be a mistake tae try and cover yerself further.”
“Are ye sure?” Lyra was dubious. But then, what did she know of fashion?
Both Purdie and Claray nodded without hesitating. “But ye’re quite right in suggesting that it is a garment suitable only for special occasions. While ye look very fine in it, I’ll have the first of yer new garments ready at this time tomorrow.”
Lyra left the seamstress still unsure, but without the modesty kerchief she sought, buoyed by all the flattering remarks showered on her by the two women.
The sun was low in the sky, throwing a pleasant glow over the courtyard. Enjoying the warmth on her face, she decided to walk through the courtyard in the bailey, with the intention of picking some flowers for her room. She retraced her steps past Seamstress Purdie’s room and headed for the kitchen.
Bethia greeted her with a floury curtsey.
“Please, dinnae pause, Mistress Bethia, I am simply here tae ask if I may borrow a knife tae cut some flowers.”
The cook signaled to one of the scullery maids, who handed a small, sharp knife to Lyra.
After a quick “thank ye,” she headed back to the bailey.
She’d cut some briar roses, daisies, lavender and an assortment of poppies, and was wending her way back when a woman’s voice hailed her.
“Good evening,” came the soft voice.
Looking around Lyra found the source of this quiet, cultured voice. Standing in the shadow of the infirmary door was a tall, smiling, woman. She moved with an easy grace into the fading sunlight her hand outstretched in greeting. Although she was clad in a simple green woolen kirtle covered by a fur tunic, she had the elegant bearing of a noblewoman.
