Page 22 of A Secret Correspondence
Marguerite was stunned, having no ready response.
“Perhaps that was forward of me, but I am not known for my subtleties. I shouldliketo be your friend.” Ruth glanced at the wall of ribbons and silk flowers. “I should also like a new ribbon for my dinner gown this evening, if you would be so kind as to help me select one.”
Itwasforward of her. Marguerite only knew a handful of people in town who called her by her Christian name. She struggled to draw close to people, to let them in. When one held too many secrets, there was only so much room for honesty.
But, in this case, she could see no harm in accepting friendship.
“I can help you with both, Ruth.”
The woman beamed.
“What color is your gown?” Marguerite asked.
“White. I had thought a blue ribbon, perhaps?”
The envelope with the length of damask ribbon came to Marguerite’s mind. She studied Ruth for any sign of an ulterior motive, but found nothing telling. Surely it was coincidence. Many people loved the color blue. The ball gown in her shop window could have been the influence in this decision, for heaven’s sake.
She peered at the woman’s brown eyes. “Blue would be nice. I’ll show you what I have.”
“I should have brought Samuel.” Ruth shook her head in exasperation, then noted Marguerite’s confusion. “Samuel Harding? He is brilliant with color. He told me you have a pink brocade that would make my skin glow. I ought to have forced him to accompany me so he could show me exactly where it is, that I might commission a dress.”
Marguerite laughed. “You do not need him at all, Ruth.”
“Oh?”
“I know the exact fabric he spoke of.” She crossed the floor and pulled the bolt, watching Ruth’s eyes light up. She hadn’t immediately thought of this when Ruth walked through the door, but now that it was mentioned, she could see how it was a perfect balance for Ruth’s skin and hair. The man had a knack for color. “Mr. Harding is rather brilliant.”
Ruth’s gaze took in the brocade, her fingers running over it. “Will you make me a gown, Madame Perreau?”
“Of course.” Marguerite set the bolt down on her long counter and pulled out the books of fashion plates. “If we are to be friends, you ought to call me Marguerite.”
Ruth grinned so brightly, one would think she had offered to create the dress that very day and free of charge.
“Tell me, are you interested at all in the party taking place at the Faversham estate? I’ve been told a portion of the visitors are French.”
Marguerite was glad to have the book to focus on. She kept her gaze on the gowns as she flipped through the pages. “It is not my place.”
“I only wondered if you were interested in speaking with people from your homeland. Or a meal of French cuisine.”
It was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture. Marguerite raised her gaze. “You are kind, Ruth, but I have not given it any thought. The only time I enter the Faversham house is when I am fitting Lady Faversham for a gown. It would not be comfortable otherwise.”
She hoped Ruth understood. Some lines weren’t meant to be crossed. Marguerite didn’t sit in her little parlor and dream of one day dancing with handsome men in large ballrooms. She was content where she was.
Marguerite was not the only woman in Harewood who was left off the invitations for this dinner. Eliza Rose had married the town blacksmith, Jacob Ridley, and fallen in station. As such, she was no longer invited to Faversham events, but sheseemed no less happy for it. In fact, Eliza’s joy had only seemed to grow.
“Shall we decide which style would suit you best?” she asked, hoping to shift the conversation.
They spent the following half-hour planning the gown and taking Ruth’s measurements. When they returned to the shop, Marguerite helped Ruth choose a ribbon for that evening and cut it perfectly.
“Oh, someone left you a note,” Ruth said, picking up a folded white letter on the counter. It had not been there before they had gone to the parlor for measurements.
Unease skittered down Marguerite’s spine. It was probably nothing, but she did not wish to open it in front of Ruth. She picked it up and tucked it in her pocket.
“Strange we did not hear the bell,” Marguerite said. “I must have left it there earlier.”
No sooner had she spoken than the door opened to admit a large party, none of whom looked familiar.
Ruth caught her eye, dark eyebrows lifted. “I shall take my ribbon and leave you, Marguerite. Thank you for the help.”
