Page 74 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“I don’t know,” Hettie said, then she seemed to remember herself enough to rush to the window. She threw open the curtains. “Lord Easton’s man gave it to me this morning. He said I was to deliver it to you first thing. It must be another gift.”

Was it Rebecca’s imagination, or had Hettie sounded a little wistful when she spoke?

“Oh. There’s a note. It slipped out of the twine.” Hettie reached into her apron pocket and removed a piece of paper. It was still sealed, Rebecca saw, when she accepted it.

Upon opening the note, she immediately recognized the handwriting. It was Christine’s, not Christian’s.

Dearest Little Sister,

Your husband-to-be has graciously offered to smuggle your dresses to you. Yes, dresses. After Mrs. Chandler had your measurements, I commissioned a second gown for you. Please don’t fret. It is an early wedding present, and you will look beautiful in it. I cannot wait to see you at the ball. Lord Easton has promised me he will see to it there are no negative consequences to you having this dress. If he manages that, I may have to like him after all.

Your Affectionate Sister,

Christine

A second dress? Rebecca had ordered a simple morning gown from the seamstress. What else had been commissioned? Knowing Christine, it was likely a riding habit.

Hettie stood by, waiting impatiently to know what was in the package. Aunt Jacqueline had declared that Rebecca could not have any dress created by the village seamstress. There stood her spy, knowing that declaration full well. The moment the packaging fell away to reveal a gown, Hettie would be on her way to inform Aunt Jacqueline.

Unless…

The memory of Christian speaking to Hettie in the gig, visiting Whitewood Estate, came back to Rebecca. Reminding the maid of Rebecca’s future importance had kept her quiet on their less than decorous withdrawal from that estate.

“Hettie,” Rebecca said slowly, refolding the letter. “Before I open this, we ought to have a very serious conversation.”

The fair-haired maid’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Yes, miss?”

“When I am married, and I leave my aunt’s care, what will become of you?”

Hettie’s expression shifted, the confusion falling into something that appeared to be acceptance. “I will be an upstairs maid again, miss.”

“How would you like to be a true lady’s maid instead?” Rebecca asked, folding her arms across her middle and doing her utmost to appear aloof. “You could come with me, to my new household, and immediately have a place of respect and distinction among the servants. You would be a lady’s maid to a viscountess.”

Hettie’s eyes took on a hopeful glow as Rebecca spoke, and her hands came up before her, clasped as though in prayer. “Oh, miss. That would be a dream come true. But—but, begging your pardon, Miss Rebecca. I’m too young and you don’t like me.”

For a brief moment, Rebecca cringed with guilt. She hadn’t ever treated the maid with any sort of partiality. She sighed and allowed her hands to drop to her side. “It isn’t that I don’t like you, Hettie. I don’t like you running to tell tales to my aunt. I know she has told you to do so, but we have come to the point where you must decide within whose service you wish to remain. If it is my aunt’s, as an upstairs maid, so be it. If it is as my lady’s maid—because I do believe you are perfectly suited to that duty—then you need to decide now.”

The girl’s eyes grew larger and the knuckles of her hands went white. “Now, miss?”

“Yes, Hettie. You see, in that package is something that will make my aunt very upset with me. If you see it and run off to her, she will take it away. But if you help me, you will earn your place in my household staff.”

Hettie’s eyes darted from Rebecca to the parcel, then back to Rebecca again. “I’d rather stay with you, miss. And I think we’d get on better, without your aunt.” She smiled, though the expression looked a little trembly, and Rebecca relaxed.

“Good. Bring the parcel to the bed and let’s open it properly.” Rebecca turned to throw the curtains of her bed back, then worked to undo the twine when Hettie put the package on the bed-sheets. “Help me, Hettie.” Between the two of them, the twine quickly came loose and the thick brown paper holding everything together fell away.

On top of the parcel was a beautiful muslin gown, the most angelic shade of pastel blue, with a soft, white fichu to wear during the day. A pair of matching slippers had been tucked next to the gown. There were no wide lace swaths, cascading ruffles, or complicated embroidered flowers anywhere to be seen. It was simple. Clean lines. Perfect.

“Oh, it’s lovely, miss,” Hettie said when Rebecca lifted the gown from its wrappings. “Will you wear it today?”

Rebecca hesitated, wondering. She was so near freedom. Dare she enjoy a small taste of it now?

“What else is in there, miss?”

Looking down, Rebecca saw cream-colored paper wrappings covering another soft, bulky object. She reluctantly put down her new dress to see what else her sister had commissioned for her. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be as wonderful as her dress.

A blaze of red and gold fully arrested her attention when the paper fell away. Hettie gasped, but Rebecca didn’t even blink as she reached her hand out to lay it upon the shining fabric. A red silk gown, elegantly embellished with gold flowers and bead-work. Rebecca carefully lifted the incredible creation, allowing the skirts to fall gently to her toes.

“It’s Russian fire,” she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t remember telling Christine of her great disappointment the first time she wore the fabric bearing that misleading name. But she must’ve written to her, because there at last, in her hands, she held a gown more beautiful than she could imagine. A gown made of fire, meant to be worn by a woman of imagination and passion.