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Miss Selfridge’s assertive comment hit its mark, and the confidence Phoebe had seen in Emily only moments before seemed to ebb. Her friend looked at the row of silks on the dressing table, and her shoulders sagged.

Phoebe stepped forward. “Emily had the same thought, Miss Selfridge,” she said. “As a matter of fact, just before you arrived, she was telling me that she would like her second dress to be reworked from the silk used in her mother’s turquoise gown.”

“The turquoise one?” Miss Selfridge moved to stand beside the gown in question and ran her hand beneath the pleats, examining the fabric carefully. “Silk can be difficult to work with a second time around.”

“True. But the fabric still has considerable wear left in it, and the color shows no sign of fading. Miss Norton will not be wearing panniers, so the extra yardage in the skirt would allow for significant alterations.”

Emily gave Phoebe a grateful look and produced a second magazine opened to another fashion plate. “I should like it to look like this.”

Miss Selfridge studied the picture. “To change the shape of the bodice so dramatically would be no easy feat.”

“I have a feeling that after you have applied your expertise with a needle to this gown, the new version will look even better than the original.” Phoebe was not above using praise to help their cause along. “We are extremely fortunate to have you living in the village, Miss Selfridge.”

The mousy woman held her head a little higher. “I daresay it could be done.” She fingered the lace at the sleeve. “The lace has not fared so well in storage as the silk.”

“Agreed,” Phoebe said. “But I would guess that you have a bolt-end of lace that might work perfectly for just such a job. You could not charge so much as you would for a new bolt just arrived from Belgium, of course.” She paused to allow the subtle reminder to sink in. “But how marvelous to have it displayed on a gown such as this. You could make your clever use of the lace remnant be the talk of the village.”

Miss Selfridge unrolled her tape measure thoughtfully. “I do have one bolt-end at the shop,” she said. “It’s as fine a piece of lace as I’ve ever seen, and there may be sufficient to do these sleeves with just enough left over for the neckline.”

Battling to keep a triumphant smile at bay, Phoebe turned to Emily. “What do you think of that idea?”

“I think it sounds marvelous,” Emily said, her eyes shining. “How soon can you start, Miss Selfridge?”

Adam had rarely felt more empathy for Daniel of biblical times. Approaching his mother’s chambers with a mandate to apologize to Miss Hadford should not be equated with entering a lion’s den. But it certainly felt that way. As did the possibility that he was to be eaten alive—even if only metaphorically.

He was close enough now to see that the door was ajar and to hear the murmur of female voices. He paused and ran his hands down his navy jacket. It had seemed wise to change out of his working clothes for his next encounter with Miss Hadford—not because such things mattered to him, of course, but because they mattered to Emily. He straightened his shoulders. That was why he was putting himself through this torture. For Emily.

Up ahead, the door opened wide and Miss Selfridge scurried out carrying a large basket. She was followed by a young maid who was barely visible beneath a billowing mound of turquoise silk.

“This way, Lucy.” The seamstress was already at the top of the stairs. For one panicked moment, Adam wondered if the maid would even see the stairs, but she tilted her head to one side of her voluminous cargo and hurried after Miss Selfridge without missing a step.

As the two women disappeared, Adam moved closer to the open door.

“I am excessively proud of you, Emily.” Miss Hadford’s voice reached him, and his feet slowed once more. “You handled that beautifully.”

“I could not have done it without your help.”

“You most certainly could. I was nothing more than a little moral support.”

“Thank you for speaking up about Mother’s turquoise silk. I had hoped I could use it, but Miss Selfridge seemed so set upon using one of hers . . .” Emily’s voice trailed off.

“I have no doubt Miss Selfridge was offering you her honest opinion,” Miss Hadford said, “but it is well to remember that she is also running a business. Saving you money is not her first priority. Your mother’s silk is in perfect condition, and although it may take Miss Selfridge a little longer to unpick a few seams, it will save you a significant amount of money in the long run. Silk is not cheap.”

Adam’s brow puckered. If he didn’t know better, this conversation would have him believe that Miss Hadford spared a thought for her father’s pocketbook when replenishing her wardrobe.

“Do you think Miss Selfridge is capable of all that I asked?”

“I do.” Adam could hear the smile in Miss Hadford’s voice. “And you will look stunning in both gowns.”

“Even the made-over one?”

“Especially that one. Not only will you have the comfort of wearing something your mother once loved, but you will also have the thrill of knowing that you came about it far less expensively than anyone would ever guess. Believe me, it is a secret that will bring you great pleasure.”

“Have you done it with your own gowns?”

Adam recognized Emily’s skepticism; he felt it too.

Miss Hadford laughed. It was a pleasant, cheerful sound. “All the time. I love the challenge of creating something beautiful for less money than my father thinks possible.”