Chapter Fifteen

August 9, 1812

"A nd no more arguments," said Mrs. Bailey firmly. "I've had enough of these blessed arguments, and I simply won't have any more of them!"

Florence stood silent, red faced, and hating every moment she was forced to be here. Beside her mother. While she berated their housekeeper.

"But Mrs. Bailey," said Mrs. Harris quietly, "it is simply not possible. Without a gardener—"

"I will not have men peering at me through my own windows!" retorted Florence's mother, her voice rising in volume to a fever pitch, so loud it could almost certainly be heard from the street. Even with the front door closed. "The very idea! Why, my mother would have had a fit. No peeping Toms in this household—"

"B-But M-Mama," interjected Florence as calmly as she could. It did not matter. Her mother glared at her fiercely, increasing the discomfort in Florence painfully. "The g-gardener was not p-peeping at you, he was m-merely tying b-back the wisteria ag-gainst the—"

"I could have been..." Mrs. Bailey took a deep breath, then murmured sotto voce , "without certain clothes."

"Th-Then why d-didn't you c-close the curtains?" Florence could not help but ask.

It was a reasonable question. At least, it was a reasonable question when asked to anyone in the world except her mother.

Despite Florence's great desire for the conversation to be closed, the poor unfortunate gardener to have his job back, and the whole matter to be forgotten, it did not seem she was to receive her wish. Not if her mother had anything to do with it.

"Outrageous behavior, behavior I will not permit to continue," Mrs. Bailey was muttering as she pulled on her gloves. "And that's an end to it. Carriage!"

If Florence could have her own way—something she had not yet been permitted within the bounds of her home—she would not have taken her mother with her. She would have gone alone, or perhaps invited Miss Quintrell, if she was feeling very brave.

After all, one did not just take anyone to the modiste with you for... for this sort of appointment.

As it was, her mother had not insisted. She had assumed. And Florence did not have sufficient energy within her to argue.

Which had been her first mistake.

Her second mistake was, when they arrived at Madame Jacques's, to not immediately answer the question that was put to her by the proprietress. "You will wish to view your choices alone, Mademoiselle Bailey?"

But Florence would have had to have been very quick to reply before her mother cut in.

"Of course not," Mrs. Bailey said curtly. "Alone? How on earth will my daughter be able to make any decisions if she is attempting to do so alone? What poppycock! Move aside, good woman."

Barging past Madame Jacques to enter the private fitting rooms of the modiste, Mrs. Bailey's voice could be heard berating the assistant she had discovered there. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Do you know who I am?"

Florence inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment to collect herself before shooting an apologetic look at the modiste.

Thankfully Madame Jacques understood the situation at once. "All mothers are highly excited about their daughter's trousseau," she said softly. "It is important not to be concerned, ma petite. It will all be over soon."

It could not be over soon enough. For a heartbeat, as Florence followed her mother's footsteps into the private area of the modiste, she wondered if it would have been preferable to bring her brother rather than her mother. As though that would have been an option. There would have been a small riot in the modiste's if a man had come in.

Or if she could not have her brother , a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, perhaps John could have—

No. They had already done so many outrageous things, Florence thought with flushed cheeks as she watched her mother argue with Madame Jacques about what true blue thread really was. She and John had pushed the boundaries of Society far more than she had even thought possible. Could she really even consider bringing him to a modiste's final fitting for... for this?

Florence swallowed. Absolutely not.

"Where's this wedding gown?" Mrs. Bailey was saying petulantly, after being thoroughly schooled on the difference between blue and aqua thread. "I don't see it. I was told—"

"Mrs. Bailey," said Madame Jacques smoothly, stepping forward to rescue her poor assistant from the onslaught. "How pleasant to see you again. If you will come this way—"

"I want to see the trousseau," interrupted Mrs. Bailey with seemingly little concern for her daughter. "Where is it? I demand to see—"

"It is over there, look through it at your leisure," Madame Jacques said, in perhaps a slightly sharper tone.

Florence tried to hide a smile. There were few people who could stomach her mother's tone for long when she was being this abrasive.

Mrs. Bailey glanced over at the expanse of clothes elegantly folded on a table, and sniffed. "Excellent. I will ensure they are of the quality we—"

"Miss Bailey," said Madame Jacques. "This way."

It was a small relief to step into a part of the modiste's which her mother could not—or at least, should not—enter. Standing on a small step and allowing Madame Jacques and another assistant to carefully place the wedding gown upon her, Florence attempted not to think about what would be coming in the next few days.

The wedding.

Not that she did not wish to be married. Quite the opposite. It felt as though the day itself was a long time coming. After all, John may love her now...

"I love you."

...but she had been in love with him for over two years. It was about time, Florence thought with flushing cheeks, that he noticed her for what and who she was.

No, being married to John was precisely what she wished for.

But the wedding itself, that was the trouble. Hundreds of people, for a marquess could not get wed without being forced to invite half the ton . All of them staring, watching her as she walked up the aisle.

A lump caught in Florence's throat as her lungs contracted. That was what she dreaded.

At least, she thought as her fingertips smoothed the fine silk of the gown which was having its final buttons done up, she would be wearing a most beautiful gown. Hopefully they could merely look at the gown, and not her.

"Voila," said Madame Jacques. "Here, ma petite, turn. The looking glass."

Taking a deep breath, and telling herself that no matter the reflection, she was not going to endure another fitting, Florence turned around.

And her lips parted.

There in the looking glass was a woman who looked a little like her. She had the same flaming red hair, the same hazel eyes, though they were wider than normal. Her lips and nose were precisely the same as hers, and they were even a similar height, if one took into account the box.

But the gown . . .

It was a masterpiece. Flowing just where it should flow and tucking in at just the right places, the fabric seemed to be more water than silk. The color was a delicate green, pale and shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The delicate embroidery at the cuffs, hem, and bodice in a rich gold seemed to heighten her coloring, not overwhelm it.

And that was it. It was simple, elegant, more refined than Florence had imagined when Madame Jacques had attempted to explain it to her.

Shaking, Florence lifted a hand. The woman in the looking glass did the same thing.

It was her. This was to be her wedding gown.

Tears threatened to tingle at the corners of her eyes. Florence brushed them away.

"A gown deserving of you, I think," said Madame Jacques quietly.

Florence gave a laugh which choked in her throat. "I am not sure—I don't think—"

"What in God's name is this?" screeched a familiar voice.

Florence allowed her hand to fall to her side as she sighed heavily. Naturally she could not have a moment of perfect happiness in public when her mother was accompanying her. That would be too much to hope for.

She swallowed the words, just in case she was tempted to say them. That was always the trouble, wasn't it? That she wished to speak such cruel things. Thankfully she always managed to hold her tongue.

She had to hold her tongue.

"I will deal with this," Madame Jacques said magnificently, casting a look at her assistant before sweeping out.

Florence turned, heart thumping. It was too much to hope, as raised voices became indistinguishable as they mingled over each other, that Madame Jacques could manage her mother alone.

No, she would have to follow. Another moment of her life she would never get back.

Steeling herself for a rather unpleasant conversation, Florence stepped down from the box despite the assistant's murmurs and followed the noise.

"—certainly not what my daughter ordered, and I think it shameful you are trying to pass off your second rates goods on—ah, there you are, Florence," said her mother forcefully, cheeks scarlet. "You will not believe the outrage you have been subjected to!"

Far be it from me to point out that you are always the one subjecting me to outrage , Florence thought darkly.

Aloud, she said, "Wh-What appears t-to b-be the—"

"This, this is the problem," Mrs. Bailey said darkly, pointing at a few garments on the table of the trousseau. "Your Madame Jacques is attempting to palm off goods on you which you most certainly did not order!"

It was unlikely. Florence had never met a more gentle saleswoman. When she had come to choose her trousseau from the elegant patterns, the little booklet, and a few samples which Madame Jacques had offered her, she had not forced Florence to buy anything.

Which was why she stepped over to the offending part of the trousseau in question. If there had been a misunderstanding, all Florence had to do was—

The instant she reached the table and saw what her mother was pointing at, Florence's cheeks burned.

Oh, dear Lord. No.

"—will not have it," her mother was saying in a stream of outrage. "No self-respecting woman would ever dream of ordering such a thing, it is an insult to think—"

Florence attempted to swallow past the knot in her throat as she picked up the more delicate items she had ordered.

Silk, and lace, and clever designs which hid as much as they revealed. Which was a great deal. The undergarments she had, blushingly, asked Madame Jacques to include in her trousseau. For... for sleeping in.

Or not sleeping in, as the case may be.

"—woolen flannel is more than sufficient for one's sleeping attire," her mother was saying loudly for the whole world to hear. "I cannot imagine why any woman would wish—"

"M-Mother," Florence said hastily, turning around and wishing to goodness she could get her mother to stop talking. "Please. I-I ordered these, th-th-there is no m-mistake, and M-Madame Jacques—"

"She is attempting to take advantage of you, Florence, and you are such an innocent you don't even know it," said her mother dismissively as she waved a hand. "The last thing you need is—"

Oh, hell.

Florence had never thought her mother would ever discover the two or three elegant silk things she had chosen for her nightclothes. She had been shy about them, to be sure, when Madame Jacques had shown her the last few pages of the pamphlet.

"For the new bride," the modiste had said in a low tone without judgment. "Something a little different. All the rage in Paris, I assure you, and very... popular. With the gentlemen."

Florence's eyes had widened when she had seen the designs, but immediately understood what the woman had meant. And she wanted to look nice for John. Wanted to do something different. Show him just how adventurous she could be.

She had not expected her mother to discover that same adventurous spirit.

"—never been so insulted in all my—"

"Mother," Florence said firmly.

Mrs. Bailey blinked. "What?"

"I ordered these," said Florence, attempting to keep her voice as steady as possible. "It... it is n-no mistake. Please, you d-do not have to—"

"But these aren't going to keep you warm, are they?" Mrs. Bailey said with a confused expression. "No self-respecting mother would allow her daughter to do such a thing. Mine certainly would not have, and she'd have been quite right. Honestly, I don't know what you were thinking. You may as well not even be wearing—"

"That is the idea, Mother," Florence said wretchedly. Oh, Lord, it was excruciating to discuss this in public, but apparently she had little choice. "It is not for warmth, but... b-but for... well. You know."

There was silence in the modiste's. The women all stood, like a tableau, as the information the bride was attempting to tell her mother started to sink in.

Mrs. Bailey's nostrils flared. "I certainly do know—the question is, how do you?"

Oh, this was a disaster. How on earth was Florence ever going to look her mother in eye again?

"No, we'll be sending those back," Mrs. Bailey was saying to the modiste. "Burn them, for all I care, they're fit for nothing. We need five woolen flannel, full length, long sleeved—"

"Mother," said Florence, stomach churning as she attempted to find the strength to say what must be said. "Mother, I—"

"Miss Bailey made her order," Madame Jacques was saying calmly to her mother. "And it is Miss Bailey who is my client, Miss Bailey who is getting married—"

"I am her mother!"

"Mother, if you w-will j-just listen—"

"And I will not permit her to offer herself out to anyone, not even her husb—"

"Will you be quiet!" Florence thundered.

The modiste's fell silent. Her mother turned, mouth agape, to stare with abject shock.

Florence was panting so heavily, her shoulders were rising and falling at a great pace. But every other inch of her body seemed to have been turned to stone, muscles grinding against each other as she forced herself to take each breath.

This was it. No going back. The words had spilled from her mouth and now she had to continue.

"I am paying for these clothes with my own money," said Florence levelly, not taking her eyes from her mother. "My pin money, Mama. And that means that I get to make the decisions."

"But—"

"No buts," said Florence, far more confidently than she felt. Was she truly doing this? Finally standing up to her mother, and about frilly undergarments? In public? "It is my decision, I say, and I have made it. I wish to have them. I wish to wear them."

Her mother's eyes widened. "No daughter of mine—"

"Then I am not a daughter of yours!" snapped Florence, unable to help herself.

The words hung about the air like an echo of a minor chord with the notes all wrong, discordant.

Mrs. Bailey closed her mouth, her expression astonished but her demeanor—finally—silent.

Florence tried to force her lungs to calm, but it was impossible. This had been in the making for years, she knew. Building up, layer upon layer. Frustrations, irritations, anger.

And now it was pouring out. All she had to do was stem the tide.

"I... I appreciate your concern, but that sort of matter is no longer a concern of yours," Florence said quietly, her fingers brushing the silk of her wedding gown as though she could draw some sort of power from it. "And I—"

"But it's scandalous," whimpered her mother, seemingly unable to help herself. "Those clothes, they are—"

"What you decide to wear in bed is your own business," interrupted Florence, her cheeks flushing with heat. "As what I wear is mine."

She held her mother's look for what felt like a thousand years. The moment certainly stretched out far longer than she would have thought possible.

And then her mother blinked.

"Fine. Fine!" she said, pulling herself upright and glaring, cheeks pink and eyes inexplicably filled with what looked like pain. "If you wish to be wanton, to disgrace yourself before your husband, so be it! I wash my hands of you!"

Before Florence could even consider a response, Mrs. Bailey sniffed in the general direction of Madame Jacques, then marched out of the place. The door slamming behind her echoed around the modiste's.

Florence stared. She... she'd done it. She had finally spoken up for herself, spoken against her mother.

And the world had not ended. She was not crippled with doubt, with anxiety about what she had said. No regret accosted her.

She was . . . free.

"Well said, mon amie," said Madame Jacques with a smile across her lips. "Now, let's get you out of that gown, shall we? The whole trousseau can be delivered today if—"

"To Aylesbury House," said Florence with a dry smile. "I-I have a f-feeling it may not be safe if delivered to me."

The modiste gave her a gracious look. "As you wish."

Her heart was aflame and her spirits high as she stepped out of Madame Jacques's half an hour later. To think she had come so far, done so much in such a short amount of time. Finally spoken up to her mother! It was surely the most adventurous thing she would do tod—

"Florence!" said a voice she knew well as she walked along the pavement.

Then he was kissing her—John, his lips pressed against hers in a hurried anguish of desire, his hands around her waist.

It was over before Florence could truly appreciate it. John had pulled back, an expression of regret on his face.

What on earth—

Then she registered the gasps of outrage and shock that were surrounding them.

Florence looked about her. There was Mrs. Marnion, looking astonished. Lady Jenkins, a hand over her mouth. There were a gaggle of gentlemen over there, including Viscount Braedon, who were muttering together with wide eyes.

In fact, everyone on the street looked flabbergasted to see two people kissing— kissing! —in public.

"I am sorry," John murmured in an undertone, stepping close enough for her to hear but not so close that they would attract even more attention. "I thought—well, to be honest, I didn't think. I just—"

"Kissed me," said Florence happily, smiling up into the eyes of the man she loved.

John's smile was faint, but nevertheless discernable. "Yes, but that was selfish. I... well, I know how much you hate attention."

He was right. She did hate attention. But this was different—this was proof, public proof, that he adored her. How could she dislike that?

"Any attention b-because of you I will take," said Florence impulsively, slipping her hand into his arm. "But in recomp-pense, you must w-walk me home."

John's eyes glittered. "You drive a hard bargain."

After a few minutes of walking arm in arm, Florence's shoulders melted their tension and they left behind the gawpers who were surely sending gossip around the whole ton as they went.

And a question Florence had never asked crept into her mind. "Are you nervous?"

"Right now?"

She tapped at his arm as her pulse beat faster. "No, I m-mean... about the wedding."

John did not reply immediately, and when he did, his voice was low. "This all started as a marriage of convenience. Something that would take you out of the public eye, give me respectability. That was all we wanted."

Florence's stomach lurched. Not entirely all she wanted, but she would let him believe that. For now.

"And I could never have predicted this—all of this," said John, squeezing her hand. "I'm so happy, Florence—damn, sorry. Miss Bailey. God, I much prefer being in private with you."

She saw the gleam in his eye and knew precisely what he was thinking. "I always h-hoped it would be l-like this. I... well, I rather th-thought you might f-fall in love with me the f-first time round."

They had stepped across a street as she spoke, and so she did not concern herself that John did not reply as they navigated a cart speeding up and a carriage which rumbled past them.

When they reached the other side of the road, however, John was still silent. A pensive look had fallen across his face, and the longer he remained quiet, the greater Florence's nerves grew.

Had she transgressed, somehow? Should she not have mentioned—

"I was an idiot not to fall in love with you all those years ago," said John. "I hate that I needed a second chance with you—and I am going to do my utmost to ensure that I do not need a third."