Eyes wide in wonder, Regan looked up from the beauty of the fabrics to Madame Rosa.
“Of course, there are the trims,” the woman said, signaling for those samples to be brought.
Feathers joined the fabrics, then satin and velvet ribbons, topped by hand-drawn laces mixed with strings of tiny seed pearls, silver cord, jet beads, silk flowers, gold net, and intricately knotted frog fastenings.
Bewildered, Regan didn’t move but just looked at the glorious colors.
“Perhaps it is too early for Mademoiselle,” Madame Rosa said gently. “Monsieur Travis said we were to get everything done in one day so the clothes can be cut before you are to sail. He has hired a woman to sail with you to do the sewing so everything will be ready when you reach America.”
As her head began to clear, Regan wondered if Travis knew what he was getting himself into; she doubted if a Colonial had any idea of the cost of women’s clothes. Uncle Jonathan had certainly made Regan aware of the exorbitant fees dressmakers charged. “Did Travis ask after the cost of the clothes?”
“No, miss,” the dressmaker said, surprised. “He came to my house late last night, saying he’d heard I was the best in Liverpool and he wanted a complete wardrobe for a young lady. There was no mention of price, but then I got the impression Monsieur Travis didn’t need to ask.”
Opening her mouth and then closing it, Regan smiled. So! The big, brawling Colonial thought he was still in the forests of America! It might be fun to play with fabrics and trims for the day, to pretend to order an extensive wardrobe, and then watch Travis’s face when he received a bill higher than any sum he’d ever imagined. Of course, she’d have the bill presented before the women began to cut the clothes; she wouldn’t want them to lose out when Travis couldn’t pay.
“Where shall we start?” Regan asked sweetly, her eyes dancing as she thought of defeating the braggart.
“Perhaps with day dresses,” Madame Rosa suggested, lifting the samples of muslin.
Hours later, Regan was quite wistful about the whole plan. Too bad she wasn’t going to get the clothes, because she’d planned a wardrobe a princess would love. T
here were muslin dresses of every color and trim, ballgowns of satin and velvet, walking dresses, a riding habit which made Regan laugh since she had no idea how to ride a horse, capes, cloaks, redingotes, spencers, as well as many nightgowns, camisoles, and lace-edged petticoats. When she finished, there wasn’t a single fabric she hadn’t used and very few colors.
The noon meal was brought to them, and Regan was glad the session was over because she was getting tired.
“But we have only started,” Madame Rosa said. “The furrier is coming this afternoon with the milliner, the cobbler, and the glovemaker. And Mademoiselle must be measured for everything.”
“Of course,” Regan whispered. “How could I have forgotten?”
As the afternoon wore on, she ceased to be astonished at anything. The furrier brought pelts of sable, ermine, chinchilla, beaver, lynx, wolf, and angora goat, and she chose linings, collars, and cuffs for the coats she’d already selected. The cobbler took samples of cloth, planning to dye a pair of soft, heelless slippers to match every outfit, and he described the walking boots he would make. The milliner and Madame Rosa coordinated hats and clothes with the glovemaker.
At dark, everyone’s energy began to fade, especially Regan’s. She felt bad at the thought that the day’s work would come to nothing because no American could possibly pay for all the clothes she’d ordered. She told Madame Rosa she was to submit everyone’s bills to Travis before a pair of scissors was raised, that she should see the money in her hands before she started filling the order. The dressmaker smiled politely and said she’d have it ready first thing in the morning.
When she was finally alone, Regan slumped into a chair, weary from the long day and the constant feeling of guilt. All day she’d known she was playing a game, but the tradespeople were going to be very angry when they learned that their day’s work would go unpaid.
By the time she heard Travis’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, she was feeling quite low—and it was all his fault. The moment he opened the door, she threw her shoe at him, hitting him on the shoulder.
“What’s this?” he grinned. “I thought tonight you’d at least be a little glad to see me. You’re always complaining because you have no clothes.”
“I did not ask you to do anything about my clothes! You have no rights over me whatsoever and especially not to take me to your barbaric country. I will not go, do you hear me? I am English, and I will stay in England.”
“Where all your family and friends are?” he asked sarcastically. “I’ve just spent another day trying to find where you’ve spent your life, and I can find nothing. Damn them!” he said, running his hands through his hair. “What kind of people could discard a child like you?”
Perhaps it was the tiredness from not sleeping well and the exhausting day, but her eyes filled with great, crystal tears. She’d been so angry for the last few days that she’d had no time to think about her feelings at hearing Farrell’s disgust at the idea of marrying her and her uncle’s declaration that he detested her. For days she’d lived in a dreamworld of hoping they would rescue her, but no doubt Travis had gone to their door. Had Farrell and her uncle told him they didn’t know her?
Before she could speak, Travis pulled her into his arms. Pushing him away, she tried to protest. “Leave me alone,” she whispered feebly, but even as she attempted to pull away from him, he held her tightly until she buried her face in his chest, and the sobs began tearing through her body.
Travis wasted no time before he lifted her into his arms and then sat in a chair with her, cradling her like a child. “Go ahead and cry, kitten,” he said softly. “I guess if anyone deserves to, it’s you.”
His holding of her, this stranger who made love to her and saw that she was cared for, when the people who should care for her denied her existence, made her cry harder. Worse than anything was the end of her dreams of being rescued by Farrell, of once again seeing the man she loved. Now she’d never even have a chance to prove to him that she could be a good wife; now she was going to be dragged off to America, and they’d never even know she’d gone.
As her sobs finally began to quiet, Travis stroked her damp hair. “Want to tell me what you’re so unhappy about?”
She couldn’t possibly tell him about Farrell. “Because I’m a prisoner!” she said as firmly as possible, pulling away from his shoulder.
Travis continued stroking her hair, and when he spoke his voice was full of patience and understanding. “I think you were a prisoner before I ever met you. If you hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have been discarded like so much rubbish.”
“Rubbish!” she gasped. “How dare you call me that!”