Page 58 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

I was silent all the way home, simmering with anger – and not only over the tragic waste of a good pastry. Sophia, who had been so bright and full of fun when the three of us were alone, was now once more reduced to a pale shadow, nodding vacantly at everything Agatha said. That was when I had the idea.

Once we got back to the house, I caught her arm.

“Lady Sophia, may I speak to you in your room?”

Sophia looked startled, but agreed at once, showing me up the stairs and down the corridor until we reached the suite of rooms that the Bells had been given. We had called it the green suite, for obvious reasons, but I could only assume that Helena had changed the name, as it was now fitted out in a hundred different shades of pink, from blush to tiny splashes of fuchsia. It felt a bit like being inside a flamingo.

We went into the bedroom assigned to Sophia off one side of their small private sitting room. I noticed that her possessions looked rather shabby and threadbare when contrasted with all the opulence around them.

“Is something wrong, Miss Fox?” she asked nervously.

“Not at all, Lady Sophia,” I replied. “I only wondered if I might take a look at your gown for tomorrow evening.”

Sophia instantly blushed up to the roots of her hair. “W-why?”

“Because my maid is a miracle worker with a needle,” I said briskly.

Sophia laughed. “Your maid?” She shook her head. “Miss Fox, to be blunt with you, I’m afraid it wouldn’t matter if your maid was Charles Worth himself, there’s nothing to be done!”

Her tone was slightly hysterical, and I knew that all of Agatha’s carefully planted seeds were blooming now. Even though Sophia and I were the same age, I felt about a hundred years old.

“There is always something to be done. Show me.”

Responding as I had hoped to my nanny-ish tones, Sophia reluctantly made her way to the armoire and removed the gown.

“You see,” she sighed. “It’s hopeless. Everyone will laugh at me.”

“Nonsense,” I said, stepping forward and taking the folds of the dress between my fingers. “The silk is good quality, and the shade suits your colouring.” I held the dress up against her, relieved to see that the yellow silk brocade lent a bit of colour to her cheeks. “The fit, I will admit, borders on criminal, and it’s about eight years out of date.” I pinched the sleeves and sighed. I was extremely glad that the fashion for bigger and bigger puff sleeves had finally died a death – these were so voluminous, they must have drowned Sophia. One of her mother’s old gowns, made over for her, I thought. “But there are certainly things that could be done.”

“Do you really think so?” Sophia asked, a tiny thread of hope in her voice.

“I really do. Now, ring the bell and we’ll get Matilda in here with a tape measure.”

By the time I was done with Sophia, the air had cleared, and the sun seemed, finally, to be rallying.

I found that I wanted to be alone. It was strange, to be here with so many people, when I was used to being left alone with my work at Madame Solange’s. I had colleagues, of course, but we certainly didn’t socialize. I was used to being by myself – it was a choice I had made. I was finding it all a bit claustrophobic in the house, and instead of attending the card games that I knew were taking place in the drawing room, I decided to sneak out for a walk in the gardens.

I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and ventured out in the direction of the rose garden. It had always been a feature of Holland Hall’s gardens, famous for the clever planting that meant that different roses were out all the time, blooming right into the winter. The rose garden was a gorgeous, showy splash of colour, and the heavy, sweet scent it gave off, carried down pathways to meet you. Follow your nose, was often the best instruction for helping people to find it.

It had also been one of my mother’s favourite parts of the grounds. She wasn’t one for hearty walks over parkland, but I remembered her sitting on the bench in the sunshine in the rose garden, as fragile and lovely as any of the flowers.

The gardens were beautiful in summer, but I liked them now too. I liked the quiet sleepiness, the elegant way that the plants folded themselves away for winter. I liked the surprising, defiant pops of colour from flowers that seemed to know just when the spotlight would be available – the hot-pink nerines, the flame of an orange chrysanthemum, the sunny lilac of a cluster of Michaelmas daisies.

I moved down the stone paths, past topiary ruthlessly groomed, like a grand lady, with not a hair out of place. The rose garden was hidden behind a long brick wall with an archway cut into it. Already, that heady perfume was coiling towards me, and I breathed in deeply. For a moment I saw dappled sunlight filtered through green leaves, an arm around my waist, tickling me as I laughed so hard, I could barely breathe, the smell of strawberry cake and the feel of cool pale silk under my sticky fingers.

Since I had returned to Holland Hall, I felt like a mystic receiving unwelcome premonitions at every turn. The memories were like ghosts on the other side of a gossamer-thin divide, reaching out to speak to me, and I had no control over them or when they might appear.

I wandered through the archway and was struck by two things: how beautiful the garden remained; and that Prince Stefan had clearly been looking for escape too.

He sat on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, staring ahead. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up.

“I’m sorry,” I said, already taking a step backwards. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Instantly, he was on his feet, holding out a hand as if to stop me.

“Please don’t go,” he said. “I was only enjoying a moment in this beautiful garden. But now, I think, with the addition of Miss Fox, it is lovelier still.”

“How good you are at these pretty compliments, Your Highness.” I smiled. “Tell me, do they come to you spontaneously, or do you think them up months in advance and keep them ready in a little notebook?”