Free The True Love Wedding Dress by Catherine Anderson Page B

not the gown. It is Mrs. Peebles, the seamstress. We always knew she tippled. I will make the alterations myself and sew the flowers back on. The mirror is not shattered, which might have meant bad luck. It is only slightly cracked at the corner. As for the unexpected company, I am certain Squire Doddsworth and the Carlsons will help us entertain them. And we do have that leg of mutton, the brace of partridges, and the ham Gerald’s uncle brought us. You will have nothing to be ashamed of in front of Mr. Wellforde’s family.”
    Which was not what Viscount Forde thought.
     
    He’d left before confronting Mrs. Cole last night, needing to ponder his discovery. He also wanted to consult with his valet. Campbell knew everything about fashion—and a great deal about fashionable society, past and present. He had his Debrett’s Peerage memorized, as well as more old gossip than any ten sharp-tongued spinsters.
    He confirmed Forde’s conclusion.
    Mrs. Tarrant let him into Cole Cottage without hesitation, and without waiting for a coin, she was that busy. “Young miss is upstairs crying her eyes out because her beau is late, the mistress is ruining her eyes in the library because Mrs. Peebles is a tosspot, and I am supposed to fix a fancy supper on Saturday, with one day’s notice. I suppose you’ll be coming, too?”
    Not if he had any choice. He’d be long gone by Saturday. Forde said he could show himself into the library, where he stood outside the opened door, wondering what Mrs. Cole was reading by dim light on this overcast day. Instead he saw that she was bent over a pile of sheets, not surprising if company was coming, he supposed. But no, the stuff in her lap was that infernal gown from the clothesline, as pale as a dove now. Mrs. Cole seemed to be trying to affix flowers and ribbons to it, but her thread kept breaking, and she kept pricking her fingers. Instead of cursing, the peculiar woman just smiled, as if she knew a joke no one else heard.
    Her smile should have made the sun shine. She looked like a saint, with a halo of light from the nearby lamp, although Forde knew far differently. Her hair was loose, pulled back with a ribbon—which she accidentally sewed to the gown. She laughed. Perhaps she was a bedlamite, besides a liar and an imposter and a fallen woman.
    “Mrs. Cole? Or should I say Miss Katherine Bainbridge?”
    She dropped her needle, her scissors, and her good humor. Her complexion turned whiter than the gown. She lurched up, the ivory fabric and flowers falling at her feet, like a spring garden in the last snowfall of winter.
    “How . . . ?” She did not try to deny her former identity. Nor did she invite him to be seated.
    Forde stepped toward her desk and lifted the Bible. “I read the inscription, then remembered why you seemed familiar. My cousin attended Miss Meadow’s Academy. I must have met you at one of their functions for senior girls, or perhaps you were at Elaine’s come-out. Elaine Montmorency.”
    “Yes, she was a particular friend of mine, but I did not know you were related. I do not recall meeting you.”
    “How could you, when you had eyes for no one but that scapegrace Nevins, who died on the eve of your wedding? They said Lady Katherine Bainbridge died of a broken heart somewhere in the country, never to be heard from again.”
    “She never was.”
    “Ah, but Katie Cole arrived at the same time in Brookville. I know, because I consulted with the innkeeper. And I know the date of your proposed marriage, because that was the week my father passed away. Nevins’s death was all anyone spoke of at the funeral. I also checked the church registry here. Your daughter was born seven months later.”
    Katie sank back into her seat and picked up the gown, looking for that feeling of well-being it usually lent her. She rubbed the soft fabric, not even marveling that the marks from where she had picked out the hem were already gone and the loose button was firmly attached. The