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“Yes, Phillippa.”
She unfastened the row of dainty gold buttons at the back of the gown and lowered it over Cornelia’s head, taking care not to wrinkle the delicate fabric as she helped Cornelia find the sleeves, but instead of falling to the floor in a graceful arc of pink and cream silk the gown bunched at Cornelia waist and hips.
“The bodice is too tight!” Cornelia squirmed, jerking at the fabric with careless hands, then whirled to face Stella, her cheeks flushing an ominous shade of red.
Stella took a hasty step backward. She’d seen that same red flush a dozen times before, and it only ever meant one thing. Cornelia was mere seconds away from a—
“It doesn’t fit!” Cornelia stamped her foot, her hands clenching into fists. “You stupid girl, you made it too small!”
—a screaming tantrum.
“I-I don’t understand.” Stella tried to smooth the folds of the gown over Cornelia’s torso, but it was so tight, the seams at Cornelia’s waist and back were threatening to tear. “How could this be? The gown fit you to perfection just last week!”
If there’d ever been a wrong thing to say, that was it.
Cornelia’s face turned positively purple, and she took a menacing step toward Stella. “You horrible girl! Do you mean to imply—”
“That the snugness of the gown has something to do with the dozens of Cook’s jam tarts you consumed this week?” Beatrice spoke in honeyed tones, but her wicked grin gave her away. “A ravenous sweet tooth is a dreadful thing, is it not, Cornelia?”
Cornelia turned on her sister with an outraged gasp. “Why, how dare you—”
“Quiet, both of you! I can’t hear myself think with you two shrieking. Stand still, Cornelia.” Phillippa circled Cornelia, examining the dress from every angle. “It’s a bit tight, but it will do well enough.”
“Certainly, it will, so long as you don’t attempt to inhale.” Beatrice eyed the waistline of the gown, one eyebrow aloft. “Or exhale, for that matter. You can manage a few hours without breathing, can’t you, Cornelia?”
Cornelia sucked in another furious breath, but Phillippa cut her off before she could deliver what would undoubtedly have been an outburst for the ages. “This is the dress we intended for this occasion, and this is the dress you shall wear.”
“Do you really think it’s all right, Mamma?” Cornelia turned back toward the glass, her bottom lip quivering.
“Yes, dearest. You look a perfect vision.” Phillippa snapped her fingers at Stella, who’d retreated to a corner and was doing her best to avoid notice. “Why are you just standing there, Estella? See to Cornelia’s hair at once.”
But the gown was far from perfect, despite Phillippa’s insistence. The row of gold buttons marching down the back of it were positively bulging, Stella’s tiny, careful stitches threatening to burst. One deep exhale and the whole lot of them would pop off, one after another. “Er, I beg your pardon, Phillippa, but I think perhaps the pale blue gown might be a safer—”
“Not another word.” Phillippa turned on her, her dark eyes ablaze. “Do you imagine anyone here cares what you think, Estella? You’ve done enough damage for one day. Indeed, it amazes me how you always manage to be such a great disappointment.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “I don’t see how it’s Stella’s fault Cornelia gorged herself on jam tarts.”
Stella gave her a grateful smile. Beatrice had always been kinder to her than Cornelia and Phillippa. They weren’t friends, exactly— Phillippa would never allow it—but they shared a silent camaraderie in the way of prisoners suffering under the same cruel jailor.
“Silence, Beatrice!” Phillippa turned on her youngest daughter with such violence that even Beatrice, who was far from a shrinking violet, took a step backward. “As for you, Stella, you will leave us this instant.” Phillippa pointed a shaking finger at the bedchamber door. “Get out of my sight.”
There was no use trying to defend herself. Her protests would only enrage Phillippa further. Yet somehow, her mouth was opening. Words rushed to her lips, but she never got the chance to say them.
“Get out!” Phillippa thundered. “I can’t bear the sight of you.”
Stella turned and fled the room as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.
When she reached the safety of the corridor she paused, her back against the door and her palm pressed to her throat. One breath, then another, slow and calm, and … yes, that was better. Her heart was no longer threatening to beat its way out of her chest.
Why hadn’t she included a bit of extra room in the bodice? This wasn’t the first time Cornelia’s ferocious sweet tooth had come back to haunt her. She might have known this would happen as soon as those tarts made their way to the breakfast table.
But there was nothing to be done about it now but pray her stitches would hold.
She eased away from the door and tiptoed down the corridor to the stairs, as silent as a mouse. When she reached the kitchens she paused in the doorway to take an appreciative sniff. “My, it smells lovely in here.”
“Shortbread biscuits for Lady Featherstone’s company.” Mrs. Neville gave a derisive snort as she set the tray of shortbread down beside a plate loaded with her famous raisin buns. “We must have shortbread and raisin buns. I swear, the whole lot of them are fussier than spoiled children.”
Stella leaned over the buns and inhaled the yeasty steam rising from the pan, her stomach growling at the mouthwatering scent of cinnamon. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Neville.”
