The seamstress led her into a room where several ball gowns hung from the picture rail. One in particular caught her eye-a marvelous creation of shot silk, in shades of maroon and black. Gleaming silver beads traced an intricate pattern down the bodice, and the neckline was trimmed in black lace. It was quite the most spectacular gown Cecily had ever seen.

“That gown is breathtaking,” she said, as Caroline prepared to leave.

The seamstress nodded. “It’s an original from Paris. Unfortunately it had a torn hem and was quite difficult to repair.”

“I imagine it was, though I have no doubt you managed it.” Cecily laid her gown on a chair. “Pauline tells me your needlework is quite extraordinary.”

“Ms. Richards is very kind.” Caroline opened the door. “I’ll leave you to change into your gown,” she said, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Left alone, Cecily took a moment to look around. The small parlor, with its poky little fireplace, tiny windows, and low ceiling, felt oppressive. An unpleasant odor reminded her of something, but she couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the kitchen, late at night, when Mrs. Chubb burned chicken bones in the stove. The ashes did wonders for the rose garden in the spring, but the smell was atrocious. This smell, however, was more likely the dogs’ wet fur, no doubt heated after running around in the snow.

A rather unusual sculpture graced the wall over the fireplace. It looked like a wooden wagon wheel, with brightly colored jewels in the shape of cats studding the rim where the spokes met. Captivated by the whimsical design, Cecily smiled as she moved over to another wall.

Several portraits hung there, and she moved closer to study them. Almost all of them were of cats or dogs, though one of them showed a fine-looking horse standing proudly in a field, head held high. A lover of horses herself, Cecily admired the picture for a moment or two before hurriedly donning the ball gown.