I smiled. “Then this should please you. Catherine Ransom told me there would be an extra guest tonight.” I paused for best effect. “A male guest.”

“So that was the reason for a new gown. And now, I suppose, that you with your spontaneous notions have already begun to contemplate the wedding.”

In truth I had pictured myself standing beside an elegant groom at Christ Church’s chapel, but I feigned shock. “Why, Flora! I only wanted a chance to show off your beautiful handiwork.”

“Pah. It is my French blood. Only the French know how to sew a proper fashion.”

“You are but one-quarter French, I believe.”

She let out a dolorous sigh. “To think what fame could be mine if my ancestors had taken more care with my lineage.”

I smiled and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Were Napoleon himself your father, you could not be a better seamstress.”

“Were Napoleon my father, I would refer to myself as fully British,” she said. “Let us pray then that my work shows off to your advantage tonight. Do you like the new slippers?”

I wiggled my toes happily. I had small, delicate feet, about which I confess to an equally small, delicate vanity. “They are beautiful, Flora, and the fit most comfortable. Not like that last pair that pinched to no end.”

“That is peculiar, for the shoemaker used the very same pattern for this pair.” Flora brightened. “Perhaps it is a difference in the silk. When I inquired after his best fabric, he made sure that no one was watching, then he drew out a small bolt of this pink silk. ‘Newly arrived from the Orient,’ he said. ‘It put me right in mind of your Isabella Goodrich, and no one else should have it,’ he said. Then, when the slippers were finished, I saw that his wife had added the embroidery. I could not bear to refuse to pay, because the poor woman is near blindness. The white stitching does look lovely… though a trifle peculiar.”