In which Gideon and Winnefred discuss fashion at the Modiste’s.

“You were wearing trousers the first time we met,” he reminded her.

“They didn’t render me blind,” she returned. “And I did own a gown, you’ll recall.”

“So you did, and do you know what marked that gown as outdated?”

“The fact that it was a dingy shade of ivory and had several patched holes in the skirt?” She leaned a hip against the table, remembered that a lady did not go about leaning on furniture, and promptly straightened again.

“No, that marked it as old,” Gideon said. “The cut is what marked it as outdated. The waist was too high. The strict adherence to classical style has been tempered in recent years. Waists are lower these days.”

“I see.” He looked inordinately proud of himself for coming up with that bit of information. She suspected it was the only bit he had. “And is that what you looked for in these gowns? A fashionable waist line?”

“Well, that, and. . .” He frowned thoughtfully. “And certain details that were uniquely suited to you. See this one? I bought a gown for you in Scotland this same shade of peach.  I know by way of experience that it brings out the roses in your cheeks without accentuating your freckles.”

She felt a flush of pleasure at the roses comment, and pulled a face to hide it. “I do wish I hadn’t the freckles.”

“There is nothing wrong with freckles.”

“Then why concern ourselves over their accentuation?”

“Because it is a matter of taste, and. . . We just do, that’s all.”

“Mm-hmm.” She reached over and tapped one of the plates with her finger. “You haven’t an inkling as to why you chose those gowns, do you?”

“Certainly, I have. I chose them because they suit you, as I said.” He drew a small stack of plates from the end of the table and showed her a pale blue gown with lace and ribbons and something very large and very odd attached to the back. At best guess, it was a badly tied bow. “This is the ball gown Lady Gwen insisted upon.”

“Oh. How very complicated.”

“Exactly so. You’re not complicated. You’re simple.”

“Simple,” she repeated dryly. “May I presume you will not be instructing me on the art of delivering compliments?”

“I see you’ve still not been instructed on how to receive them. Simple can be a very fine thing.”

“So can manure in a turnip patch.”

“Point taken,” he said with a curve of his lips. “Let me try another avenue of explanation. You, Winnefred Blythe, are genuine. Wholly without guile or artifice. A conversation with you requires no interpretation, no search for hidden meaning. Being friends with you is effortless. That is what I meant by simple. These. . .” He gestured at the plates. “These layers of ruffles and lace and intricate patterns, they belong on a woman who would hide who she is. Not on you.”