“Yes, terribly, but we've spent enough.”

He smiled indulgently. “Love, my father owns a cotton mill,” he reminded her. “I'm his second in command. We're hardly lacking in funds. I've been saving

for years.”

“Why?” she asked. "I cannot remember a single time my father has opted to

save money."

“Common trait of the middle class,” he replied. “I don't believe in wasting all

my money on dissipated living. I knew I would want a wife and a family someday, so I set money aside each year in preparation, which means that now I

can afford a few new things for you. Besides, our company supplies this woman

with fabric, and in exchange, she gives us a discount. Good thing, since you need

all new undergarments as well as dresses for various occasions. Do you ride?”

The thought of the large animals made her shudder. “No. I prefer my own two feet."

He seemed not to notice. “All right. You won't need a riding habit then. Ah,

here's the modiste.” He turned towards a dark-haired woman with a sharp nose.

“Madame Olivier, my wife is in need of a complete wardrobe. Please outfit her

with everything. Love, do you mind if I step out? Women's clothing shops suffocate me. I'll be back to collect you soon.”

Katerina swallowed hard, her face growing hot, but she bravely consented.

“Very well, Christopher.”

He turned to leave, but said over his shoulder, “Remember, no corsets. You

don't need them, and I like you to be able to breathe.” He swept out, leaving his

bride blushing in the stuffily close environment of the shop, in the care of a stranger who quickly had her stripped down to her borrowed undergarments,

tutting over her lack of womanly endowments. Katerina kept silent but dared to

admit to herself that her husband had found no cause to complain.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” the woman exclaimed from behind her.

Katerina sighed. “Je sais. Ils sont horribles, n'est-ce pas ? S'il vous plait, madame, aidez-moi avec des vêtements qui peuvent les…cacher.” (*They are

horrible, aren’t they? Please, ma’am, help me with some clothing that can hide

them.)

“Yes, you're right.” Mme Olivier switched to English. “I apologize. I was…

startled. Of course, we can. It's fortunate that… they don't come up any higher,

or it would be hard to find you anything fashionable to wear. Also fortunate that

the style these days is only a little open in the back. But was your husband serious? No corset?”

“Yes,” Katerina replied, shuddering at the memory of painful injuries

compressed by whalebone. “I have no need to be too fashionable. I prefer to look

modest. Clothing I can don and remove myself would be my preference.”

Mme Olivier rolled her eyes at the thought of modesty and simplicity, but made no comment, turning instead to the topic of undergarments. “How will you

support your bosom?” she demanded.

Katerina glanced down at the small swell in the front of her borrowed

chemise. “It needs very little. Perhaps some stays will suffice?”

Mme Olivier circled her and regarded the slender figure. “Yes. That will do

nicely. A few extra pleats in the skirt will create the illusion of a more generous

curve.”

And make me look like a stuffed goose, I wager. “Very well.”

Two hours later, Christopher returned for his wife. He had arranged to have Mackenzie move their meager possessions to their new home and posted an

advertisement for a cook-maid, which was scheduled to run the next day. Soon,

they would need to shop for more furniture, but today he had long since grown

tired, and he was sure Katerina felt worse. By the time he settled the bill at the

shop, their bed should be in their home and ready for a couple of newlyweds to

retire in.

He entered the shop and found his wife standing on a stool while Mme

Olivier adjusted the hem of a dress. The rich burgundy with black piping suited