her dusky coloring, and the sleeves, rather than being heavily puffed to the wrist,

were fitted to her slender arms. Undergarments, nightgowns, and more dresses in

sedate plaid and brown prints lay in a pile, ready for purchase. A glorious white

party dress draped across the arm of an assistant, ready to be fitted to Katerina's

delicate figure.

“She looks good in white,” he commented idly from the doorway of the

room.

“With her lovely coloring, she certainly does,” the modiste replied.

“Well done. I see you haven't let her economize too much.” He waved at the

pile of garments.

The proprietress gave his wife a telling glance before turning to him with a

smirk. “No, I know you are a man of excellent taste and want your wife to look

her best.”

“I do.”

“I think this is excessive,” Katerina said softly from her perch.

I knew she'd think that. “Hardly, love. I would say it's just enough.”

She pondered this in silence for a moment, and then said simply, “Thank

you.” The words were accompanied by an intense look that promised more

tangible thanks later.

“You are very welcome,” he replied, risking the wrath of the modiste to lift

his wife's hand to his lips before stepping back, letting the women finish their

work.

Mme Oliver unlaced the wine-colored dress and pulled it from Katerina's

body, leaving her in a chemise and a set of short, waist-length stays that supported her breasts without constricting her breathing. The assistant slipped the white gown over her head and quickly fitted for alterations. Finally finished,

Katerina wriggled into a ready-made dress in a cream flowered print with a full

skirt and heavy pleats in the bodice. The cut created the illusion of a full bosom

above a tiny waist, done so skillfully that the ruse could not readily be detected.

Christopher paid for the dresses and led his wife out to a waiting hansom, which took them to their new home. As he had hoped, the bed had been placed

in the largest bedroom. The young couple retired for an afternoon nap that involved little sleep but proved wonderfully relaxing, nonetheless.

CHAPTER 11

M onday morning, Christopher headed to the cotton mill to meet

with his father, Colonel Turner and some of the other employees.

As he entered the building, he glanced at the tenements through a mist so heavy

it was nearly rain.

What a shame people have to live like this. Disgusting. He hurried inside.

The heat and humidity inside the mill—necessary to keep the cotton strands

supple—provided a welcome respite from the cold of the morning. Christopher

met his father and the colonel at the door.

None of the men spoke. Over the earsplitting noise of the factory, there was

no point. Colonel Turner extended a handful of masks—one of Christopher’s

many inventions to improve the wellbeing of their workers—and Christopher

fitted his over his face.

From the door, he could see the long row of looms. At each one, a worker sat, also masked, working the shuttles as a rainbow of fabric emerged.

Men ran among the looms, gathering the products and transporting them.

The place bustled with activity, each face set in serious lines as they

communicated with one another using hand gestures.

The owners grabbed handfuls of raw cotton and fashioned them into earplugs

before making their way among the weavers for their daily productivity check.

A new worker Christopher hadn't met before caught his eye. She sat at a weaving loom, a shuttle flying fast under her skilled manipulations. Something