“Cooper. You said yourself that my leg is mending. And if you don’t let me get out of that bed and do something useful, I’m afraid that I can’t be responsible for my actions.”
I slowly let the breath out of my nose, tired of dealing with too many obstinate men in one morning. “Fine. But you are not moving heavy furniture or anything that might impede the healing of your leg.” I headed to the corner of the room, where many of the mansion’s remnants had been piled. “I’ll get an orderly to clear out most of the larger items that I can’t move myself, but first I wanted to go through the trunks and armoires and pull any clothing out. I’m sure it’s all mostly moth-eaten, but I know the ragman will welcome any donations. It’s amazing what they’re collecting these days for the war effort—even gum wrappers and silk stockings. I’m sure if I donated my mother’s old fur, they’d be able to turn it into a parachute or bomb or something useful.” He’d moved to stand near me, making me babble like a young girl on her first date.
“All very much appreciated, I assure you.”
“I really don’t think you should be standing . . .”
“Are you going to let me finish?”
The words were spoken very close to my ear, and when I turned I found those fascinating eyes watching me closely. “Finish what?” I asked, forcing myself to remain upright instead of leaning toward him.
“Your sketch. It’s not quite done. I’ve been working on it from memory, but I really need you to sit for me so I can finish. There’s something about your eyes . . .”
I reached past him and yanked open the door of a towering armoire, its mahogany finish cloudy with dust, glad for the coughs the movement generated. Anything was better than continuing this conversation. He’d already sketched me while I slept. While I slept. The only thing more intimate would be for me to be aware of him as he sketched me, to allow our eyes to meet for long periods.
I coughed again, then jerked open the second door. “I’ve been dying to see what was in here. When I first moved up to the attic, I was going to use it to store my clothes, but it was so jam-packed that I realized it would take too much time.” Blindly, I reached inside, grabbed an armful of material, and lifted the garments from the hanging rack.
“These aren’t heavy,” I said behind a pile of crinolines and lace. “If you could just place them on the floor by the door, I’ll bring them downstairs and have the nurses sort through everything to see if there’s anything salvageable, and the rest goes to the ragman.”
He lifted the load from my arms while I turned back for another handful until the armoire was empty. “Thanks for your help,” I said, swiping my hands together. I closed one door and, while reaching for the other, looked at the floor of the piece of furniture, where a crumpled pile of yellowed satin lay in a heap. “Hang on. We have one more.”
I lifted the errant garment in my hand, the smell of dust and age wafting past me, and heard myself sigh. It was a ball gown of the softest cream-colored satin, with tiny handcrafted rosettes along the neckline, the skirt gathered in waves of satin into a small train at the rear, where tiny buttons lined up the back from the top to the bottom of the bodice. The waist was tiny, possibly made tinier by the strategic use of a corset, with a delicate embroidery of roses in the palest pink, almost too faint to see, splashed all over the gown.
“What have we here?” Cooper asked, taking the gown from me and holding it up so I could get a better look at it.
“I would say a wedding gown, except I don’t think it was ever a true white. Maybe a gown for a very special occasion.” I leaned forward, examining a dark stain of brownish red on the front bodice. It was a garish blemish on the pale satin, like a scar. “Possibly worn only once because of a wine spill. What a shame.”
“Should I put this in a pile for you?”
I actually thought about it for a moment before shaking my head. “No. I have no use for it, and certainly no place to put it. But it is lovely, isn’t it?”
He’d taken two steps toward the pile before he stopped. “There’s an embroidered label inside.” He fumbled for a moment with the collar, bringing it closer to his face. “It says, ‘Made Expressly for Prunella J. Pratt.’”
“Prunella?” I said, the name jarring.