Chapter 4 - Four
The air in the modiste’s shop was filled with the scent of lace and fine fabric. Delia stood on a small platform, in front of a tall mirror, encased in the heavy, ugly wedding gown. The dress was a monstrous creation of antique lace, puffed sleeves, and yards of rustling silk. It felt like a cage, suffocating her.
"Do you have any idea how to make it plainer?" Lady Pembroke, George’s mother, asked the modiste, her voice tight with concern. "You see, this is our family heirloom. It has been passed down from generations till it got to me. I wore it on my wedding and now it’s going to my daughter in law."
Delia stared at her reflection. She swore she looked like a fattened chicken about to be slaughtered. The thought brought a grim chuckle to her lips. The dress was not only old-fashioned but also incredibly ill-fitting, making her feel shapeless and absurd.
The modiste, a petite woman with kind eyes, wrung her hands. "My Lady, this dress is quite old. Any major alterations could damage it beyond repair."
Delia remembered this exact moment from before. In her past life, desperate to please, she had meekly agreed to wear the dress as it was, hoping to impress Lady Pembroke. But not anymore. That desperate, love-starved girl was gone.
Taking a deep breath, Delia spoke out, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the tense silence. "Why don’t we get a new one, Mother?"
Lady Pembroke’s head snapped towards her. A nervous, strained chuckle escaped her lips, but her eyes, narrowed to slits, shot a glare at Delia that could curdle milk. "George just acquired the title ’Lord’," she said, her tone suddenly clipped. "It wouldn’t be wise to start spending money without thinking of the future."
Delia chuckled inside, a bitter, sarcastic sound in her mind. "What an absurd thing to say. He saves money when he’s with me and lavishes the saved money on a one-sided affection." The memory of George’s frequent gifts to Anne, the money he spent freely on gambling and frivolous pursuits, while always complaining about ’tight finances’ when it came to their wedding preparations, burned in her mind. He was never truly stingy, just stingy with her.
As Lady Pembroke and the modiste continued their hushed, discussion about the impossible task of altering the old gown, Delia carefully slid herself off the dias. The heavy fabric rustled around her, but she moved with a quiet determination. She needed to be eye-level with Lady Pembroke for what she was about to do.
She knew, with absolute clarity now, that Lady Pembroke had never liked her. The disdain in the woman’s eyes, the subtle slights, the constant reminders of Delia’s ’position’ – it all made sense. Lady Pembroke had viewed her as little more than a necessary evil, a means to an end.