Stitched in Love: The Nettlefold Chronicles Read online

  Contents

  Also By Isabella Thorne

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  Stitched in Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Sneak Peek of Almost Promised

  Chapter 1

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  Also By Isabella Thorne

  Also By Isabella Thorne

  The Ladies of Bath

  The Duke’s Daughter ~ Lady Amelia Atherton

  The Baron in Bath ~ Miss Julia Bellevue

  The Deceptive Earl ~ Lady Charity Abernathy

  The Hawthorne Sisters

  The Forbidden Valentine ~ Lady Eleanor

  The Baggington Sisters

  The Countess and the Baron ~ Prudence

  Almost Promised ~ Temperance

  The Healing Heart ~ Mercy

  Nettlefold Chronicles

  Not Quite a Lady; Not Quite a Knight

  * * *

  Other Novels by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke ~ Miss Georgette Quinby

  The Duke’s Wicker Wager ~ Lady Evelyn Evering

  Short Stories by Isabella Thorne

  Love Springs Anew

  The Mad Heiress' Cousin and the Hunt

  Mischief, Mayhem and Murder: A Marquess of Evermont

  Mistletoe and Masquerade ~ 2-in-1 Short Story Collection

  Colonial Cressida and the Secret Duke ~ A Short Story

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  Stitched in Love

  The Nettlefold Chronicles

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Stitched in Love Copyright © 2019 by Isabella Thorne

  Cover Art by Mary Lepiane

  2019 Mikita Associates Publishing

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.isabellathorne.com

  1

  The morning dawned bright and beautiful in Upper Nettlefold. Miss Phoebe Merton wished she could simply meander about the town, rather than being cooped up inside the sewing shop with a pile of garments that needed mending. She put aside her stitching for the moment and sat in the sunshine by the front window, watching the world awaken.

  Phoebe could see the coaching inn, The Bell and Whistle, from her perch and further down the way was The Nettlefold Arms, but she had never had occasion to go inside that posh establishment. It looked like a number of coaches had arrived the previous night because several ladies she did not know were walking with their gentlemen in front of The Arms.

  Phoebe frowned, hoping that the newcomers would not need any mending. Her elder sister, Mary was overburdened and had thrust too much of the mending work upon Phoebe herself. It was entirely too much drudgery; especially for a beautiful summer’s day. Phoebe did not want to spend any more time than she must inside of the stifling back room of the little shop.

  The window at which she currently sat, did not afford much air to circulate towards the back, but at the moment, the breeze was heavenly in the front of the shop. Mary said it was more important that the ladies who came into the front of the shop were comfortable, and Phoebe supposed her sister was right.

  The scent of bread baking came on the wind, and Phoebe’s stomach growled. She should get a bite of breakfast before her sister came back from Kilmerstan Castle and put her back to work. Mary would not hold with food and ladies’ garments in the same room.

  Across the way, she could hear the blacksmith, Mister James Brassy, plying his trade with a tap tap of his hammer. Young ladies who visited the shop often commented about his virile beauty much to their mothers’ dismay, but the older women also winked and made comments when they thought no one would overhear. Phoebe was under the impression that once a seamstress knelt at their feet to pin a hem, she became invisible to the gentry and apparently deaf as well.

  However, if the young blacksmith’s physique was any indication, Mister Brassy certainly deserved the attention of the townswomen, not that Phoebe cared about such things. Still, his deep blue eyes filled her mind. They were the kind of endless blue a girl could drown in; bright like the summer sky.

  Yes Mister Brassy was quite handsome, but Phoebe didn’t see what the women in her sister’s shop saw to go on about. Beauty, as they say, is only skin deep, and Mister Brassy was still in possession of all of the attributes which most annoyed Phoebe: primarily the fact that he was male. He no doubt felt that women were meant to be coddled and caged, as did all men.

  Phoebe did not want to be trapped in marriage with a man, even a handsome one. A cage was still a cage no matter how gilded it might be. As far as Phoebe could see, the only thing the gentlemen who accompanied their ladies to the shop had in their favor was a purse. But they also had a hold on the purse strings.

  Too often, she knew, a woman kept a bit of coin without her husband’s or father’s knowledge. Still Phoebe was an honest young woman, and she would not wish to deceive her husband just to buy a bit of ribbon or lace. Best not to have a husband at all. She could see that all a husband would bring was more rules, more strictures, more things she may not do. She had enough of that from Mary.

  Phoebe heard a clatter of hoof beats as some gentleman rode pell mell into town on a big bay horse. He rode past The Arms, past Mister Cutter’s tailor shop, and on toward Mister Brassy’s blacksmith’s shop, the horse slipping on the cobbles of Main Street.

  Oh, to be out in the sunshine, she thought, or better still to be out for a ride. Still it was ladies of the Ton who rode for pleasure or sport. Not common girls like Phoebe trapped here with her mending. Mary had enough sewing set out for Phoebe to complete that she would not be finished until near night fall.

  St. Cuthbert’s on the opposite side of town, and a deuced long walk for church on a Sunday, began to ring out their morning bells.

  Across the street, there were several young girls hanging out of the window of the coaching inn, giggling about something. It was a day for merriment, Phoebe thought as she listened a moment to the sound of bird song and laughter. She sighed, turned back to her dreary job and picked up another garment from the pile.

  It was a young girl’s torn day dress, sent over by Missus Hardcastle to be mended. No doubt it belonged to one of the laughing girls. She sighed. Mending was tedious. Not to mention boring. Mary did not like to let Phoebe work on new dresses for the gentry. Phoebe knew she wasn’t as talented in her needlework as Mary. Still she wished her sister would trust her with something more interesting than mending day dresses.

  A moment later, the bell on the shop door jingled starling Phoebe from her reverie. She stood and laid her
stitching aside as a lady came into the dress shop. The young woman was obviously of quality, but Phoebe did not know her name. Maybe the unknown lady was visiting one of the neighboring estates, Fotherington Park or Westwood Hall.

  She was a buxom miss with blonde hair and a honeyed complexion which said she spent more time in the sun than most ladies. She flashed Phoebe a smile showing large teeth, and Phoebe knew she was not from one of the nearby estates. None of those ladies were quite so friendly toward a mere seamstress.

  Maybe the lady was passing through on her way to Bath. That was not uncommon. Upper Nettlefold lay on the route between London and Bath and many travelers stopped at The Bell and Whistle or The Nettlefold Arms. Although the greater part of the sewing trade received by Phoebe and her elder sister came from the neighboring estates, The Nettlefold Arms was where most of the young ladies, who visited their small shop, lodged on their way from London to Bath for their summer holiday.

  In any case, one look at the expensive dress the blonde lady was wearing as she and her companion strode into the shop, told Phoebe she would be an important customer. She wished Mary were here. Phoebe did not have her sister’s patience and was likely to insult a member of the Ton.

  Mary was always better at observing the pleasantries; but she had been summoned to Kilmerstan Castle to refit Lady Eloise Rutherford, The Dowager Duchess of Kilmerstan’s gown for the third time. Mary called The Dowager exacting. Phoebe thought exasperating would be a more apt term. Mary was at this moment, no doubt, wrestling Her Grace into a dress that was already too small, while the lady complained that it still needed a tuck here or there. It was Phoebe’s opinion that The Dowager Kilmerstan was simply unpleasable. She hoped the lady that stood before her would be an easier customer.

  “May I help you, my lady?” Phoebe asked as politely as she could manage.

  “I do not think this is a wise idea, Charity,” the lady’s companion said glancing around the tiny shop with a look of hesitation.

  “Oh pooh. Just because the shop is small does not mean the seamstresses are inferior.” The buxom lady said to her friend.

  “I cannot see that a shop of this size would be able to modify your dress, Charity. Perhaps we should simply wait until we reach Bath. I know a seamstress there who can help,” the second smaller woman replied.

  “No Lavinia. Once we arrive in Bath, my mother will want me to wear it, as it is,” the first lady protested. “Here I may have it altered as I wish.”

  The buxom blonde lady, Charity as her companion had called her, turned back to Phoebe, her blue eyes hopeful.

  “Oh, I do hope you can assist me,” she said as she pulled a dress from a box she carried and sighed. “My mother had this sent from Paris.”

  “Paris,” Phoebe commented, her own eyes wide. In view of the war with Napoleon, something sent from Paris must be particularly dear.

  “In spite of the war?” Phoebe asked. “Oh!” she exclaimed as pure ivory silk spilled across the counter. The gown was beyond lovely.

  “I know,” Lady Charity said with a most ladylike shrug. “I understand, we are at war with France, but as my mother said, Paris is still Paris. It doesn’t seem right that France should have claim to all of Paris, does it?”

  Phoebe frowned. She was not really conversant in geography, but she was quite sure that Paris was located in France and not another country altogether.

  Phoebe blinked as Lady Charity spread out the fabric with the help of her companion. Phoebe wondered what this was about. They were a modest shop, not the sort to be fixing anything that came from Paris, especially not something so grand. Phoebe was hesitant to touch it. The silk was positively ethereal, the gossamer folds of it delicate and beautiful on the table.

  Lady Charity straightened the bodice of the gown. It sported an empire waist with gold thread was stitched into the border beneath the bust. The fine material was beautiful, ethereal, and barely opaque. Instead of lace and flowers on the bosom, the decoration was primarily on the sleeves of the gown. It was not ornate, but instead, subtly elegant.

  “As you see,” Lady Charity said. “The gown has very little to cover this.” She gestured delicately to her own rather large bosom.

  Phoebe did see. The neckline of the dress was cut quite low.

  “I have tried it on,” Lady Charity continued. “It only just covers….” She took a breath and laid a hand over her own bosom, covering about half of a breast with her hand. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I am afraid a deep breath, would cause things to show that should not.” she said in a barely audible voice.

  “That is how the dresses are worn in Paris now, Charity,” the other woman added. “It is meant to be titillation.”

  “It is just that sort of licentious extravagance that ruined the nobility of France,” Lady Charity said, her face aflame. “And I shall not be wearing it as such.”

  “Your mother probably ordered the dress that way a-purpose,” the smaller woman said, her lovely doll like face creased in a scowl.

  “My mother is not the one who will be wearing it!” Lady Charity exclaimed scandalized.

  Phoebe didn’t know what to say. She dare not venture her opinion. She thought it best to remain silent and let the two higher-born women discuss what they wished of her and her sister’s service.

  “My mother need not know the dress was altered.” Lady Charity continued. “I only must to have it done before we reach Bath, and she will know nothing of the modification.”

  The dress was made to be flat and elegant across the bosom, and Phoebe could not see that they would have any sort of fabric that would be grand enough to extend the bodice. They had no lace that would do a justice to a Parisian dress; save for her own mother’s finest gown.

  “It is a bit long for me,” Lady Charity confided, already answering Phoebe’s unspoken question. “Can the extra fabric from the bottom of the dress possibly be added to the top?”

  Phoebe thought perhaps that would work, but she was not the one to do it. “Forgive me, my lady.” Phoebe said delicately, attempting to affect her most polite tone. “I do believe that would be possible, but my elder sister Mary would be far more skilled than I in handling such a beautiful garment. Only she is away fitting The Dowager Duchess of Kilmerstan’s gown for The Earl’s party later this week.

  “The Dowager Kilmerstan? Well, if your sister can please Old Eloise,” Lady Charity said with a sniff, “I am sure she can help me.”

  Phoebe immediately got the impression that Lady Charity and her companion, Phoebe thought she had been called Lavinia, did not like the Dowager Kilmerstan overly much.

  “But Charity,” Lavinia protested. “We are to depart for Bath on the morrow. We cannot wait for her sister to modify the dress.”

  “I must at least try.” Lady Charity replied, before turning back to Phoebe. “Now Miss…”

  “Merton.” Phoebe supplied. “The younger Miss Merton.”

  “Miss Merton,” Lady Charity continued. “We are staying at The Nettleford Arms tonight. When your sister returns, if she can alter my gown as I desire, send word for Lady Charity Abernathy and I will return to have her fit it to me.”

  “Is it not better for my sister to come to you?” Phoebe suggested.

  After all Charity Abernathy was a lady. Mary might decry Phoebe manners, but even she knew it was proper to deliver an item to a member of the Ton rather than require the lady to retrieve the garment herself; even if it was only a short walk.

  “Oh, no,” Lady Charity said hastily. “I do not want my mother to get wind of the alteration and I am sure that one of the other ladies in our company would tell her if your sister came to the Nettlefold Arms. If you are able to assist me, just send word. That shall be sufficient to keep this all on dit.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Phoebe watched the ladies leave with a rustle of silk, thinking perhaps she had gotten her wish for something more exciting.

  ~.~

  2


  The summer morning found Mister James Brassy in his shirt sleeves, already working before his forge, shaping a decorative heart for use on beloved a horse’s bridle.

  The ladies loved the little metalwork to attach to bridles and saddles. The small bits were actually quite profitable for the blacksmith considering that they were often made from scraps of metal which were left from his iron working. If he used gold or silver, it was supplied by the customer, and it was easier to work with than iron but the gentlemen who bought the trinkets for their ladies did not know that.

  James had no real use for most gentlemen except that they brought their horses to him. In truth, he liked animals quite a bit better than most people, and he certainly liked most people better than the gentleman who presently came to the door of his shop.

  “Ho there, within!” The gentleman called in a loud voice that startled James and most of the horses stabled within. When James did not immediately answer, the man gave a sharp whistle as if he were calling his hounds. That’s when James knew who was at his stable door: Mister Oscar Titherington, one of the Oxford gentlemen who came to town with the Baron Torsford.

  Quickly James threw his jacket over his shirt, which was plastered to his chest with the sweat of honest work at a hot forge. He ran a quick hand through his dark auburn hair and came from the back of the barn to meet the gentleman who stood outside the blacksmith’s shop holding the bridle of his horse. James quickly buttoned the jacket and met the gentleman.