The husband carried the undergarments out to the wagon while the wife continued unwrapping more clothes. They hadn’t even gone through half of it, but the parlor was buried in an avalanche of silk, satin, and lace. A series of wire hoops had Gray completely baffled until Madame Chastain explained it was the cage over which a bustle was to be draped.

“She’s already got one, so that can go back too.”

Madame Chastain was trying to explain how this year’s bustle was a different shape than last season’s when the doorbell rang. The husband must have gotten locked out, and Gray strode to the door with the wire bustle, prepared to order him to take this contraption back as well.

His scowl vanished as he recognized Annabelle. She glanced at the bustle, apparently as confused as he was.

“It’s not mine,” he said.

Her smile was blinding. “Good to know.”

He smiled back. What was it about this woman that she could banish his black mood with only her smile? “Come in,” he said. “Please overlook the infestation of clothing that has assaulted my house. My sister has expensive taste.”

Annabelle stepped inside and looked at the clothes in astonishment. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she said breathlessly. “I never even knew such beautiful clothes existed. What kind of fabric is this?” she asked, running a finger along a mauve gown.

“Silk charmeuse,” Madame Chastain said with pride. “It has fluid sophistication and a buttery texture that makes it drape beautifully.”

“It does feel buttery!” Annabelle laughed. “Gray, come feel this.”

“I’m not touching buttery fabric.”

The wife gathered up a handful of the mauve fabric. “Here,” she said, gently stroking Annabelle’s cheek with it. “This is the only way to truly appreciate silk charmeuse. We can make such a gown for you. It will look so much nicer than this terrible—”

The Frenchwoman stumbled into mortified silence at the blunder. Annabelle’s beige twill gown looked like a potato sack next to the spectacular array of gowns. A part of Gray wanted to leap to her defense, but it didn’t look like Annabelle was offended. If anything, she seemed amused by the Frenchwoman’s slip.

“Here comes the true test of your diplomacy,” Annabelle joked, her dark eyes sparkling with humor.

Madam Chastain looked mortified. “I did not mean to imply . . .” she stammered. “Your dress is fine. It is quite well made.”

“It’s plain,” Annabelle said, then gave Madame Chastain a friendly hug. “Please don’t feel bad. Not everyone should wear silk charmeuse. I choose dresses that are good for walking across town or a tromp through the woods. But you should be very proud of these beautiful gowns. What an artist you are!”