The compliment cheered her slightly, even if it was all professional politeness. A kind word had rocketed in value to her, in the past few days; any praise was a small speck of something to weather the storm of people supposing she was a shameless flirt. And maybe the prospect of a fine new dress would help soothe the ache in the smallest of ways. She could throw herself into this, if she only tried – she may as well imagine she was marrying Jack in a fortnight, if she liked. It would hurt nobody but her to pretend it.

“Probably nothing too dramatic,” Jemima said, of silhouettes, though she nodded of course to the train; besides that, she did not want to add daring fashion statements to her list of reasons people were talking about her. She would have liked something floaty, she thought, but still demure: pretty, but not provocative. (She hadn’t quite erased the feeling of being half-dressed before him and the Minister’s wife, so – the more restrained, the better.) “I should like lace,” she agreed, eyes a little more alight, “and embroidery. But I suppose it should be something I can wear again.” (She could not imagine her husband-to-be would be delighted to fawn over her or spoil her with a new wardrobe anytime soon, particularly. So she would be sensible, and make this worthwhile.)

“Have you worked here long?” Jemima ventured curiously, watching her sketch, because she was sure she had never met this seamstress before.

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