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The bell above the shop door chimed softly as another armful of ivory silk was carried past.
Sophie wished it would stop.
She stood on the little raised platform in the center of the fitting room, hands clasped too tightly in front of her, while mirrors surrounded her from every side. The gown she wore now was the third, no, the fourth, she had lost count. It shimmered when she moved. The fabric whispered. The bodice was fitted so precisely she was almost afraid to breathe.
Too fine. Too clean. Too expensive.
Too much.
“Oh, that is lovely,” Violet Bridgerton said warmly from the chaise. “Turn a little, dear.”
Sophie obeyed automatically.
Kate leaned forward, thoughtful, her sharp gaze kind rather than critical. “The line is beautiful, but perhaps something a touch softer at the shoulders?”
“Yes, softer,” Violet agreed. “And perhaps less embellishment. Sophie does not need ornaments to shine.”
“I like the sleeves,” Posy said from near the mirrors, practically bouncing. “They make you look like you stepped out of a painting!”
Hazel, seated beside her, tilted her head, her hand resting lightly on the arm of the chair. “You look like you’re about to apologise to the dress for wearing it.”
Several heads turned.
Sophie flushed.
“I…no, I’m not,” she said quickly.
Hazel raised one brow. She did not look convinced.
The seamstress fluttered closer. “We also have a gown in French lace that just arrived this morning… very fashionable…”
“Yes, bring it!” Posy said eagerly.
Sophie’s stomach tightened.
More dresses.
More silk.
More people watching her.
The seamstress hurried off. Fabric rustled. Voices layered over one another, Violet discussing trains, Kate mentioning practicality, Posy gasping over lace samples. The mirrors caught Sophie again and again from every angle: the gown, the gloves, the careful arrangement of her hair.
She barely recognised herself.
A maid’s daughter. A kitchen girl. The girl who scrubbed floors at dawn and ate whatever was left cold.
She had never owned anything that did not already belong to someone else.
Now they were choosing a gown that cost more than she’d had once lived on for a year after Araminta threw her out.
Her hands began to tremble.
“Sophie?” Kate said gently. “How does it feel?”
How did it feel?
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Like if she touched it too long, someone would come and take it away.
“I think…” Sophie swallowed. “Perhaps the sleeves are a little…”
The seamstress returned carrying another cascade of white.
“Try this one next,” she said brightly.
The room closed in.
“I don’t think I…”
“Just to see,” Posy urged. “Oh, Sophie, this one is beautiful!”
The seamstress was already unfastening the buttons at Sophie’s back.
Hands at her shoulders. Fabric sliding. Cold air touching her skin.
Too many hands.
Too many eyes.
Too much.
“I can’t,” Sophie said.
No one heard her.
The lace dress was lifted toward her.
“I can’t,” she said again, louder.
The room paused.
“I can’t do this.”
Silence fell.
The seamstress froze. Posy blinked. Violet’s expression softened immediately.
Sophie stepped down from the platform, gathering the skirts of the half-fastened gown, her breath coming too quickly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words tumbling over one another. “I know everyone is being so kind and this is wonderful and I should be happy but I…”
Her voice broke.
“It’s too much,” she whispered. “All of it. The dresses and the mirrors and the cost and everyone looking at me as if I belong in things like this.”
No one spoke.
Sophie stared at the floor.
“I’ve never had anything that wasn’t taken away again,” she said. “I keep thinking someone will come in and tell me there’s been a mistake. That I shouldn’t be touching any of it. That I’ve forgotten my place.”
The words hung in the quiet room.
Posy’s eyes filled immediately. “Soph…”
“I know things are different now,” Sophie rushed on, ashamed of the tears burning her eyes. “I know Araminta is gone… that she can’t… that she can’t hurt me…”
Her voice wavered and she swallowed, pressing her hands to her mouth to calm the need to scream and run away, forcing herself to continue.
“But I still feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Hazel stood.
She crossed the room slowly and stepped up onto the platform beside Sophie, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. She took Sophie’s shaking fingers and squeezed.
“Then we stop,” she said simply.
Sophie blinked at her.
“No more dresses today,” Hazel continued. “No more mirrors. No more people deciding what you should look like.”
Violet rose immediately, hating herself a little for not sensing Sophie’s discomfort. “Of course. We needn’t choose anything today, dear.”
Kate nodded. “We have time. The gown should feel like you, not like a performance.”
Posy hurried forward and wrapped her arms around Sophie’s waist, careful of the pins. “I’m sorry. I got carried away. I just want everything to be perfect for you.”
Sophie let out a shaky breath and hugged her back.
Hazel gave her hand another squeeze. “You don’t have to prove you belong here,” she said quietly. “You already survived things none of these silks could endure.”
The words settled somewhere deep in Sophie’s chest.
Violet turned to the seamstress with gentle authority. “We shall take a short break. Perhaps tea.”
“Yes, Mrs Bridgerton,” the woman said, retreating at once.
The room began to soften, chairs pulled closer, chatter lowered, the energy shifting from spectacle to comfort.
Kate draped a shawl around Sophie’s shoulders.
Posy dabbed at her own eyes.
Hazel remained beside her.
After a moment, Sophie looked up at the mirrors again.
This time, she did not see a stranger.
She saw a woman surrounded by people who had chosen her.
Her voice was small, but steadier.
“Maybe,” she said, “next time we try something simple.”
Violet smiled.
“My dear,” she said warmly, “simple elegance has always been the Bridgerton specialty.”