I had been fitted for dresses many times, of course—suddenly that lost life in Devon seemed so very long ago—but never with such thoroughness. Rather than avoiding my flesh politely, her hands touched me whenever they could. I quivered faintly, uncomfortably aware that my modesty was protected by just one thin garment. Beryl measured my neck with care. Nodding, the woman made more notes.
Stooping, Beryl pulled the frayed old measuring tape about my waist…then frowned slightly. She drew the tape about my hips, the backs of her hands brushing the thin cotton against my fluttering belly, yet as she studied the faded numbers she seemed vaguely dissatisfied. Then she stood and made as if to measure my bust…but all too soon she just shook her head sadly. “Captain…?” she queried quietly.
“Yes…?
