It took a little guidance to find a tailor that would sell breeches to me. Despite my status, many were appalled and refused to fit a woman for stereotypical ‘men’s clothing’. Others absolutely refused to touch a woman in ‘such an intimate manner’ to fit her, or specialized only in feminine wardrobe. Finally, I found a seamstress who was willing to alter the pair I was currently wearing, and add a second altered pair that had belonged to her son before he outgrew them to my charges. I didn’t have time to wait for further alterations, and in the meantime, she loaned me a rather ill-fitting dress of her own that she pinned the skirts up high on and tried her best to pin in at the waist. I still somehow looked like a child playing dress-up, and Arran nearly choked on his sweets when I exited
