The way from tailor to count

The weather is dark,
not yet grim,
I walk along the sides of the gloomy park,
a carriage makes halt.

The driver focused on outside,
not me,
my coat,
thick and clean with it's buttons sewed on by my own rough hands.

He let's me in,
riding through the city,
into the forest,
dropping me off at a welcoming inn,
a place they dared not to treat me worse than kin.

I tried to say the truth,
stray not to far from it,
I am a tailor,
yet it did not seem to sooth.

Pushed in I was,
sat down at a table,
food and more placed in front of my starving self.

Yet my mind tried to ruin it all,
I am a tailor,
not a count.

Yet listen they did not,
so I am sat here,
across from a count,
his daughter a beauty to my sore eyes,
yet once again.

A count I am not,
my hands long worn down,
not as soft or as quaint.