“You are sagging again.”
Meg straightened.
“Keep your elbow inward.”
Fine.
“Chin up.”
“I cannot look down if my chin is up.” Meg blew out air in frustration and applied another cutout with a little too much force.
Lady Walpoole frowned. “Very well, Miss Foxcroft. I see I have quite exhausted your patience.”
Had she been so obvious?
“You may go indoors and spend the next hour reviving your enthusiasm. I shall finish here.”
“Thank you.” Meg gave the woman her first real smile of the day. She started away, remembered to curtsy, and turned back to do so.
Lady Walpoole did not appear impressed. “Do not forget, the dancing master shall arrive in precisely an hour. You shall meet us then in the ballroom, wearing something other than your morning dress. Understood?”
“Yes, my lady.” Before the woman could devise another form of torture, Meg hurried to the cloisters, found the door, and rushed indoors. As much as she enjoyed the fresh air—the rose bushes in bloom, the floral garden scents, the dog at play in the folly—she’d rather lock herself in the dankest room of the abbey than endure any more of her ladyship.
She undid her bib-fronted apron.
Then pulled out her hair needles and shook the locks free as she hurried through a corridor toward the stairs—
Movement.
In the window.
Meg froze and jerked back, a flight instinct urging her to run. Tasseled draperies covered part of the window, but a quaint view of the courtyard boxwoods was still visible through the pristine panes.
Her mind scurried as she took a tentative step closer. She peeled back the brocade fabric, looked everywhere.
Nothing.
No one was here. No one had watched her.
But as she hurried away down the corridor, stuffing the hair needles in her pocket and folding her apron, gooseflesh dotted her skin.
She could have sworn she’d seen a face.
Mrs. Whalley was in the millinery shop when Tom arrived, trying on a tall bonnet with too many flowers and bows. “It does rather improve upon the shape of my face, to be sure. Although I shall have to speak with Charles, as I have not quite enough pin money.” She barked out a laugh, but the sound came to a grating halt when her eyes met Tom’s in the mirror. “Oh. Dear me. I had not at all imagined myself to be observed.”
“Mrs. Whalley.” Tom nodded a stiff greeting.
Hers was equally stiff. “I must say, I am quite surprised to see you here, as I heard it mentioned only last evening that you took residence outside of our little village. I daresay your father’s inheritance must have been ample indeed, have you the funds to purchase a cottage and cease fishing altogether.”
Tom bristled at the infernal woman’s tone. Ignoring her, he moved to the counter, where Mrs. Musgrave was busy thrusting ostrich feathers into the ribbon of a new straw hat. “May I speak with ye a moment?” he asked.
Mrs. Whalley sashayed beside Tom. “Dear Mrs. Musgrave, do not think of bothering over me. Left alone, I shall probably try on every bonnet—and likely buy three of them.” She flicked a hand at Tom. “You havecompany.Good society is just what our own dear Tom needs, I think.”
Mrs. Musgrave scooted over a tiny brass bell. “Do ring if you need something, please. I shall only be a moment.” She motioned to Tom. “Come along, dear.”
In the kitchen, she set a pewter kettle to boil, then pointed to one of her yellow-and-flower-painted chairs. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a wee bit of whatever’s in that jar over there.”
