“One does what one can,” she demurred. Frances was a delight. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about you. Max has refused my requests for us to meet.”
“He has refused mine as well,” Frances said, casting her brother a chastening glance. She turned back to Bryony. “Not much to say about me, I’m afraid. Humdrum by comparison. I’m a seamstress and haven’t time for anything else.”
“She’s the most brilliant woman I know,” Max contradicted quickly.
His sister widened her eyes in false innocence. “Hm. Cleverer than Bryony?”
His face twisted in consternation when he realized there was no satisfactory reply that could cover both women.
Bryony patted his arm. “It’s not your fault. Sisters always win.”
“That’s what I tell him,” Frances whispered.
“For the record,” Max said at last. “My sister is more than a seamstress. She’s a prodigy.”
“I adore prodigies,” Bryony exclaimed with sincere admiration. “What is your specialty?”
“Reading,” Frances said dryly. “Max should try it sometime.”
“She has near-perfect recall,” he continued as if his sister hadn’t spoken. “Queen of esoteric facts. She has encyclopedic knowledge of the flora and fauna of most European countries. Fran can recite the members of every major world dynasty for as far back as there is written record.”
“I’m primarily the queen of Gothic novels,” Bryony admitted, impressed. “When I’m not playing with numbers. It doesn’t seem nearly as useful. What do you do with all your knowledge?”
“Nothing,” Frances said with a little shrug.
“She gets it from our mother.” Max cast her a fond expression. “Mother not only taught Fran to sew, but also the joy of reading. When one of them would suffer cramps in their fingers too painful to go on, one would read aloud while the other sewed. It became a habit. They took turns with each book to keep it interesting, improving their minds during every break.”
“It doesn’t sound like a break,” Bryony admitted. “It sounds like a lot of hard work, interspersed with moments of slightly more enjoyable work. Do you enjoy sewing?”
“I’m competent at it,” Frances replied noncommittally.
“She’s an artist,” Max corrected. “She crafted the waistcoat I’m wearing right now.”
“I sew all your clothes, if we’re adhering to technicalities,” Frances said with a grin. “Max is my best-paying client.”
“And your most handsome one, I’ve no doubt.” Bryony raked her gaze down Max’s perfectly tailored form in appreciation. “He’s right. You are an artist.”
“I would rather be doing almost anything else,” Frances admitted. “Itiswork. But I’ve sewn twenty of my six-and-twenty years, and if I am fortunate, will do so for forty more.”
Max folded his arms over his chest. “Unnecessary. I’ve told you a hundred times—”
“Go make tea,” Frances ordered. “You’re being a rude host.”
“I didn’t invite you,” he pointed out.
“But I’m here and I’m thirsty.” She waved him out of the room. “Tea. Please. I promise to be nice to Medusa.Someoneought to be. Have you read the tale?”
The glare he sent her was highly skeptical. After a silent standoff, Max sighed and made his way to the kitchen.
Bryony took the armchair opposite Frances. “I am intrigued to discover we share an unusual characteristic. I too have a talent I would rather not use. I thought I was the only one. I feel so... ungrateful.”
“I’m very grateful.” Frances slid down the sofa to arrange herself directly across Bryony. “If it weren’t for my sewing, I would not be able to support myself. That’s why Max is so angry. He wants me to avail myself of his riches and never work a day again.”
“Why don’t you?” Bryony asked.
“Because it’shissavings. He earned it, not me.” Frances’s expression was determined. “I am just as capable. I don’t wish to be kept by any man, not even my brother. I shall earn my own way if it kills me.”
“Are you doing well?” Bryony asked in a softer voice. “Is Max right to worry?”
