“I hoped not,” he said. “But I think your brother is waiting for me to reappear, to settle our argument.”
The fork in Angelica’s hand clattered to the oak counter. “My who? Yourwhat?”
Mr. MacLean shrugged into his coat. “I told him not to worry; I’m not trying to steal his sister. Let me see what he wants.”
No way was she leaving the two of them alone.
Angelica hurried to swing open the counter’s hinged access panel, but by the time she was on the other side, Mr. MacLean was already out through the door.
She hesitated with her hand on the cold brass handle.
Luther was there, square jaw tilted stubbornly, the edges of two frayed ropes poking up from his gloved fists.
The ropes led to two wooden sleds, upon which her nieces Florence and Esther were happily consuming an exorbitant quantity of biscuits.
Had she thought to avoid potential trouble by not introducing Mr. MacLean to her relatives? Ha. She’d forgotten just how small this village was. Cressmouth had a single street leading in or out. All of the businesses were on it. And Mr. MacLean introduced himself to everyone.
Angelica had wondered what he and her family would make of each other? Well, she was about to find out.
She pulled on her coat and rushed outside into wisps of snow.
“You allow this…Scotto loiter in your shop?” Luther demanded.
Angelica understood her brother’s suspicion and confusion. She wouldn’t have believed it herself just a couple weeks earlier.
For now, she settled on a simple, “Yes.”
“I’m your brother,” Luther sputtered. “We lived together, learnt the trade together, worked side-by-side our whole lives... until you decided to abandon the family and move to the north of England to please some eccentric rich man rather than your own mama. But I never believed you’d prefer some... aristocraticnobover your own blood.”
“Want a biscuit, Aunt Angelica?” Florence asked.
“Not now, darling,” she murmured.
Angelica had known her relatives did not understand her. They’d come to accept her decision, even to enjoy its peripheral fruits, but there was no hyperbole in her brother’s words when he said the family believed she had abandoned them.
Luther, specifically, felt hurt and slighted. They had not just grown up together. After their father died, Luther became the man of the house. Their aunts were respected elders, but Luther was the one who owned their home, their shop.
He was the important sibling.
Angelica was the little sister. The one her father had taught his craft to, not because he had intended to, but because she never left her elder brother’s shadow.
She’d learned despite them, not because of them.
The first falling-out between her and her brother was the day their father had said, “No, Luther! Look how Angelica’s accomplished it.”
Theworstfalling-out she’d had with her brother was the day their father pronounced Angelica the better jeweler... and said it didn’t matter. She was destined to be a wife, not an artisan. She inherited the talent, but Luther inherited the shop.
None of which was likely to ever be properly resolved. She and Luther had loved each other and been jealous of each other for far too long to change now.
Mr. MacLean’s omnipresent grin was absent from his usually cheerful face. Perhaps his perpetually sunny disposition wasn’t his true self, but rather his shield. Just like refusing to let people in was hers.
“I liked your biscuits,” said Florence.
Esther nodded, her mouth full. “Thank you for sharing them.”
“My pleasure,” Mr. MacLean murmured without meeting Angelica’s eyes.
Of course the biscuits were his. That was exactly how he was. He would have tried to make a good impression on her brother and her nieces without even knowing they were her family.
