Margaret spun toward the door, thankful her wig stayed in place.
Fiona stood there, hands on her hips, clearly in high dudgeon.
“Mrs. Budgeon sent me to the chandler’s this afternoon. How surprised I was to find Betty’s chatelaine gone.” Fiona advanced into the room, expression menacing. “And who bought it, I ask Mr. Johnston. And what does he tell me? A housemaid with spectacles and a great deal of dark hair.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Ya know how much it means to her. How dare ya buy Betty’s chatelaine for yarself?”
“She didn’t.”
Both women turned. Betty stood in the threshold, cradling the chatelaine in both hands.
“She bought it for me.”
Margaret had slipped into Betty’s room that morning and left it on her bedside table, wrapped in tissue.
Betty’s eyes glistened with tears and fastened on Margaret. “Thank you. I shall pay you back when I can.”
Margaret shook her head. “You needn’t. It was the least I could do. I hope it makes up for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
Betty winked, a tear spilling over her round cheek. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Margaret smiled. The surprise and joy on Betty’s face eased her pain over the loss of her cameo. For the moment, at least.
Several mornings later, Fiona knocked on her door. Actually knocked. When Margaret opened the door to her, the maid stepped inside and thrust something into her hands.
“What’s this?” Margaret asked, unfolding a stiff white garment.
“Short stays what lace up the front. You can get them on and off yarself.”
Margaret pulled her gaze from material to maid. “You made this for me?”
Fiona grimaced. “It isn’t a gift, now is it? Those fancy stays of yars aren’t suitable for a working girl. And it isn’t fair to Betty, always having to be dressing ya morning and night. This—”
“I agree,” Margaret interrupted. “Is this the sort you and Betty wear?”
“It is. And if it’s good enough for the rest of us, it’s good enough for you.”
Margaret smiled. “More than good enough, Fiona. Why, I have rarely seen such fine stitching.”
Fiona winced and fidgeted. “Go on, that’s going it a bit brown. You’d think I’d given ya silk drawers or somethin’.” She gestured with both hands. “Now, let’s see how it fits.”
Over her shift, Margaret slipped her hands through each armhole of the short stays, which were rather like a man’s waistcoat, though not as long. The stays were made of sturdy corded cotton with gussets, four or five pair of holes up the front, and even a few embroidered embellishments. Margaret pulled the two sides together over her bosom, effectively lifting and supporting her breasts.
“Now take that string there,” Fiona said, “and go back and forth between those holes, like ya was sewing.”
Margaret did as instructed, then tied the string.
Fiona surveyed her work. “Fits ya rather well, if I do say so myself.”
“It does indeed. Thank you again.”
“Mind you, I only did it so ya might dress yarself from now on.”
Apparently, the Irishwoman would rather die than to be thought doing Nora a favor. Margaret grinned. “Still, I appreciate it. You might simply have told me to make one myself.”
Fiona tilted her head to one side. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
But Margaret thought she saw the faintest glimmer of humor in Fiona’s green eyes.
