“What are suitors?” Nancy piped up.
“A suitor is a sweetheart, my dear,” Letitia explained, smiling fondly at the little girl. “I imagine you will have a suitor one day.”
“Not me,” Marjory spoke up stoutly, her gaze still fixed on the pages of her book. “I intend to be a writer. I shall write for newspapers and magazines of all kinds, and one day I shall write a great novel.”
“I have no doubt about it,” Letitia laughed. “You must tell me if any of your work is going to be published in the papers, so that I can read it.”
Marjory glanced up at that, flushing and smiling happily. “I only write gossip, and it is always anonymous. But they always print what I have written, word for word.”
“Marjory is an exceptional writer,” Amelia admitted, giving her sister a proud smile. “We are proud of her. Mama was proud of her, too, and always wanted to encourage her writing.”
Marjory reddened further, biting her lip modestly. It was clear that she did not want to beam and preen at the praise, but it clearly pleased her. And so it should.
Perhaps I am too stingy with my praise.I have been so concerned with providing for Marjory and Nancy, with being both a father and a mother, that I have forgotten to be a sister.
Before the conversation could continue, a shadow passed by the carriage window. Amelia glanced that way before she could steel herself.
A horse walked beside the carriage, a dappled gray, long-legged beast, entirely unconcerned with its proximity to the carriage. Amelia caught a glimpse of one muscled thigh, encased in good, plum-colored breeches.
Then Stephen leaned into the window frame, resting a large hand on the sill. He had a ring, Amelia noticed, a heavy gold signet ring which he wore on the ring finger of his right hand. His hands were rough and almost calloused in places, a stark contrast to the slim, white hands she’d seen on most gentlemen and dandies that frequented the shop where she worked.
Clearing her throat, she hastily averted her gaze, not entirely sure what to do about the heat in her belly. They were justhands, for heaven’s sake.
“We’re almost there,” Stephen announced bluntly. “When we arrive, I suggest that Marjory and Nancy make themselves at home, and the three of us will go directly to the modiste.”
“Modiste?” Amelia echoed, frowning. “What modiste?”
“Oh, my dear, have you already forgotten? We have fabric and things to buy,” Letitia laughed. “There’s a lovely French modiste who comes highly recommended, but I couldn’t help thinking, Amelia, perhaps we could visityourmodiste.”
She stiffened, sitting up a little straighter. “My modiste?”
“Yes, you work for one, do you not? I imagine you’ll want to speak with them about your absence, and we can buy some of our supplies then. I believe your workplace is situated neatly between the clubhouse and Redcliffe Manor. What do you say? We’ll kill two birds with one stone.”
Amelia cleared her throat, her gaze darting nervously between Letitia and Stephen. She thought of her sewing room, a tiny, overcrowded corner at the back of the building. She thought of the fabrics and sewing supplies stacked up in untidy piles around the hard stool where she sat for hours at a time, squinting by the light from the grimy window.
I don’t want them to see that.
“Of course,” Letitia continued easily and confidently as if the thought had just occurred to her, “if you’d like to go somewhere else, we can just as easily?—”
“No,” Amelia interrupted, closing her eyes.
She conjured up a brief image of her employer, the harried-looking Emmeline Potts, and how angry she would be at her absence.
I shall need to work after this. I must think ahead.
“We can go to Mrs. Potts’,” she declared, offering a wan smile. “I daresay she’ll want to hear an explanation from me.”
“Excellent.” Letitia smiled, settling back in her seat and folding her hands. “What do you say, Stephen?”
“I do not much care which modiste we visit,” he responded with a gruff snort.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Amelia spoke up, before she could stop herself.
Stephen’s gaze settled on her, dark and incisive. His stare made her shiver, and she could not make sense of why. He was onlylookingat her. His fingers flexed around the windowsill.
“You require a chaperone, do you not?” he responded coolly. “Well then, it is decided. I hope the rest of our journey is uneventful.”
Not waiting for a response, he drew back, straightened on his horse, and spurred the creature onward.
