“I agree,” Harriet said. “It’s already gaining momentum. If we proceed with raising funds, the program can make a difference.”
“Why should we allow someone’s terrible act to ruin the good being done?” Eliza asked. “I think it would be a tragedy to cancel the ball.”
The ladies each offered an opinion and questioned themselves and one another until they’d examined every possibility. Frances held back, listening, relieved to learn that while concerned, they felt the same way she did.
“Phoebe, would it be possible to make certain the funds raised by the ball are only spent on the training and not anything else?” Tibby asked. “That would reassure us all, I think.”
“Yes. I’m certain we can do that. We’ll request an accounting of how every pound will be spent in advance.” Phoebe glanced around the table. “Shall we take a vote?”
Frances nodded, relieved when the result was unanimous—the ball would continue.
Despite the good news, Frances felt numb.
“Should we all plan on arriving early tomorrow evening?” Phoebe asked. At Frances’ blank look, she added, “Before the ball.”
“Oh. Yes. That would be helpful.” Tomorrow. The ball was tomorrow. She couldn’t wrap her mind around that fact.
Would Thomas still attend? Did she want him to? She gave herself a mental shake. Of course, she did. Regardless of how he felt about her, her feelings hadn’t changed.
“Frances?” Phoebe drew close after everyone stood, preparing to leave. “What’s happened?”
She glanced about, realizing the ladies were saying their goodbyes, although Rebecca and Tibby still spoke, their voices little more than whispers.
“Mr. Sinclair is apparently pleased by the increase in my dowry.” The ache in her chest at the admission made it difficult to breathe. Frances shook her head when Phoebe started to speak. “I knew better than to allow my hopes to rise that he might truly care for me.”
Phoebe frowned. “I have difficulty believing that your dowry is the reason for his interest in you. Not after watching the two of you together.”
Frances swallowed against the well of emotion in her throat, unable to say anything more.
“I think that much like the workhouse issue, more information is needed. I like him, and I like the way your face lights up when you’re with him. Because his does as well.”
Frances drew a ragged breath, wishing that was true. That the situation was different. That she was different.
“Don’t give up yet, Frances. If you truly care for him, give him a chance. Ask him for the truth.”
Her stomach dropped at the thought of doing so. Yet still, the idea took hold, refusing to let go. Did she dare?
“This might only be a bump in the road,” Phoebe added. “Something you will find a way to overcome.”
Frances managed a smile. “Do you truly think so?”
“I do.” Phoebe’s assurance made Frances hope she might be right—that Thomas cared for her, not just her dowry.
Yet the doubt in her heart remained.
“Back again, eh?” the porter asked Thomas.
“I am.”
Action of any sort, no matter how futile, was preferable to wondering whether his suit would be accepted by Frances and her father. The events of the previous afternoon had circled his mind, nearly driving him mad.
Better that he spent his time attempting to answer the question of what had happened to Peter than worrying whether Frances would speak to him again after he’d blundered his request so badly.
Whether he would be able to resolve either problem remained to be seen. Yet he refused to give up. Not until he was on the ship returning to New York.
Returning to the workhouse seemed his only chance of discovering what had happened to Peter.
The stout, older man who guarded the entrance of the workhouse walked closer, glancing at the closed door over his shoulder then back at Thomas as he tightened his scarf around his neck. The temperature had failed to rise with the sun, and it was bitterly cold. “Mr. Harris told me to refuse you entry if you returned.”
