Miss Narayan told her not to worry: “It’s easy enough to take in. I could do it in my sleep.” The rates were reasonable and Sophie was no great seamstress, so she threw prudence to the wind and soon found herself on a stepstool with arms stretched out, barely breathing, as Miss Narayan set new seams with pins like so many thorns around the rosebud embroidery. Her aunt watched the proceedings with a judge’s eagle eye.
The shop bell chimed. “That will be Mr. Samson,” Mrs. Narayan said. She flicked a glance at her niece. “Go and see what he has for us today, won’t you, Gita?”
“I am sure Mr. Samson won’t mind dealing with someone else, just this once,” she said stiffly.
Mrs. Narayan only waited, her expectant silence blooming louder and louder until even Sophie was tempted to yield to it.
Miss Narayan gave in and sighed, brushing her hands down her skirts to smooth them. She sent Sophie a considering look and said, “I shouldn’t be long.” She slipped past the screen and out into the main part of the shop. “Good afternoon, Mr. Samson,” she said, clear and strong.
“And to you, Miss Narayan,” came the reply. Now that she was able to listen, Sophie had to admit Mr. Samson’s voice was as appealing as his person: a solid tenor with a warm timbre that put her in mind of good lacquer on the back of a violin. It rippled beautifully. “I’ve saved a few things especially for you to look at today.”
“All the way from London?” Miss Narayan asked.
“All the best,” came the soft reply, followed by the soft shush of fabric being spread out.
Mrs. Narayan moved closer to Sophie and took up the pinning where her niece had left off. Her hands moved just as swiftly and surely, with a slightly more insistent grip; Sophie kept her breathing slow and smooth as the seamstress slipped a pin into the seam that ran under her arms and along her ribs.
Past the screen, Miss Narayan spoke again: “We’ve just sold the green linen you brought us, I’m happy to say. Miss Roseingrave is being fitted for it right now, in fact.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know Miss Roseingrave,” Mr. Samson replied, after a pause.
“She’s new to Carrisford,” Miss Narayan went on, “but you might ask Madeleine Crewe to introduce you.”
The silence was exquisite and complete.
“Oh,” Miss Narayan went on, “this velvet is gorgeous.”
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Samson said at once. Almost as though he were eager to talk about anything else. “I thought of you especially when I found that one. Velvet is so difficult to alter, it requires a very skilled hand. And the amber color would suit you beautifully.”
Miss Narayan’s voice was tense as a wire. “I have to buy for the shop, not for myself, Mr. Samson.”
“You don’t think Miss Roseingrave would be interested in the velvet?”
“I think she’d be more interested in asking why a seller of secondhand clothes would be talking to a silk weaver.”
Sophie gasped in surprise at Miss Narayan’s frankness.
Mrs. Narayan’s hands stopped. “Did you get stuck, dear?”
“My own fault,” Sophie breathed, and attempted a smile. “I will do better at holding still, I promise.”
Mr. Samson’s voice was tight now too, a violin just before the string snapped. “Miss Roseingrave sounds very... inquisitive.”
“Oh, one has to ask questions when one is in a new town,” Miss Narayan continued. “Everyone is a stranger, and one doesn’t know everyone’s alliances and enemies. One has to find out who one can trust, and who is best given a wide berth. Like you, Mr. Samson.”
Mr. Samson made a wordless noise.
Miss Narayan went on, ruthlessly cheerful. “When I moved here last autumn, I came to depend on you as someone reliable, and observant, and—and kind. Do you have anything more in printed cotton?”
“Nothing worth your looking at,” Mr. Samson replied. His voice shook a little. “I’m going to London again next week, though—I will put it at the top of my list.” A percussive sound, as if someone were drumming anxious fingertips upon a countertop. Then Mr. Samson rushed forward, headlong: “Listen, Miss Narayan—whatever business I have with Miss Crewe, you must know it’s only that. Business.” More drumming. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Miss Narayan said, her cheer pitch-perfect—but Sophie’s ear was good, and she heard the soft harmonics of relief shimmering in the air. “Though you must admit, it is a little odd. Usually you are rather on opposite sides of the industry, aren’t you?”
“I’m a trader, Miss Narayan. I follow the opportunities I find. And with that,” he sighed, that lovely voice ringing with regret, “I’m afraid I must be going. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the amber velvet?”
“Do you know,” Miss Narayan said, after a moment, “I find I rather have. It feels quite special, doesn’t it? As though it has been waiting a long time to be found by just the right person.”
“That’s worth any amount of waiting,” Mr. Samson replied, low and sure.
