Left without another option, Amelia took the woman’s arm in hers and began to walk. It was not unlike what she’d done countless times along the edge of a ballroom with new debutantes, so she would simply pretend that’s where they were. “How can I help, Mrs. Bleufleur?”
The woman hesitated for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. “It’s my eldest, Bessie, m’lady. I’ve always had hopes of her marrying the Pickens boy. That lad will own his father’s farm one day, and they breed prize-winning heifers. It’s a good match.”
“I take it from your need to discuss it that your daughter doesn’t share the same dream?”
The woman shook her head. “She wants to go to London to be a seamstress. I’ve told her time and time again that London’s no place for a young woman on her own, but she won’t listen to a word I say.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to agree with Mrs. Bleufleur immediately. After all, if Bessie could secure a nice life with a reasonably successful man of her station, that was the sensible thing to do. But she held off. Be curious, Benedict had said. Listen.
“What is he like? The Pickens boy?”
Mrs. Bleufleur snorted. “He’s like all nineteen-year-old boys, m’lady. More interested in farts and pigs and the barmaid’s bosoms than anything else. But what he’s like isn’t as important as what he can offer. A home here, close to her family.”
Not a scant month ago, Amelia would have agreed with every syllable of that sentiment, but she looked over at her husband. What a man was like was more important in a marriage than she had ever previously credited.
“Does she have much talent as a seamstress, do you think?”
“Blimey if I know. She can mend a tear in five seconds, and you’d never know it was there, but the clothes she makes don’t have any real place around here in Abingdale. Too fancy. They’re good for a wedding dress but that’s about it.”
Benedict had had a solution for every problem presented to him today, and the people here admired him for it. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she could build that same level of esteem if she put the effort into getting to know these people.
“You’re right, Mrs. Bleufleur. London is no place for a girl on her own. But if the Pickens boy is only nineteen, he needs a few years to ripen before he’ll make any woman a decent husband. Bessie could go to London and see what she can make of herself in a year or two.”
The woman’s frown deepened, and she crushed her reticule in her hand. “But isn’t it awfully dangerous, m’lady? She’s my little girl.”
Amelia put a reassuring hand on Mrs. Bleufleur’s shoulder. “Send her to me, with her best creations and her sketchbook. If she’s any good, I’ll give her the reference she needs to join a respectable household or an established business. She’ll be safe and somewhere we can keep an eye on her. We may just give her dreams wings yet.”
“She looks happy,” Benedict said when Amelia returned.
“I think I actually managed to help.” She couldn’t hide her smile.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. The feeling of his thumb on her skin made her shiver, but the look he gave her was so full of heat she thought she’d melt from it.
“And are you happy? Here? Helping?”
She wrapped a hand into the lapels of his coat, edging closer to him. His nearness made her dizzy, giddy. Her cheeks flushed hot, and as she looked up at him, her gaze could go no farther than his lips.
“I am,” she whispered.
Chapter16
Ifeel so ill.” Cassandra collapsed on the chaise in a dramatic manner.
“You shouldn’t have eaten so many sweets.” It was the proper thing for Amelia to say but hypocritical in the extreme given she had also overindulged in wrapped peppermints.
“It might be best for you to sleep it off, little sister,” Benedict said. “It’s well past your bedtime.” He leaned in close to Amelia. “Yours too.”
She yawned. “I think you might be right.” In London, she could dance until dawn, but after just a few weeks of country hours, she simply wasn’t up to it. She held her hand out to Cassandra. “Let’s go to bed, little one.”
The house was empty. All the servants had been given the day off to enjoy the fair, and although it was nearing midnight, none had yet returned. Only the pad of their feet on the carpet broke the silence.
“Good night, poppet. Sleep tight.” Amelia kissed Cassandra on the forehead and walked down the hall to her room, leaning on Benedict all the way.
Inside, the fire had gone out.
Drat.
In her first week—back before they’d hired help—Amelia had learned the art of making a fire. But it was difficult, and it was too late for her to be bothered tonight. It was also too cold for her not to bother.
