“O’ course.” Amelia turned up a palm. “Maggie would’ve made sure of that. Annie ran all the way here to tell Patty, who raced off in a cab, but it was too late. Maggie was already in gaol, and she was tried before Patty could do anything to change the verdict. Back then, they put women thieves on a prison ship quick as they could.” With the oil warmed, the lamplight flared up the glass chimney, and Amelia lowered the wick. “The important thing is, she’s back and I want you to get on with her. It’ll be for the best. All right?”
I swallowed. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“No. And you don’t like change.”
It felt like an accusation, and I crossed my arms over my chest. “No one does.”
“You more than most.”
“Because in my experience, when things change, they get worse.” It came out snappish.
Pain flickered in her eyes. “Well, this will be a change for all of us.”
Her most of all.
Ashamed of my own whining, I reached across the desk by way of apology. “We’re all loyal to you. Let us know where you are. We can visit.”
“I know.” Amelia touched her fingertips briefly to the back of my hand. “Remember, Kit, not a word to the others. Not even Mary or Sarah, yeah? I want to tell everyone at once, myself.”
“I promise.”
Slowly I started downstairs, considering. Parts of Amelia’s explanation rang true. It was Maggie’s mother’s ring. She had every right to return and claim it. Still, there was something in Amelia’s demeanor that was at odds with her words. The edges didn’t align neatly. They puckered as I tried to fit them together.
I couldn’t help worrying that Maggie’s arrival would cause trouble, and not just for the ring. Amelia didn’t seem to suspect my mother of betraying Maggie, but she didn’t know Ma the way I did. Ma might’ve felt jealous of Maggie, or wanted to save herself, or perhaps she’d seen something to be gained. If Maggie had discovered my mother tagged her in the shop or turned Queen’s evidence, wouldn’t Maggie take it out on me?
That was one trouble. The other was I would miss Amelia terribly. The thought of her leaving trenched up an old sadness that billowed like a stretch of fabric thrown wide. I paused on the landing to fold it back down into something small enough to cram in a pocket as I left the inn and made my way into the busy street.
Chapter 8
The following day, Wednesday, wasn’t my day for thieving, and I went to Emma’s shop. As I entered, she handed me a folded note. “From James.”
My heart hammering, I opened it.No mention.
I crossed the room to the stove and put the note in to burn, feeling a small softening of my hard fear. Still, how could I find comfort in the absence of a sign?
Emma’s eyes were bright with curiosity, but she said not a word except, “Start with the napkins, would you? Then the shirts,” and I took my usual chair and began the delicate task of embroideringLs on the linen. Emma stood before a mannequin, fitting the white satin bodice of a wedding gown, pulling pins from the felt wrapper on her arm.
Not for the first time, I wondered why Emma had never married. She was pretty, with a wry, pleasant humor. Her eyes were the same warm hazel as James’s, her jaw a more delicate version of his angular one, and her hair a rich chestnut brown, scraped into a tight coil to keep it out of the stitches.
The napkins finished, I began on the gentleman’s shirts, whipping the thread over the raw buttonhole edges, double at the ends. Meanwhile, Emma had moved to the sewing machine. She pumped the treadle, working the needle at a reckless pace and bringing to mind what James had said about the Custom House being like a runaway train.
At last, the machine paused. Emma snipped the threads with tiny silver scissors, shook out the bodice, and laid it on the worktable. “There, all ready for Miss Parker tomorrow.”
“Did you leave extra at the seams?” I asked, remembering that Miss Parker’s waistline sometimes expanded with the state of her appetite—“delicate, very delicate,” she insisted—and once Emma had to recut a bodice at her own expense.
Emma grinned. “O’ course.”
The bells of the tabernacle clanged six as she turned the sign on the door toclosedand clicked the bolt on the door. “Thanks, Kit. I’d never have managed if you hadn’t helped. Will you stay for tea? I know it’s late, but I made stew.”
It was the first time she’d invited me to eat with her, and it would have been rude to refuse. Even as I thanked her, my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Her face betrayed nothing, but I sensed she wanted to discuss something; I hoped it wasn’t James or the note he’d left me. I followed Emma back to the small kitchen, a whitewashed galley, neat as her thread box, the corner stove squat and well blacked, the single brass tap dripless, the sturdy wooden table no wider than three planks but polished and clean. I wondered if James had built it for her. She donned an apron, wrapping the ties around her slender waist to knot them in front. I sat at the table with a cup of tea while she stirred the simmering copper pot on the stove. My mouth watered as the flavor carried, and she served me a generous bowl before filling her own and sitting diagonal from me. She cut a piece of bread from the loaf and pushed the plate to me so I could do the same.
I put the first spoonful in my mouth and didn’t want to swallow it was so good. Real lamb, potatoes, and some spice that gave it sweetness.
“Fresh lamb from the butcher,” she said.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “I’m trying not to gobble it.”
She let out a small laugh and let me eat. My bowl was mostly empty when she pushed away hers, and I felt the air shift and looked up. In the lamplight, I saw the skin around her eyes crease, the double furrow between her brows.
