Knit one. Purl one.
My fingers worked fast. This poor scarf had started to take shape. My concentration seemed perfect, but it had to be. This knitting Tuesday in Mama’s parlor was different.
Wycliff’s appearance at last week’s garden party had spread like fire. My past was in question, but in good ways.
Knit one. Purl one.
No sneers.
Knit one. Purl one.
No taunting advice.
Knit one. Purl one.
No Mrs. Carter. Her chair sat empty.
I should rally and gloat, but my nerves were in a full-speed hurly-burly, thinking of Wycliff, wondering about him.
By accident or by choice—some hidden desire had stirred deep in me. I’d allowed him the liberty to hold me. And I’d almost taken the liberty to kiss him.
Well, actually I had kissed him, if that barest lip to lip counted. Did it count if I thought of Adam when we touched?
The watch on my chain read thirty after eleven. He was to be here at noon. I had to be calm. I had to be smart. I had to undo this last purled row. It was uneven.
Mrs. Daly leaned over and sipped from her tea. “It’s a shame Mrs. Carter’s gout is bothering her, the poor dear.”
“Yes. It is a shame,” Mama said. She reached for my chain and straightened it. “She will miss the baron’s visit today.”
Mama seemed nonchalant, talking about her friend, but I caught her looking toward the window and the something extra in her voice when she mentioned Mrs. Carter.
When I squinted, I saw Mama’s purled row was uneven, too.
That was odd for her.
Mrs. Johnson kept looking at me. Her creamy brow looked moist. She fidgeted in her chocolate-colored carriage gown. The lady was nice enough when she wasn’t joining in on the teasing.
“Are you well, Mrs. Johnson?” The words were out of my mouth before I’d thought better of it.
The woman shrugged. Her complexion seemed flustered with ruddy-red cheeks. “Yes, Mrs. Wilky. I’m fine. Just a little unsettled. My husband’s business is in trouble. He is seeing a lot of unrest on the docks.”
“More repercussion from Nacknel’s suicide?” Mrs. Daly brushed her hands of the crumbs from the lavender teacakes she’d devoured. “I’m hearing that many of the shippers are experiencing delays. It’s chaos.”
“All will pass, ladies. It always does.” Mama’s voice was soothing, but her stitches on the canary yellow blanket she knitted became worse.
Was Papa’s business in jeopardy, too?
He used the shipping lanes to transport goods. I glanced at Mama, tweaking my spectacles to see what she wasn’t saying.
Crisp white mobcap, pressed and pinned in place covered her stately graying locks. The azure-blue silk gown with shiny brass buttons on her long sleeves seemed a little fancy but highlighted her pale-gold skin. Were more guests coming or was this pomp for my baron?
“Ruth, do you need to change? Your cousin will be here soon.”
I was comfortable in my light-gray silk. Long sleeves, not much trim. It was a simple gown, one that said walking, not courting.
Mrs. Daly smiled at Mama, like they’d forged a conspiracy. “Yes, Lord Wycliff. I hear he just inherited his barony.”
“Yes. He’s in financing,” Mrs. Johnson said, then sipped her tea. “Shipping finance.”
