Page 13

“Ah, but I insist.”

Elizabeth forced herself to face him. “As do I.” She took another step back. “Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Cummings, I have an appointment with Miss Berry, and it would not do to be late.”

His eyes narrowed, but before he could formulate a reply or block her escape, Elizabeth slipped past him and through the open door of the village seamstress’s shop. Working her way between bolts of fabric and tables piled with lace, she hurried to the rear of the small shop, where Miss Berry was sitting on a chair, needle and thread in hand.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Berry.”

The older lady raised her head from the floral muslin fabric on her knee and peered at her over the top of her spectacles. “Miss Doyle. What an unexpected surprise.”

Elizabeth managed a faint smile. She’d not stepped inside the seamstress’s shop since before her mother had passed away. Eking out the weekly allowance her father gave her to cover necessary food items was challenge enough. There was never any money for new clothing.

“I . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the dark-green of Mr. Cummings’s coat through the shop window. He was still there. Surely he would not deign to enter on his own. With its silks and lace, the shop was a distinctly female establishment and barely large enough to display a dozen bolts of fabric, let alone accommodate a man of the magistrate’s rotund proportions. But how long would he stand outside before he tired of waiting for her?

“I . . .” She began again. “I was wondering if I could look at your ribbon.”

“Of course.” Coming to her feet, the seamstress set aside the dress she’d been sewing and shuffled over to a large chest of drawers standing against the wall. Pulling out the top drawer, she stepped back so Elizabeth could see the spools of ribbon lying in tidy rows within. “My selection’s not as large as the milliner’s, you understand, but p’haps you’ll see somethin’ there that strikes your fancy.”

Hesitantly, Elizabeth reached out and touched the nearest ribbon, its silky texture as luxurious as its rich, blue color.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Miss Berry said. “Like a summer sky at noonday.”

“It is very pretty.” Elizabeth ran the ribbon’s end between her fingertips before releasing it to touch the purple ribbon beside it.

“Were you looking for a certain color, Miss Doyle?”

Elizabeth thought of the few remaining coins in her reticule. Even if she had enough for a piece of ribbon, she could not return to the inn without bread. She shook her head. “No.” She gave the seamstress an apologetic smile. “Perhaps I should return when I’ve made up my mind.”

Miss Berry clucked her tongue in disapproval and drew a pair of scissors out of her pocket. “You’ll not leave here without a few inches of that blue one.”

Elizabeth shook her head more vehemently. “Truly, Miss Berry. As beautiful as it is, I cannot—” The words died on her lips as the seamstress snipped a short length of blue ribbon off the spool.

Miss Berry tucked the scissors back into her pocket and offered the ribbon to Elizabeth. “Take it,” she said. “No charge. Many’s the time your mother did somethin’ kind for someone in the village. I reckon it’s ’bout time someone did somethin’ for her daughter.” She pressed the ribbon into Elizabeth’s hand. “I’ll be watchin’ for it in that pretty hair of yours at church on Sunday.”

Elizabeth blinked back the tears threatening to fall. “Thank you.”

The older woman clucked her tongue again. This time it was a sound of dismissal. “Well, there’s no point in havin’ all these pretty ribbons hidden away in a drawer all the time, now, is there?”

Tucking the ribbon into her reticule, Elizabeth offered her a watery smile. “Not at all.”

“Well then”—she glanced at Elizabeth’s basket—“you’d best be gettin’ back to the inn if you’ve a meal to make today.”

“You’re right,” Elizabeth said. She glanced at the window. No one stood outside. Had Mr. Cummings abandoned his designs, or was he waiting for her elsewhere? Either way, she could not remain in the seamstress’s shop indefinitely. Gathering her courage, she moved toward the door.

“Good day to you, Miss Doyle.” The seamstress was already making her way back to her chair.

“And to you, Miss Berry.”

Opening the door, Elizabeth paused. A quick glance up and down the street showed no sign of Mr. Cummings. Quickly pulling the door closed behind her, Elizabeth ran across the road to the bakery. Using the last of her coins on a loaf of bread, she tucked the precious commodity into her basket, checked once more to make sure the street was still clear, then hurried past the few remaining shops and the handful of houses that stood between the bakery and the parsonage.

Once she reached the church, she took the footpath past the cemetery and followed it until she reached the meadow. Hiking her skirt above her ankles, she clambered over the stone stile and stepped down into the wet grass beneath. Her feet sank into the moist earth, and she wrinkled her nose. Her shoes and skirt would be filthy by the time she reached the inn, but she’d willingly wash them ten times over rather than take the road home and risk encountering Mr. Cummings along the way.

A seagull cried, wheeling slowly overhead before heading out to sea. Gripping her basket in one hand and her skirt in the other, Elizabeth took a deep breath and set off across the field.

About twenty minutes later, she cautiously approached the inn. The lower eight inches of her brown woolen skirt were heavy with moisture, and she felt the weight of the fabric dragging against cobblestones as she crossed the yard toward the inn’s back door. She heard the stable door open, and when a clatter of hooves followed, she darted behind the nearby water barrel and crouched low.

With a steady clip clop, a horse walked across the yard. She waited until the clink of its hooves against the cobblestones became the thud of steady movement down the dirt road, then she slowly rose to her feet. The magistrate, in his distinctive green coat, was riding back toward the village. She glanced from his receding form to the inn. She should be reassured that he was gone, but instead, she felt a burgeoning sense of disquiet. If Mr. Cummings had come to see her, he would have waited until she returned; if he had come to see her father, he had come with a purpose, and she was sickeningly sure that no purpose of his would omen well for her.

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