Page 65 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“Did everything burn to the ground?” From Anne.
“Was anyone hurt?” Aunt Maude again.
Aunt Flora scurried in, a cup and a bottle of brandy in hand. Will was useless. Inner wisdom told him to take a half step back and let the ministrations take their course. The succoring flurry, the flutters, and cooing reassurances. Aunt Flora poured brandy, and Miss Fletcher upended her cup, gulping it with the skill of a thirsty sailor. He couldn’t stop his gape when she slammed sturdy porcelain on the table and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth.
“More.”
To which Aunt Flora obliged her with a second restorative dose. Miss Fletcher took this portion calmly with steady swallows while everyone watched. They surrounded her, a worried, cosseting circle ready to jump at Miss Fletcher’sslightest twitch. Emotions were bowstring tight. With this second cup half-gone, she was fortified. Almost. Char-stained hands hugged Lambethware like a long-lost friend.
Aunt Maude gave a verbal nudge. “When you’re ready, dear.”
The fraught quality of Miss Fletcher’s face lessened. A tiny nod, and her brow smoothed. Another gulp (air this time) and she began her tale.
“Margaret is well. She is... unharmed.” Miss Fletcher’s voice snagged as her face crumpled in pain. “I left her alone in the shop to come here.”
The notion of what could’ve been silenced them. Agonized glances shot between Aunt Flora, Aunt Maude, and Anne. A shared history bolted this league together. Will was a bystander, present but not accounted for, and like any outsider, he took another polite half step back. The women filled the gap.
Aunt Flora rubbed Miss Fletcher’s back. “There, there, dear. These are tears of gratefulness. Let them fall, and when you’re done, we’ll all say a prayer of thanksgiving that you and your sister are unharmed.”
Fat tears rolled down charcoaled cheeks, which Miss Fletcher promptly smeared with her hand.
“I am relieved. And thankful,” she said with a firm nod this time. “Neither my sister nor our neighbors were harmed. The fire was thankfully contained to the back of my shop.” Another sniffle and Anne passed a handkerchief. “The bricks are charred, of course, and the room in ruins.”
“What happened?” Will asked from his place outside their intimate circle.
Miss Fletcher dabbed her eyes, her chin tipping his way. Had she forgotten his presence in Anne’s house? Daylight showed delicate purple skin under her eyes and her mouth, a tight line. An unpleasant admission was coming.
“The hour was late. I was preparing the coal. My forge is no bigger than—” she raised her hands with six inches between them “—this. My work room is about as cramped,” she said dryly. “I must sit on a dairymaid’s stool to work the forge.”
Anne tossed a curt explanation over Miss Fletcher’s head. “Her forge is a tiny pile of bricks low to the ground. Nearly impossible conditions.”
“The forge must be small,” she said defensively. “All the better to build the necessary heat. As to my work room, I can hardly expand it.” Her indignation vented, she slumped in the chair. “Really, it was all a misunderstanding.”
“With a neighbor?” Will asked.
“No. With the metal.” Miss Fletcher folded the handkerchief into the smallest square. “In particular, its melting point.”
“The melting point, I see,” he said, not seeing anything at all except Anne shooting a frown over Miss Fletcher’s head.
Miss Fletcher was more charitable. “I was working by rote, unfortunately. I overheated the forge. Gold requires a greater degree of heat to melt than silver.” She sniffed and dabbed her nose with the newly folded square. “Too much heat and silver melts into unsalvageable drips lost in the fire.”
He hummed his understanding.
“I was already working the silver when I realized my error,” she said flatly. “I grabbed the tongs too quickly and knocked over my worktable. That’s when my hem caught on fire.”
Shifting in her chair, she reached for the back of her petticoat. Part of her hem was missing, as if a fire-fanged beast had taken a bite.
“Oh, Mary. How awful,” Anne gushed.
“Embers landed on my worktable and the thing went up in flames. I yelled for Margaret and started dumping positively everything on the fire. Water, my flux powder, stomping on embers...”
Miss Fletcher’s spine wilted again. Aunt Flora cooed encouragement and sloshed more brandy in her cup.
“You are a dear,” Miss Fletcher said. “But I should not have any more. I need my wits about me.”
“You could do without them for a day,” the older woman muttered.
Will smiled against his balled fist while Miss Fletcher’s eyes rounded.
