Page 53 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Please,” Mary implored. “I thought we were making progress.”
Margaret turned slightly toward her. “I thought we were, too, but I’m not sure I can make you see what’s right in front of you.”
Oh, she was exasperated. “See what, exactly?”
“That you always know what’s best.” Margaret smirked. “Miss Mary Fletcher of White Cross Street responsible for everything. Me included.”
Mary stood stiffly, smarting from that verbal blow.
“You’ll never acknowledge me as a capable person,” Margaret said. “Much less ask me for help.”
“I ask for help.”
Eyes to ceiling, Margaret might’ve sent a silent prayer for patience.
“No, you don’t. You direct. You order. You opine—strongly I might add. But dear sister, being vulnerable is not a skill you own.” Margaret’s mouth slid in a semblance of a tolerant smile. “And once your mind is set, heaven help the poor soul who disagrees with you. Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora jest about how persuasive Anne had to be with you when she led our league, and I won’t repeat what Jenny says. Her language is too salty by far.” Margaret paused, huffing softly. “As for Cecelia, she simply doesn’t care.”
Mary blinked like a soldier who’d survived a volley of cannon fire. The smoke had barely parted when Miss Dalton’s call came from below.
“Miss Fletcher, are you coming down?”
Margaret answered, “In a moment,” though it was unclear which Miss Fletcher their seamstress sought. Margaret faced her, sadness etching her eyes. “We’ve custom to attend.”
She trotted down the stairs, taking Mary’s peace of mind with her.
Mary was at the counter, measuring ribbon—her third attempt—when the shop’s doorbell jingled. A knobby-kneed lad rushed forward and stuck a crumpled missive on the ribbon.
“A message for you, Miss Fletcher.”
A soft sigh and her shoulders dropped. A fourth count would be necessary.
“Thank you.” She took the note, distracted.
With a steady stream of shoppers, there’d been no chance to talk to Margaret. They’d navigated the last hour orbiting each other with cautious glances.
Mary reached into her apron pocket for a ha’penny to pay the boy.
“Keep the coin, miss. I’m not an errand boy. Mr. West pays me.”
She looked up fast.
“Do you mean Mr. West of West and Sons Shipping?”
“Yes, miss. I’m Jimmy Brown. We met last August at the docks.” He jammed his hat on, flattening a dark blond forelock over his eyes.
The sight of him was sheer joy. Unless Mr. West was canceling this evening?
Disappointment stabbed her.
“Don’t leave. I haven’t read the note. What if Mr. West expects an answer?”
Young Mr. Brown shook his head, emphatic. “He said there wouldn’t be one, but that I was to watch you read his note and warn you to be ready at ten o’clock.”
“Tonight?”
“No, miss. This morning.”
She checked the clock. “But that’s less than an hour from now.”
