Page 30 of Better Love Next Time
“There is no need to insult me.”
“Likewise.” She motioned to the purse.
Rummaging within it, he came out with a lace handkerchief.
“That is not it,” she said.
Two hair pins followed.
“Neither are those.” A small comb. “No, dig deeper.” Perfume. “Deeper.”
His big hand shoved halfway inside, straining the drawstring opening. “I’ve never ransacked a woman’s purse. But I imagined much more exciting finds.”
He withdrew a blue vial. “What’s this? A magical potion?” He ignored her protest and uncorked the vial. After a sniff, he frowned. “Laudanum?”
She fished in the purse and displayed the gift in her palm. “There.”
He plucked it away and then closed her fingers in his. “Dear wife, are you an opium eater?”
She had forgotten about the vial Anthony had given her. The manner in which his tone mocked her forced the lie. “I use it for my monthly pains. Now please open the gift.”
After an uncomfortable silence, he unwrapped the package to find a paper. “Two thousand nine hundred?” he read.
“I sold the majority of my jewels in Genoa,” she said. “It is my contribution to our partnership.”
His throat bobbed as he studied the script. “You shouldn’t have.”
He handed her the paper. She yanked open his coat and pushed it into the pocket lined in silk.
Passing him on the path, she trampled over weeds toward a row of small cottages. Children’s laughter floated on the wind with the scent of marshland. She kept walking with Julian beside her, avoiding puddles and rabbit holes on her path to a broad warehouse. The air was oddly devoid of men’s voices for an area of industry.
A burly man in faded brown work clothes appeared.
“Sam, it is good to see you,” Julian called out.
Sam lit up. He shook Julian’s hand, and both men gave hearty greetings.
“Sam Worthing, may I introduce you to Madame Féline. A widow from Marseilles. The lady has come to have a look at Southampton and its shipbuilding industry. Madame, Sam has been a caretaker of sorts while I have been on the Continent.”
Sam doffed his hat, noting Kitty’s widow’s weeds. “Er, sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Worthing. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Aye.” His eyes danced below her pearl necklace. “A right pleasure. And ye got the best man to show ye the shipyards. Ableedin’ genius. Damn, I meant a right genius. And, beggin’ your pardon, I didn’t mean?—”
“All is pardoned, Mr. Worthing,” Kitty said. “I am stronger than I look.”
“Aye, you look like a westerly could take you up and drop you in Dover.”
Julian slapped the man’s beefy shoulder. “Allow us to complete our tour here and I’ll be around shortly. Has Alice any of her cider left from the harvest?”
“Aye, she does. Rations it like slop in a gaol. But see you come along too, ma’am. It don’t taste like slop.”
Kitty agreed to visit, and after Sam bowed his leave, Julian motioned her forward. “For the record, I am not a genius.”
To have another praise Julian filled her with pride. The manner in which he could converse with anyone of any station without condescension was another point of pride.
She skirted the broad warehouse. Ahead, two slipways slanted down the riverbank. The empty slip, long enough to hold two ships, was covered in silt and algae. The other held the grey skeleton of a ship in progress. The keel and sternpost had been completed. A quarter of the curved half-timbers and long timbers which formed the hull had been attached to starboard and were covered in lichen. Weeds sprouted and twined unhindered through the ship’s forgotten bones.
