Page 62 of Better Love Next Time
“I heard he is making a go of it again,” Tandy said.
“He is. And he is offering four pence more a day than the other yards.”
The goldsmith looked away and wrapped the package. “I’ve sold a few items to Mr. St. Clair myself. A fair man. And whatwith paying more when prices are high with parliament riling the colonials. Yes, seems fair.”
The next stop was a street vendor selling tin utensils and bakeware. Here she purchased eight teaspoons and a muffin tin. She offered her card and repeated her lines.
For three hours, she and Althea combed the street stalls and shops. Kitty purchased something from each, offering her card, introducing Miss Dixley, and requesting the goods delivered. When Kitty mentioned they had returned to Southampton, they all were aware. Many fixed her with a knowing glance and then looked away.
At their final stop, a draper’s shop, they waited to purchase five yards of dimity while two women shared gossip with the proprietress who was noticeably with child.
“We must make more hay,” Althea murmured beside her.
Kitty smiled when the proprietress lifted a finger to signal another minute. “We have already made acres worth.”
“True. But we must take advantage of what the Lord provides.”
Finally, the women moved to the other side of the shop to continue browsing. And listening.
The proprietress, Mrs. Draper, like her profession, scribbled Kitty’s bill of sale in a broad hand and paused longer than most over her card. “Are you here long, ma’am?”
“Yes, we returned last month to reopen the shipyard. Permanently.” Kitty decided to get it out in one go. “It has been admittedly difficult to hire able men. Though my husband pays four pence more a day than the rest of the yards.”
Mrs. Draper folded the dimity and cut a swath of muslin to wrap it in while Althea directed her gaze to behind the counter and announced, “Such a tragedy.”
Kitty slewed right, unsure she had heard Althea correctly. Her companion clutched her prayer book, sunlight reflectingoff her lenses. And whatever her friend—for today had sealed the more intimate relation—intended, Kitty decided she would follow.
“Yes,” Kitty said, “it was.”
Mrs. Draper snapped up from her wrapping. “A tragedy, ma’am?”
“Men, they are so very proud,” Althea said. “It is most difficult for them to admit their grief. Including Mr. St. Clair. Though the Lord doth counsel, blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Mrs. Draper gazed at Kitty’s widow’s weeds.
Kitty wondered who she could kill off to satisfy Althea’s lie. Julian’s sister, wretched, spiteful Lady Caroline Tufton? If she still lived, that is. But if she were dead, more the better. Oh no, she couldn’t wish someone dead.
But yes, Lady Caroline Tufton would do. “Yes, my husband’s?—”
“Child,” Dixley finished.
Kitty sucked in her breath.
“Your child, ma’am?” Mrs. Draper covered her hand, warm where Kitty’s was cold.
Althea knew nothing of the truth. No, Kitty had confided on Madame’s little lost André, that was all. But still it was hard to speak. Her surrounds were dim.
“Yes,” she managed to say and then added words she had never spoken. “He was our son.”
Mrs. Draper looked to an infant slumbering in a basket that Kitty had failed to notice. There was another little girl folding fabric just past the shop’s back door humming softly in a white muslin gown with a pink bow in her hair.
“God love Mr. St. Clair for leaving his yard to be with you,” Mrs. Draper tutted. “Might I fetch you a glass of water, ma’am?”
“No, no. Thank you.”
Mrs. Draper fetched Kitty water anyway. “I lost my Simon six years and one month ago. A fine day, like this, and I thought I would die but I just kept living. It’ll never go away, love, the pain in your heart, but it will ease. What was your boy’s name?”
She shuddered. “Andrew.”
