Page 84 of Harpy of the Ton
“Have you chosen, Miss Ryman?” Mrs. Hall asked.
Sophie nodded.
“Rosie!” Mrs. Hall cried. “Come out and tend to Miss Ryman, would you?”
“Yes, Mama!” Moments later, a thin girl appeared, a reel of lace in her hands, and led Sophie to the back of the shop.
“Now, Mrs. Baxter, I insist,” Mrs. Hall said. “Please take it. I know how hard it is coming to a new place. When folk don’t know you, tongues start to wag. But I wouldn’t want you thinking badly of Brackens Hill. Folk aren’t used to strangers, that’s all.” She held out the ribbon. “Please.”
Could the humiliation get any worse? Mrs. Hall had all but told Bella the village thought her a wanton—and now she believed her to be a case in need of alms, like one of Mrs. Gleeson’s waifs, for whom she collected rags every Saturday.
“I-I won’t take charity, Mrs. Hall.”
“It’s not charity when it’s a gift, is it?” Mrs. Hall said. “Don’t you want to look pretty for your friend? When she was in here last, she said you were going to embroider roses on her wedding gown. She showed me a handkerchief you’d embroidered—you’ve a real knack for choosing the right colors. I’m sure you’ll make her look real pretty, and I say you deserve a little reward for it. Were you perhaps a seamstress before you married?”
Heat rose in Bella’s cheeks. “I-I can’t remember, Mrs. Hall.”
“That’s a rare shame.” Mrs. Hall patted Bella’s hand. “I daresay that husband of yours hasn’t seen fit to tell you. Men—they’re all the same! They think we women chatter too much, yet they say nothing.”
She glanced up. “Ah! All done, are we, Miss Ryman? Very good. Rosie—tidy up those gloves, would you? When Sir Halford visited yesterday, Mr. Hall couldn’t find any in his size, for the mess in the storeroom.”
“Yes, Mama.” The girl disappeared into the back of the shop.
Mrs. Hall pressed the ribbon into Bella’s hand and curled her fingers around it. “There!” she said. “All ready? My—you’ve a lot of potatoes in that basket of yours, Mrs. Baxter. But what with those three tykes of yours, I daresay they’ll have eaten the lot before the morning.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hall,” Bella said, slipping the ribbon into her pocket. “I had thought I had only one friend here in Miss Ryman—but perhaps I have another.”
“Of course you do, my dear. Now run along—those potatoes won’t cook themselves.”
As Bella left the shop, she glanced toward the inn. But there was no sign of her husband. Weighed down by the basket in her arms, and trying, with little success, to ignore the greater burden on her heart, she made her way home, buoyed by the hope that he’d be there waiting for her.
But the cottage was empty.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Inow pronounceyou husband and wife.”
Bella blinked back tears as the newlyweds turned toward each other—Sophie, in her white muslin gown with roses embroidered on the sleeves, and Sam, in a dark brown jacket and matching breeches, his ruddy face filled with joy as he embraced his bride.
They were both so beautiful. And so happy! Bella had never seen such joy.
She placed her hand on her lap, inches from her husband’s, willing him to take it. But he lifted his hand and adjusted his necktie.
Curse him—why did he have to look so handsome? His usual rugged demeanor—unkempt hair, crumpled suit, and the film of dirt that was always under his fingernails after a day’s toil—was alluring enough, for it exuded a masculinity that set her heart fluttering. But decked out in his best jacket, his hair freshly combed, smelling of soap and woody spices, he was breathtaking.
No wonder every woman in the village wanted him.
And no wonder they all thought she wasn’t good enough for him—the wayward wife with the past that nobody, not even her husband, spoke of.
She turned her hand, palm upward, and traced the callouses on her skin from her chores.
Chores… She’d hated them at first, but now she took comfort in them. Chores gave her a purpose—something she could take charge of. And they were something to take pride in. If she swept the floor, it became free of dust, and if she washed the windows, they became clean. They did as she bade.
Except the fire—the angry flames that sprang from the tinder, curling and crackling with a life of their own, eliciting a deep-set fear that threatened to overwhelm her as they pulsed back and forth. Each day, she fought to conquer the flames, telling them she would not be cowed.
Until recently, when her husband had begun to light the fires for her. Why, she couldn’t fathom, seeing as he did little else around the house. But he insisted, wearing her resolve with something akin to guilt in his expression, until she relented.
She glanced up to see him looking directly at her, that same guilt in his eyes. Then he resumed his attention on the happy couple at the front of the church.
