Francine wasn't sure what she wanted more. For Phoebe to accept the safety of Mr. Burnham's proposal? Or for the damnably irritating and attractive man to go far away where she would never have to see him again? He said Bermuda, but did Phoebe's safety require she go so far away? That sounded horrible. Francie had no siblings, but since her cousins moved in she felt as though she did. Surely they wouldn't all be separated so soon. It wouldn't be fair! But she needed to do what was best for Phoebe. And that meant keeping her cousin safe.

“Phoebe, I’m sorry, he asked why I shot him, and…” Her cousin looked so aghast that Francie slapped Mr. Burnham on the arm, making him wince. “…I told him.” Clearly Mr Burnham's proposal wasn't the solution that Phoebe was seeking. That made Francie oddly happy, presumably because her cousin wouldn't be moving to Bermuda after all. She pinned her unwilling patient with a glare. “Now stay still for one moment and let me snip this thread before it catches on something and rips that wound open.”

A quick snip and she secured her needle on her apron, settling next to her cousin on the settee. 

Foolish man that he was, Mr. Burnham tried to argue his case. “Miss Phoebe, your brother saved my hide on more than one occasion. The least I could do to repay him is to help his sisters.”

Francie watched her cousin's face. Nothing the man said seemed to have the least impact, but Phoebe did send the young doctor a gratified glance when the man insisted Mr. Burnham put his shirt back on. Perhaps the dark-haired dolt should notice that it was small acts of kindness that Phoebe found dear, not self-sacrificing acts of gallantry. Francie felt it was only right to cajole her cousin toward what could be a safer path, but Phoebe was having none of it.

The next few days were a blur of worry and preparation. Phoebe, while resistant to Mr. Burnham's proposal, fell into the fair doctor's plans readily enough. Before Francie knew it both of her cousins were planning to leave Cleadon to make for London. The doctor insisted that Phoebe should verify that it was truly her father's mark on the original debt, and Lydie seemed determined to go back to the inn where her brother had been captured. The same inn that Jack Grenard owned before fleeing London in the first place. Francie of course completely supported her cousins finding their peace, but did they have to go into the mouth of the lion? It seemed a terribly foolish thing to do. If they'd left it up to Francie she would have packed them both up and gone to Scotland or some such. Perhaps even Mr. Burnham's island would be better than lingering here where the bad men could get them.

But no one had left it up to Francie, so she did the best she could to assure her cousin that of course she could finish their meager May Day orders on her own. And if perhaps she cried a bit at night thinking on how she would be left all alone in the world, she did so quietly. And if she worried that Phoebe shouldn't hie off to London with nary but a doctor for protection, she diffused it by snapping at the ever-irritating Mr. Burnham. He, the dratted man, didn't plan to go anywhere in the foreseeable future. And as much as she detested his pushy, high-handed nature, it was also true that she sorely feared being all alone in the world. So, when discussions turned to him staying with her she put up only token resistance. Yes, it would ruin her reputation, and their orders after May Day would undoubtedly be nil, but it wasn't as though anything would stop that now.

It was safe to say that for all her bravado and feisty retorts, she was feeling a certain lassitude about the whole affair. Her life as she'd known it until now was ending and she saw no way to stop it. First they would lose their customers, then they would lose the shop, and then they would need to strike out to another town where they were unknown in an attempt to build up a clientele again. Or Francine would need to on her own. She'd seen the glances Phoebe and the doctor exchanged when they thought no one was looking. It was more than a fair bet that Phoebe would marry the young man, and certainly he would provide for Lydie as well. That meant the only question Francie needed to answer for herself was where she would go. North to Newcastle? South to Durham? Or somewhere else entirely?

She retreated to her bedroom, the only place she knew she could be free of her beastly self-assigned protector, and wrote the monthly letter that always gave her joy.

 

Dear Cousin Jack,

 

You would be so proud of me. I shot a man! It turned out he didn't deserve it, so blessedly I didn't kill him. But sometimes when he's officious I wish that I'd aimed a bit better...

 

***

 

It had been a day since Harry had taken the dark-haired beauty and her sister off to London and Reggie would be damned if Miss Walters had said more than two words to him since. In his estimation, little murmurs that sounded like "hmmm" didn't qualify as words, and that was the primary way she communicated now. An answer in the affirmative was almost an octave above one in the negative, but if that weren't definitive enough it was also accompanied by a slight nod or furrowed brow and a shake of the head. So here he sat in her sewing room watching her sew, his chair tipped back against the wall as he eyed her. She seemed unperturbed by his presence or his staring. He was ostensibly protecting her from the ruffians who still lingered outside, no doubt waiting for Miss Grenard's return. But they seemed to affect her even less than he did, as though she were some mythical queen unbothered by the doings of mortal men. He had sisters, however, and knew that such a complete change in behavior, from virago to dullard, was likely a sign that something was terribly wrong. Undoubtedly, she'd seen the need to cheer her rightly terrified cousin, but he wasn't worth the bother.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Hm." A small shrug accompanied the noncommittal sound, confirming it to be indifference.

He set the chair to rights. "I'll get us some supper from the pub."

Her diligent sewing stilled for a moment. "If you like."

Three more words! He felt so privileged.

Taking to the street he confirmed that the thugs were still stationed at convenient corners to watch the comings and goings of the shop. After placing his order, he lingered at the door of the pub to watch them. It was a rather boring game of cat and mouse, with them all eyeing each other every day. Reggie knew that he cut an impressive figure, with broad enough shoulders to make even these street-toughened criminals think twice. And over his years in the Navy he'd been in enough brawls to know that it wasn't all for show. If he didn't have this damn shoulder wound he would feel confident in his ability to take both of them. As it was, he had to hope that they believe it so he didn't have to prove it.

Procuring their supper of boiled lamb and hard bread, along with two tots of ale, he ambled back to the dress shop. The ruffians stared and looked threatening, but did not approach him. It was late enough in the day that he felt confident locking the front door to further business.

Miss Walters appeared in the front room, undoubtedly responding to the jangle of the bells on the door. Seeing him, however, she simply turned back to the sewing room. Reggie sighed. He'd had dogs who spoke more often.

"Come upstairs," he called from the hallway, "so we can eat at table."

She reappeared again, tucking her scissors in her pocket. She met his gaze for the briefest of moments before climbing the steps to the family rooms above the shop.

Once upstairs he spread their slight fare out on the table and she retrieved some cheese from the larder to add to their repast. He took to slicing up their meat and cheese and portioned them on the plates she set out.

He wasn't, he thought, the type who had to hear constant chatter. Quite honestly he should find her silence refreshing, as having a house full of women had been a bit of a strain the last few days. But her placidity bordered on sadness and it made him unaccountably uncomfortable. Enough so that he found himself starting a conversation.

"I've seen a machine that sews."

She looked up from her supper, and it encouraged him to warm to his topic.

"It's used for sewing the sheets on a boat. The sails, you might call them. And I've seen schematics for a machine that was to sew finer things. One man whose works I read hopes that things so fine as lady's garments might be sewn by large machines."

She only delicately arched a brow at him, but her disbelief was evident.

"There will be a day," he predicted, "when machines will do all our work."

"Then what will we do?" she asked. Still subdued, but at least a small spark of curiosity flared. And he'd pried five more words from her, by God.

"Whatever we like. We can all be lords when we have machines as servants."

He saw the glimmer of a wry smile. "I doubt the lords will settle for that," she said, turning her attention back to the supper she was pushing around her plate.

"Perhaps they won't want to, but progress can't be forestalled forever. Science will march forward and solve our problems, and eventually even the lords will have to bow to that."

The elicited a full grin. "That I would love to see, but a better guess is that lords will pound into the dust anything that threatens their sovereignty."

Finally some of their verbal sparring was returning. "Would you care to make a bet on that?" he asked, leaning forward with a grin himself.

She looked up again. "What are the stakes? I can't afford much."

"It will take years for this bet to be settled, so who knows what you can afford then? But we'll make it simple. The loser must apologize and tell the winner they were right."

She wrinkled nose in distaste. "Wouldn't you rather have pound notes?"

He saluted her with his cup of ale. "Although I haven't known you long, I wager that this will be a prize we will both value to win and hate to lose most. If I'm man enough to risk it, I would hope you could stomach the risk as well."

"Fine," she said with a laugh, raising her own cup. "To the winner goes all the credit, to the loser all the chagrin."

He clinked his cup against hers and took a deep draught. If she regained her feistiness then at least his time here wouldn't be boring.