Page 22 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Mrs. Chatham leaned in, lowering her voice. “We have come with news, Madame Perreau, that we found it most important to pass on. Pray tell, have you spoken to Miss Snubbs already this day?”

“I have not had that pleasure, no.”

Mrs. Price took a small step forward as the bell signaled the exit of the French party, her gray hair parted down the middle and drawn back into a severe knot below her bonnet. “It is being said that she danced not only twice, but three times with Mr. Kettleborough. Three!”

Gossip. How deplorable.

“I did not see any such thing,” Marguerite promised.

Both ladies leaned back slightly, drawing in a breath.

“You were present?” Mrs. Chatham asked.

“At the ball?” Mrs. Price pressed, her eyes growing wide.

Marguerite realized her blunder. She should not have told the town’s greater gossips about her attendance. Even they would not see her nationality as a valid reason, surely.

“I witnessed Miss Snubbs walking on the arm of a gentleman in the garden, but there were many other people around, and it was very brief.”

Mrs. Chatham’s smile grew wide again. “Oh, it is true then.”

“She will receive a proposal of marriage now.” Mrs. Price nodded to herself.

“After three sets in one evening, there is no other recourse, is there?” Mrs. Chatham said.

“We should speak to Miss Snubbs before drawing conclusions,” Marguerite said. “Perhaps she does not love him.”

“Love?” the women asked in unison.

“Security,” Mrs. Price said in a more soothing tone. “Not everyone has the skill to make gowns as you do.”

Or the freedom to work in trade. Marguerite knew that. Her parents would have been appalled were they alive today to see what she was. Or would they have been proud to see the life she had built for herself?

“Now come and tell us how you came to receive an invitation,” Mrs. Chatham said, eyes wide, as though the bigger she made them, the more information she could absorb.

Marguerite felt the women leaning close, their interest like a wide net, hoping to capture her like a stray hapless butterfly. She hoped someone would push the door open then and beg her to make them a gown, stays, stockings—anything.

Her wish was granted.

The bell rang out in the room, causing the women to jump back to see who the next patron would be, their curiosity insatiable.

Mrs. Harding stepped through the door, her proud nose lifted as she dipped a greeting to Mrs. Chatham and Mrs. Price.

Mrs. Price lowered her chin slightly. “Have you heard the news of Miss Snubbs?”

“She was there, Matilda. She very likely saw it with her own eyes.” Mrs. Chatham looked at Mrs. Harding. “Did you?”

“It is being greatly exaggerated, I fear.” Mrs. Harding crossed the floor toward the display of shawls and lifted one, holding it toward the light from the window. “They only danced the two sets, but they did walk in the garden for a third.”

Both of the gossiping ladies gasped lightly in unison.

“An engagement is surely forthcoming,” Mrs. Chatham said.

For Miss Snubbs’ sake, Marguerite hoped that was the case, but only if the lady wished for it.

She remained at her counter, hands clasped lightly in front of her as the women continued to pull as much information from Mrs. Harding as they could.

It was an art, how they could extract the knowledge they desired.

Marguerite wished she could set them upon Armand.

“Look!” Mrs. Price took Mrs. Chatham by the arm. “Mrs. Kimball and her daughter have only just walked past the shop. We must ask about the man Miss Kimball sat with at supper. ”

“We should be on our way. We’ve stayed too long already. Good day, Madame Perreau.”

“The same to you both,” Marguerite said to their backs as the women scurried outside and past the window in pursuit of the Kimballs.

Silence rang in the wake of the bell. Claude stepped into the shop and walked along the outer perimeter of the room before curling at Marguerite’s feet behind the counter.

Mrs. Harding dropped the edge of the shawl. She lifted another and turned it toward the light, then raised the deep maroon fabric and ran it over her hand. “I will take this,” she said, bringing it toward Marguerite.

“It is a beautiful color.”

“My son usually has an opinion about my colors, but I think he will approve. He chose a gown in almost the same shade just last year.”

Marguerite nodded. It was the shawl she would have chosen, had her opinion been requested. She accepted the fabric and straightened it out, folding it so she could wrap it in paper.

Mrs. Harding cleared her throat, her eyes flicking to the door. “Speaking of my son, I could not help but notice that he spent a good deal of time with you in the garden last night.”

Marguerite’s hands went still. She lifted her gaze, smiling. “He was kind to forego our dance in favor of fresh air. I am afraid it has been so long since I’ve attended a ball that I was quite overcome by the crush.”

She narrowed her gaze slightly. “He has always had a tender heart.”

That was how Marguerite would have described him as well since coming to know him through the letters, but it was not overly apparent in person. Samuel was successful in wearing his foppish shield.

When Mrs. Harding didn’t continue, Marguerite finished wrapping the shawl and slid it over the counter .

Mrs. Harding’s hands covered it, but her expression remained steadily on Marguerite.

“Samuel has said nothing to me, but I do not take it to be a coincidence that he recently acquired a cat and has given it a French name.” Her eyes darted down, as though she could see Claude through the counter.

“I am certain you are aware of the growing affection he shares with Miss Farrow. He has given me reason to suspect we will be celebrating their engagement tomorrow.”

Marguerite’s breath caught. “So soon?”

“There is no reason to wait.”

Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears, she could hardly hear herself think. She smiled politely, doing her best to keep her shaky hands beneath the counter and out of sight. “Mr. Harding is a friend of mine. I am glad to hear of his impending happiness.”

Mrs. Harding gave her a hard stare. The woman could cut through a chunk of ice with those eyes. She must have deemed her work complete, however, for she gave a slight nod, took her package, and walked out of the shop.

Marguerite lowered herself to the floor, kneeling beside Claude. Her chest hurt, her lungs struggling to expand. “Engaged,” she whispered, her heart pounding feverishly. “I must write him a final letter, darling. It will have to be my last.”