Page 3 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
“The same man,” Fiona said. “Day in and day out.”
“Do you think we should call the constable?” Posey asked.
“Absolutely,” Mama said.
“Best to be safe. Though one hopes it does not come to violence.” Papa turned to Fiona, a single brow lifted. “Why didn’t you tell us of this sooner?”
Fiona tangled her hands in the skirts, unable to meet her father’s eyes. He was a sweet man who preferred the glittering world of jewels and golden wires to anything else. He’d have stuck his nose into his designs and never once noticed Foggy stealing their clientele, ruining their business, had Mama not taken control, taken over the books, and allowed Posey to work the front of the shop. And secretly the back of it.
But Fiona, she took after Papa, after all—too much daydreaming—so she wasn’t allowed to help. “At first I did not realize it was the same man every day. Then once I determined that it was, I knew I must tell you, but something or other always blew it right out of my head. An idea for a painting or an angry customer. Or I’d remember only after I was tucked in bed and everyone else asleep.” Everyone groaned. “I am terribly sorry,” Fiona muttered.
Unlike her mother and Posey, she had never excelled at practical things. Her mind would always flit away with ideas, stories, concepts for brooches with green trees and moons high above. Oh, or perhaps a… a geometric bracelet design. Brown diamonds cut in squares, boxy and sharp but glittering—London on some lady’s wrist. Yes, and—
And there she was again—distracted.
“I am sorry,” she mumbled. “I will do better.”
Papa reached over and patted her hand. “No harm done.”
“Too true,” Mama added. “We are well aware of the limitations on your abilities. Large creative soul, little brain box.” She chuckled.
Fiona did not.
Mama’s head bobbed up and down. “If the fellow means ill, we must strike before he does. Papa and I will handle it all. You concentrate on your paintings, Fiona. Lady Abernathy asked about them the other day. She’d like a little watercolor for her parlor. Thinks you’re quite talented.”
Fiona offered a smile, hoping it didn’t tremble. “Of course, Mama. I’ll try.” That had been her opportunity to tell him what she wanted. Not watercolors. Not even close. She must seize the moment! “Papa?”
“Yes, m’dear?” He blinked at her.
“I would like to help with the shop. I’ve a few finished designs you could look at, and—”
“Oh, no, no, no. That would never do.” His mouth, at least, offered the rejection with a sympathetic slant.
Mama patted Fiona’s hand. “Darling, we must show our clientele that we are as sophisticated as they, our daughter just as accomplished. Besides, you must not worry yourself with the shop. Posey and Papa and Daniel are capable without you. Perhaps we should move your art materials here. It seems to have been a distraction to allow you to paint in the workroom.”
“No!” Fiona threw up her hands. She loved being in the shop every day, loved seeing the different pieces that came in for fixing, loved seeing Papa’s designs, tweaking them when he was not looking, making them better, hearing the praise for the pieces she’d tweaked when it floated faint from the front of the shop to the back. “No. It is no distraction at all. I merely wished to… help in some substantial way.”
Papa patted her on the head. “There is no need, Fee.”
“You were made for softer things, darling,” Mama added. “Painting is work enough.”
Did they think to marry her off to a peer’s son? She wouldn’t. Unless she loved him. But not even then if he didn’t understand her desires, if he didn’t see her and love her back and let her follow her own path. She would only escape from her childhood home to her marriage bed if it came with the promise of a different life, one where she wasn’t Fiona of the big soul and little brain.
She could convince her family of the quality and stoutness of her mind if she showed them the right drawing, her most brilliant design. Right? A bit of inspiration would solve everything. If she could but grasp it, she could help her family in a less dangerous way. And she must help. She couldn’t sit behind an easel all day long while they did all the work.
She hated that—feeling useless, having no skill that could keep her family safe and warm and well fed, having a small brain box, as her mother had reminded her.
Shewouldfind inspiration. And yet her body did not seem convinced. She almost couldn’t breathe. Her chest squeezed tighter than an ill-fitting corset. She compelled herself to calm down. No use swooning over something that had not happened.
Mama clapped her hands. “Let us do what needs to be done and not worry about it. Papa can find some willing men at the tavern to guard the shop tonight.”
“Just what I said.” Posey tapped the arm of their mother’s chair, her hand pale against the dark oak.
Papa patted Posey’s hand. “Sharp as a whip. Just like your mother.”
“Come, let’s eat.” Mama smiled as if nothing in the world were wrong. “We were waiting only for your arrival.”
Their father stood and took up position behind Mama’s chair. “Asparagus soup tonight, m’dears.”
