Page 86 of A Secret Correspondence
“Yes.” She nodded, drawing in a shaky breath. Samuel’s armscame around her, his hand pressing softly to the back of her head as she rested on his chest. He comforted her, holding her in his arms as she cried softly, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and grief.
“You know,” Samuel said, his voice muffled with her ear pressed to his coat. “If you would like, you do notneedto be a modiste for the rest of your life.”
She leaned back. “You mean I ought to sell the building?”
“No, not unless you want to. I only mean you do not need to work any longer. Not with all the jewels you were hiding in your mattress.”
Marguerite considered this. She had needed an occupation, and the jewels were meant to be something to fall back on in case she needed them at the end of her life. But now? She could sell the building. Or she could rent it out, bring in an income from the rent, and put her focus on raising a family when that time came.
“Perhaps we can discuss our options later. For now, I think we ought to look in the rest of my mother’s gowns.”
Samuel leaned back. “What,allof them?”
“My aunt had more items hidden among her bodices. It would be foolish not to look.”
Samuel shook his head. He cupped her face and leaned down to kiss her. She enjoyed the moment, the feeling of warmth that crept down to her toes despite the coldness in the room.
When Samuel finally broke the kiss, his cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright. “Perhaps we can do so at home? I do think you will freeze if I do not remove you from this veritable ice box soon.”
She chuckled, nodding. “Very well. It would be better to do this at home, anyway.”
Together, they packed the trunk away again, carefully ensuring the fleur-de-lis jewels were secured. Marguerite found her mother’s bottle of perfume on Paul’s writingtable with a handful of notes he had practiced and pushed aside, as though he had been determining how best to disguise his handwriting. She tucked the bottle inside the trunk as well.
Samuel heaved the trunk down the stairs and to his curricle. He tied it to the back and helped Marguerite onto the driving bench. She tucked the rug around her legs while Samuel situated himself.
As the curricle pulled out of town and onto the country road, Marguerite turned her face toward the sun, closing her eyes and letting the warmth wash over her skin. Her bonnet did nothing to protect her at this angle, but she did not care. She felt free. She was loved. She would not have to go through this life alone.
Her family would be small, but she had one now.
Samuel, Oliver, Ruth, Jacob, and Eliza. They were only the beginning. Marguerite could sense the road ahead would not be straight and simple, but it would be glorious, and she would not be taking it alone.
“You are wearing a rather large smile,” Samuel said, his voice amused. “I surely hope this means you are thinking of me.”
“In a sense, I was.”
“Only in a sense? Drat. What do I need to do to take up all your senses?”
“Well, that would be dangerous. I would prefer you kept most of your attention on the horses.”
He scoffed. “I am one of the best drivers in Harewood, Marguerite. Or have I not told you about the last race I won?”
“You might have mentioned it,” she said lightly. “But a good driver does not boast, Sam. He is good because he humbly cares for his team, his future wife, and the conditions of the road.”
“Oh, very well.” He grinned, leaning over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I will do all those things. I love you and how well you know your own mind, Marguerite soon-to-be Harding.”
“I love you as well.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The shop was warm from the fire blazing in the small hearth, the heat billowing enough to draw Marguerite’s attention from her place near the window. Should she remove a log? The weather had taken a turn in the last few days since her return to Harewood and Paul’s removal from her life, but she did not wish to smother any customers with overbearing heat. She chewed on her lip and let it be. This early in the morning on such a cold day, she was unlikely to receive any customers anyway.
Truthfully, with Mrs. Farrow spreading her rumors, it was a boon and a surprise each time the bell rang above Marguerite’s shop door.
Pushing that unpleasant thought aside, she balanced herself and hefted the dress form out of the bay window, the heavy gown and pelisse bringing the wooden stand onto the floor with a thud.
Marguerite had decided to make a bold gesture in the face of Mrs. Farrow’s adversity and place a daring gown in the window. Not two days after the escapade with Paul, Mr. Chatham had read the banns in church, announcing to the parish the intent for Samuel Harding and Marguerite Perreau to wed, and a rippleof murmurs had gone through the congregation like great tall waves during a storm.
Marguerite was choosing not to cower. She removed a placid, pale green gown from the dress form and pulled a deep red ball gown over it, fastening the buttons and shifting the neckline until it fit just right. She stood it up and had stepped back to be certain it was evenly proportioned when the bell rang over the door.
