Though they rarely needed her help, Felicity sometimes stopped by her father's shop in the days that followed, if only to give herself something to do. Even if that something was being told that all was in order, and an offer of candied orange slices as if she were a child.
William's new tutor kept him busy, and her brother spent long hours burrowed in a pile of books at the college, or helping with deliveries, leaving the evenings for him to run through the streets with his friends. And Nan divided her time efficiently between household chores and her own friends.
All of it led to Felicity finding herself rather purposeless.
So on a cold afternoon in early November, Felicity fought her way toward the storeroom door. The front was bustling, and she'd nearly had to swim through the crowd. Marcus was unloading blue papered cones of sugar onto a shelf. He beckoned Felicity over when he saw her.
"Your father's been looking for you." The shop was so busy, the message required a half shout. "Something about a silk shipment and a dress fitting."
She suppressed a grumble. She'd forgotten about Elizabeth's plans.
Felicity thanked Marcus and waved to Ben on her way out, which earned her a genuine smile from the midst of his conversation with Mrs. Powell.
Elizabeth clapped excitedly.
"Oh, I wish you would peek!" she said again.
Felicity squeezed her eyes shut harder. "No, I want it to be a surprise."
She could feel the silk being tugged even tighter to her stays before expert hands pinned it in place. Every nook of the mantua-maker's shop had walls covered with ribbons, hats, feathers, fans, cascading fabric, and small drawers of ornate buttons — all working to muffle their voices.
"You'll have no difficulty finding a dancing partner." Elizabeth sounded very confident. "At least one," she added.
"About the dancing..."
"Oh, we're going to practice after this," said Elizabeth. "Don't fret."
Felicity wanted to shrug but the back of her gown was being pinned. Dancing was one of her favorite things, though the pastime had fallen to the wayside during the war. The upcoming ball felt like a long-awaited return.
"Have you met dear William's new tutor?" Elizabeth asked impassively.
"I have not." The opportunity hadn't yet arisen, since the only time she knew he'd been to the house, he had slipped by while Felicity was busy out in the kitchen. The two had apparently stayed upstairs in her father's study, with William only occasionally sticking his head out to call for another pot of coffee. By the time she'd returned from a long ride, they'd gone to some unused classroom in the Wren Building.
"I made his acquaintance yesterday. He seems quite... studious. And tall."
The hem of Felicity's skirt was being cut, so she could only turn her head to Elizabeth. She was careful to avoid looking down at the work Mrs. Lewis was doing.
"Well, I certainly hope he's academically inclined," Felicity said. "Father's not paying him to teach William how to fish."
"No," Elizabeth mused. "I believe he was already taught that long ago by his eldest sister. But Mr. Thomas Hall is a law student from Richmond. He seems to be about our age and nearly ready to finish his studies."
"And did you drop your handkerchief so he could pick it up?"
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to stop a smile.
"I considered it," she admitted.
The small bedchamber that was now Ben's sat at the far end of the hallway. In his absence, it had served as a storage space, a sickroom, and a makeshift library for Felicity. Makeshift in that nobody else knew about it. She'd stashed borrowed books between burlap sacks and bolts of canvas sailcloth, making a kind of reading nest beside the window.
And she had spent some lonely afternoons there, missing Ben fiercely and trying not to overhear any news of more casualties. Sometimes Felicity had pretended that if she stayed there and didn't listen, it would keep him safe and he would reappear.
It had come to pass, through no skill of her own, and now she was out of a cozy, sunlit alcove to curl up in.
Not that Felicity was complaining. Hearing Ben climb the stairs at night, trying to be quiet as he crept down the hall, made her heart race in a peculiar way.
If she ever wanted to visit the coffeehouse again, it was essential that she learn his patterns. That was what Felicity focused on when he returned late. Not her simmering need to meddle or the little secret bit of hurt that didn't make any sense.
On a dreary Tuesday, a knock at the front door interrupted Felicity's music practice. Unlike the fading rolls of thunder, a visitor could not be ignored, so after carefully setting her guitar on the settee next to her, Felicity went to answer it.
She opened the door to a new face. The man seemed a bit frazzled, clutching a leather satchel that strained with the bulk of too many books.
"Good afternoon. I apologize for my lateness," he said as he bowed. "You must be Miss Merriman. I'm Thomas Hall."
"I am. Good afternoon, Mr. Hall."
Felicity appreciated him in pieces. Waves of light brown hair, pulled back to gather at the nape of his neck; piercingly blue eyes. A prominent but proportional nose gave him an air of distinguishment. The drizzle of rain gathered on the brim of his wide hat, dripping as he looked down at her with a pleasant curve to his lips.
He was so...
Handsome, she thought.
It wasn't a word she used often, even privately. But Mr. Hall was that. Elizabeth had said he was about their age, but he had an easy confidence that made him seem older.
Felicity collected herself. She was making him stand in the chilly rain so she could gawk.
"Please come in," she said, moving aside. Thomas bowed again, taking off his hat before he entered and shaking it behind him to remove most of the water. He straightened, and yes, he was tall. Felicity breathed in as he walked past her, because he seemed like the sort to smell good, and she was rewarded with a whiff of bergamot and mint.
She closed the door and they were alone in the foyer hall, the patter of rain hushed outside. From the back of the house, she could just barely hear Rose working: metal scraping over the bricks of the hearth, and the thump of resettling logs. Felicity fumbled, unsure of what to do next, before her manners again came to the rescue.
"Please let me take your coat and hat, Mr. Hall. I'll dry them by the fire."
"That's very kind."
Elizabeth had been right in other ways, too. He had a keen intelligence to him, and his gaze seemed to first soak in the full scene before snapping around to take in details. Like the instrument resting on the settee in the parlor behind her, and the string marks on her fingers as she took his coat.
"I suppose you are to thank for the lovely music that I heard during my first visit, Miss Merriman," Thomas said to her from the foyer while she draped his coat over a fireside chair. "Although I wish it were a more frequent pleasure. You are a skilled player."
Felicity blushed at the praise, grateful that he was courteous enough to not follow her into the parlor, and regretting that she hadn't known he'd been able to hear. She would've practiced something more adventurous had she known Thomas was listening from her father's sunshine-washed study.
"Thank you. But I am a novice."
"The best learners always describe themselves so," he said reassuringly as she returned to the foyer. "Bit of a family trait, I think."
Felicity's blush deepened and she changed the subject before it all went to her head.
"Would you care for some tea? I can bring it up to the study."
Thomas slumped at that, somehow losing none of his height.
"I would be most obliged to you, Miss Merriman. One of my examinations was unexpectedly long."
"'Tis no trouble at all."
Thomas wearily climbed the stairs as Felicity headed out to the kitchen to prepare the tea. She added another spoonful of leaves to the pot. He seemed like he could use a stronger cup.
Rose chopped carrots for a stew and Felicity watched her while waiting for the kettle to boil. Most of their interactions revolved around household management and daily tasks, but Felicity's life had always included the sound of Rose's voice drifting through open summertime evening windows as she chatted with neighbors over the fence. Once, a few years prior, Felicity had walked into the kitchen to find Rose and Marcus kissing, flour smeared over his waistcoat. The embarrassment had been Felicity's alone, resulting in her mumbled apology, their palpable irritation at being interrupted, and a quickly shut kitchen door. None of them spoke of it, and Felicity had endeavored to give them every opportunity for privacy and to make a bit more noise when approaching closed doors. The lesson in consideration, delicate and essential, had been taught wordlessly.
"Rose, is there anything we need?"
"Cinnamon," she said immediately and Felicity knew to rush for a quill and the scrap of foolscap to add to the list Rose had already begun. If Rose didn't have to pause and think, there was a lot, and with Christmas on the way, there would be plenty of cooking and baking. Rose's chopping didn't falter. "Sorghum, cornmeal, nutmeg, tea for that boy—" She pointed her chin over at the house. "Molasses, orange peel, currants, pecans, sugar, chicken feed, candles. And that bucket is leaking." She aimed the toe of her shoe at an old, overturned bucket in the corner of the kitchen.
Felicity nodded as she finished writing. "I'll ask Ben to take it to the cooper."
Rose hummed in agreement, heading over to dump the carrots into a large, bubbling pot on the fire. The tiny splashes flung broth to sizzle against the hot metal.
"Has Marcus said anything about him?" Felicity tried to keep her tone breezy but Rose gave her a sharp-eyed once over.
"The cooper?"
"Ben."
Rose stirred the stew, her other hand braced against her lower back. "Here and there," she said.
Felicity chewed her bottom lip. She was pushing her luck. Rose knew her far too well for this to sound disinterested.
"Has Marcus mentioned if he's acting any differently?"
"He's settling in just fine, if that's what's got you worrying."
It wasn't. They both knew that. Felicity wanted to ask if Marcus thought something might be distracting Ben. If he spoke of any names, or seemed tired from late nights, or insisted on making the deliveries to any houses in particular. But that would be gossip.
Rose tapped the spoon's handle against the rim of the pot.
"Water's ready."
When Felicity brought the tray upstairs, loaded with bread and cold meat and cheeses as well as biscuits, all she could think about was Ben. When Thomas stood to thank her and William reached for a slice of ham without looking up from his book, Felicity was still wondering what Rose thought of her questions.
Her father invited Thomas to stay for supper.
Nan could barely tear her eyes away, and when Felicity asked her to pass the salt, it was with a knowing smirk. Nan tried to appear indifferent to the teasing and was saved when Thomas asked Felicity how long she had been playing the five-course guitar, and what her favorite songs were.
His interests were wide ranging, and he kept the conversation flowing easily. He discussed botany with Felicity, describing the fascinating plant specimens recently collected in faraway places. He complimented Nan's needlepoint cushion in the study, asking how she had designed the pattern and how she determined which stitches to use. Thomas spoke in French to William, helping him practice, while they took turns translating for everybody else. He asked Ben and Mr. Merriman about the current status of supply lines and trade routes, listening intently to Mr. Merriman's response.
Ben had been quiet all evening. It wasn't so surprising, given that he barely knew Thomas. But now that Felicity noticed, he seemed lost in thought.
She flicked a tiny bread crumb over to him, and it landed next to his plate. Ben jolted a little. Recovering, he nodded in agreement with what her father was saying about rum importation as he surreptitiously tore off a small bit of his own bread. Hand disappearing beside his chair, Ben easily sent the piece arcing over the table to land with a minuscule splash in her glass of cider.
Felicity choked back a laugh and checked to see if Mr. Merriman had noticed. He was still talking about import law, oblivious.
But now there was a fluffy, white chunk of bread floating very conspicuously in her cup, and using a spoon to fish it out was completely out of the question. Felicity gave Ben a withering glare before she brought the glass to her lips and drank. The bread swirled away from her mouth, so she took another gulp. And another. Finally, she got it. Setting her nearly empty glass down triumphantly, she glanced over at Ben to gloat but he was twisting in his seat, turning to hide his silent laughter.
"Good heavens, Felicity," her father said, lightly scolding before returning to his conversation with Thomas. Nan pursed her lips together in disapproval of her older sister before taking a demure bite of stew.
Felicity aimed a kick at Ben under the table but he dodged it, struggling even harder to stifle his laughter.
Truthfully, she had two pairs of breeches. The ones she wore to the coffeehouse were in her room, clean and well kept. The second pair was stored carelessly, tossed into a dark corner of the barn loft, covered in bits of hay and Penny's coppery hair mixed with Patriot's near-black, the coarser woolen broadcloth heavy with the unmistakable smell of a stable.
That was the pair Felicity was wearing beneath her dress as she rode past the brickyard at a steady trot. She'd done this so many times that it was just another habit, like brushing and plaiting her hair before bed.
Once she was well out of view, Felicity dismounted behind a massive tree and stashed the sidesaddle. She hated using the thing: the slowness and the unbalanced precariousness of holding herself upright with one leg hooked over the pommel to join the other. A whip was required to give commands on the side where there was no leg to squeeze with, and while Penny didn't seem to mind her gentle touch and Patriot barely noticed, Felicity despised it. She'd rescued Penny so the animal could run free and avoid whips, and the sidesaddle prevented both, all for some ridiculous idea of propriety.
So it was with pleasure that Felicity cast her cap aside, tied up her skirts, remounted — this time bareback — and took off. Even with the bulkiness of petticoats around her waist, the essential rush of a gallop and the naturalness of sitting astride made the effort well worth it. Cold air stung Felicity's eyes and bit at her cheeks, and every moment of it was pure joy. When marriage bound her to decorum, she would have to stop but, for now, she was still free.
She cut over wheel-rutted roads to let Penny have rolling, fallow fields. Finches clung to the dried seed heads of the past summer's wildflowers, pecking until the rumble of Penny's hooves made them scatter like minnows.
No fences, no gates — exactly as it should be.
And it was with the usual bitterness and resignation that Felicity returned to the tree to put the detested saddle back on, flipping it to the other side to ease the uneven strain on her horse's back.
"Sorry, girl." Felicity didn't know which of them she was saying it to, and perhaps it didn't matter. They both had to transform.
After using a tall stump to mount, Felicity smoothed her skirt over her legs and headed home.
Approaching town, the air was filled with the scent of smokehouses preserving the work of autumn butchering, and the clamor of mallets and saws as last-minute repairs were made before winter came in earnest.
The shop would be closing soon for the night, ruining any chance of easy stealthiness, so Felicity brought Penny into the barn still saddled, removed the bit, and slipped a halter over her head while Patriot snorted softly in greeting from his stall, his ears pricked forward in interest.
After tying Penny quickly, Felicity used the moment of privacy to unbutton her breeches and kick them off. She had to move fast — one glimpse of the crumpled wool would open an entire line of questions that she had no intention of answering. Everything she most loved to do was a ramshackle secret, and the discovery of a single article of clothing could ruin it all.
Scaling the ladder to the loft, Felicity hid the breeches more thoroughly: a darker corner and under an extra armful of dusty hay. And not a moment too soon: she was climbing down when Ben came in with two buckets of water to top off the trough.
He glanced up at the vacated hayloft as Felicity brushed her hands on her skirt and curtsied. The barn cat, Magpie, slunk along, meowing loudly at them and rubbing a cheek against the corner of Penny's stall door until Felicity gave her a pat.
Ben studied Penny as he dumped the water, and Felicity's chest felt too tight. The dark patches of sweat on Penny's winter scruff were unmistakable. In the early November chill, and after an easy, short ride that the sidesaddle allowed, there was no reason for an otherwise healthy horse to be sweating so much.
"Was it quite busy today?" Felicity chatted, trying to distract him.
"Aye," Ben said absently as he set the empty buckets down and walked over to Penny.
Heartbeat slamming in her throat, Felicity became fascinated with her thumbnail, picking at it and wishing she could run out of the barn. Ben rested a hand on Penny's shoulder, then reached under the saddle to feel the pad beneath, barely damp.
Instead of commenting, he moved on to the tack hook, folding the use-worn leather of the reins, and inspecting the frayed stitching and cracking edges.
"We should be receiving an order of bridles soon," Ben commented. "In a week or two. I could set one aside if you'd like."
Felicity stormed over, snatching the reins out of his hand. She didn't need a lecture. Or an investigation.
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of her myself. And I ordered those, months ago."
She shouldered past him to get to the saddle.
Ben seemed unfazed. He was very close to her now, peering down at her face. He smelled like the storeroom: stacks of soap and lavender powder, beeswax candles, and the pine shavings that packed crates of willow-patterned porcelain plates. Her job, once, though the scent of it was different on him. Earthier. Deeper.
"Your freckles have faded, Miss Merriman." His voice was quiet and there was a hint of wistfulness. "Perhaps you're staying indoors too much."
"Or maybe I can only slip out at night," Felicity retorted.
Ben raised his eyebrows.
"And where might a respectable shopkeeper's daughter be sneaking off to after dark?" Still soft. Still close enough to feel his breath move the loose wisps of hair that had fallen from her cap.
Felicity lifted her chin stubbornly as she turned back to unsaddling Penny.
"I doubt it's the same place the respectable merchant's apprentice sneaks off to."
She could feel him straighten beside her with a whistling inhale. "Ah, Lissie. A shame you never felt called to be a spy. Washington could've used one like you a fair few times." Felicity steeled herself against the nickname and the flattery, and Ben pressed on. "But I asked you first."
"It's a secret, Benjamin Davidson."
"Come now, Felicity." He reached up to scratch Penny behind the ears. The horse gave a gusting sigh. "It was not so long ago that we shared secrets."
"Only when we were caught," Felicity pointed out.
"I suppose I'll have to catch you, then."
Felicity barked out a laugh at that.
It wouldn't be so terrible if Ben knew, she reasoned. But this wasn't a childish adventure. Felicity was very protective of the independence she felt at Charlton's. She was a young woman spending time around strangers, all men except for the women serving tables, working in the kitchen, or conducting less reputable business in private rooms. Her father would never tolerate it, and Ben would be duty-bound to tell him. To keep the freedom safe, it had to remain a secret.
"Perhaps you'd like company," Ben suggested. "Or if you have any need of my clothes—"
"I have my own, thank you," she said with saccharine certainty. "Of both."
As Felicity said her goodbyes at the Coles' door, Elizabeth rested a hand lightly on her arm to stop her.
"I almost forgot, I'm so nervous." She vanished back into the parlor, the buttery yellow of her dress like sunshine in the dreary late afternoon. It was so fast, Felicity was still tying on her hat when Elizabeth returned, holding a crisply folded letter, sealed with red wax.
"Please give that to Mr. Davidson," said Elizabeth primly.
It was a rare thing to feel words rather than hear them, but these knocked the wind out of Felicity. She couldn't will her hand to move, but her mouth was still operational.
"Is this a courtship?"
"'No, but I am far too shy to deliver it myself," Elizabeth said apologetically. "It wouldn't do for me to be seen there on such an errand. And you are my most trusted friend."
Numbly, Felicity took the letter, her pulse like a drum.
"Of course," she said, embarrassment at her own selfishness layering over the shock.
"Thank you, Felicity." Elizabeth's smile was starlight.
From the back storeroom, Felicity heard breathless laughter and then Marcus spoke, too muffled for her to make the words out, even in the closed and quiet shop.
"But he couldn't button the fall of his breeches fast enough." Ben's voice lost to another laugh. "Took him all afternoon to retrace his steps and find the musket. Three weeks for the rash to heal, he said."
Felicity rapped her knuckles on the door frame and poked her head in. The two men spun around guiltily. Ben tore off his hat, gripping it nervously in his hands.
"Ahhhh—" Caught off guard, he was late to bow. "Felicity."
Behind him, Marcus was struggling to swallow another guffaw. Felicity had spent enough time around men to know that conversation could take an indecent turn when not restrained by the presence of a lady. If they knew she was there.
"Ben. Marcus." She curtsied and held out the letter from Elizabeth. "This is from Miss Cole."
Felicity hadn't even been able to bring herself to look at Ben's name on the note, undoubtedly in Elizabeth's most perfect, looping handwriting.
"Yes. Thank you." He gave the letter a tap against his palm before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket. "Much awaited."
On her way out the door, Felicity took a piece of candied ginger from the jar and mashed it between her teeth, its spiced chewiness delicious even if it did nothing to settle her stomach.
The constant movement of rubbing and kneading the soaked fabric always made her hands tingle.
Felicity flicked her fingers into the washtub, sending droplets into the steaming, soapy water. She hated this. She hated how the tallow soap dried out her skin and how the water wrinkled the pads of her fingers. It never got easier. Straightening her stiff back, Felicity pushed the cap back from her forehead with a dry part of her arm.
"Would you like to switch?" Nan asked pleasantly as she shook out the shirt she had rinsed and wrung before passing it to Rose. By some miracle, Nan enjoyed doing laundry, and that made Felicity want to scream.
"No, we're nearly done." They rotated every so often, but in Felicity's opinion, there wasn't a good position to be found. Every part of the task was drudgery. It wasn't even a full batch of laundry: just the shifts and shirts and caps they needed to tide them over until after the holidays; after Christmas they would hire a laundress to help with the usual monthly chore.
William walked into the kitchen, his hands stained with ink and a new rip in the knee of his breeches.
"I'm hungry," he announced.
"So eat," Felicity snapped. "Or do I have to feed you myself?"
Nan clicked her tongue at Felicity's rudeness.
"Lissie, he doesn't know where anything is."
"And whose fault is that?" Felicity mumbled under her breath while Nan wiped off her hands and brought out a plate of leftover cornbread for William.
"Felicity, perhaps you are a bit hungry as well?" Nan suggested sweetly. "A quick break would do us all some good, I think."
Now that Felicity thought about it, the cornbread did look delicious, and she did tend to get a bit short when hungry. Even if she was right.
She went to fetch the butter and took a slow breath by the larder before joining the group.
"Felicity, Thomas said you are welcome to borrow any of the books when I'm done with them," William said as they chewed.
Felicity could smell the lingering soap on her hands every time she brought a bite of cornbread to her mouth.
"Thank you." Her anger had softened, leaving a twinge of regret in its wake. She wanted to bury it under more conversation. "Do they know what's wrong with Mr. Ludwell's horse?"
He nodded, gulping down a huge bite. William and his small band of friends were a bit unruly — nothing like John Geddy's feral pack, thankfully — but knew almost everything that went on in town, and had no talent for lying. They were Felicity's preferred source of useful local information. "Sprained leg. Nothing that stall rest and willow bark won't fix."
Felicity buttered her next bite.
"And how do you like Mr. Hall?" Without their father around, she hoped to get an unguarded answer. William met Thomas at the college, frustratingly separate.
William tilted his head side to side noncommittally, swinging his legs in the chair.
"He gives me a lot of work," he said. "But he's a good teacher. Like you."
The regret was more than a twinge now. By way of an apology, Felicity reached over to flip the folded queue of hair gathered at the back of her little brother's neck. William grinned and leaned away, just out of her reach while he chewed.
Sometimes in the evening, Felicity's playing was the focal point, her family sitting wordlessly and staring into the fire while music filled the room at the end of a long day. Other times, she liked to melt it into the background, an unobtrusive addition to their conversations.
With Ben, William, and Mr. Merriman speaking, Felicity plucked the strings softly. By the spinning wheel in the corner next to her, Nan swayed a little in time to the music as the wheel whirred and whispered, her hands deftly turning clouds of wool into yarn. Felicity blended tunes together, letting the strings hum under her fingers as one song cascaded into the next.
Her father sat back in his seat and closed his eyes.
"Ah, a favorite of mine," he said peacefully. "'I Love My Love In Secret', is it not, Lissie?"
"'Tis, Father."
The notes flowed, stretching to change the air and then fluttering together when she ornamented the tune. She hadn't considered the name of the song, but now that she did, she was careful not to look up, especially when the conversation had ceased and she could feel Ben's gaze on her.
"It sounds sad when you play it like that, Lissie," Nan complained. "I like when it's bouncier."
"Let her play how she sees fit," Mr. Merriman said gently.
"Yes, Father."
When Felicity was done, she launched into "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and Nan excitedly stopped the wheel to clap along.
"That's much better!" she said, now tapping her foot beside the treadle as well.
"It's a sadder song, Nan," said Ben, amused.
Felicity sped it up until her fingers were flying over the strings and Nan couldn't keep up, and Mr. Merriman was smiling at his daughters' game.
And she very determinedly did not think of the song's meaning.
After uncorking the large, wide-mouthed bottle, Felicity emptied it into a strainer with a shake. Oil drained through to the copper pan beneath, leaving behind a glossy mass of darkened leaves and roots. She reached in and squeezed out the last drops of the green-tinged oil.
Felicity didn't mind this. Though she was in the kitchen, it felt less like cooking and more like an extension of gardening, with the pungent, herbal scent of the muggy height of July.
She carried the spent remnants outside and flung them into the backyard from the stoop.
Slowly warming the pot of oil over a few embers, Felicity stirred it with an already-stained wooden spoon that she reserved for making salves and tinctures. The liquid was such a dark green that it was almost black, and it seeped into the grain of the wood.
Felicity dropped chunks of beeswax into the fragrant pot. Burdock, calendula, comfrey, yarrow, lemon balm, and rosemary, all harvested and dried throughout the year.
Nan and her friend, Abigail, were sitting at the worktable in the kitchen under the guise of watching Felicity but it was only an excuse to talk about boys. Of course.
"Aaron Reed's new blue waistcoat is cut rather short, is it not?" Abigail said, batting her eyelashes at Nan and sending them both into fits of laughter.
Felicity sighed as she stirred the mixture, trying to block them both out.
"Felicity, do you not find Mr. Hall quite handsome?" asked Abigail, and the directness of the question made it unavoidable.
She shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose so."
Behind her, the girls shrieked with delight, and in truth, Nan became nearly insufferable when she was with her friends lately. The upcoming Christmas ball had them half wild.
"Who do you find more handsome: Mr. Hall or Mr. Davidson?" Abigail pressed.
Felicity picked up the pot, a scrap of leather protecting her hand from the heated handle. Carefully, she poured the mixture into rows of empty tins and ointment jars on the table. It was difficult to recall Mr. Hall's face when she was still pondering Ben's offer of accompanying her when she went out at night.
Which was immediately followed by the memory of him gratefully taking Elizabeth's letter from her.
"Perhaps we can find a more stimulating topic of conversation," Felicity suggested as she worked.
"Like what?" Nan asked, emboldened by her friend's presence.
Anything. Absolutely anything but this.
But fighting their inclinations would exhaust her long before they let the topic go, so Felicity forced herself to appear fascinated.
"What news is there of the ball?"
And then Nan and Abigail were speaking over each other to get everything out. Dresses, names, money. Colors, food, plans.
Felicity watched the liquid gradually become opaque as it cooled.
Later, after the barrage of words had slowed, and the girls had finally grown bored and gone to call on another friend, Felicity took a jar of the salve upstairs to her room to find a bit of parchment.
Slipping silently into Ben's unoccupied bedchamber, she kept her eyes on the floor as she set the container on his desk with the note.
For any wounds, old and new.
-F
That night, when Felicity retired to her room, she stood blinking at a square of foolscap on her bedside table.
Thank you for your kindnesses, old and new.
-B
Like it had burned her, Felicity snatched the note and tossed it next to her good breeches at the very back of her clothespress, so that she wouldn't be tempted to sleep with it under her pillow, or something equally strange.
But the words were a refrain as she climbed into bed, and Felicity decided that she was past due for a visit to the coffeehouse.
If only for a distraction.