"...And to think Mr. Slickson was seen at the Garden! My maid swears she saw a smear of red on his collar as he left a house of i—...Have you not heard a word I've been saying, Margaret?"

Margaret looked blankly at her sister-in-law's glinting eyes. What was intended to be a brief stop for curtain fabric had become an hour-long perusal of Parisian satins. Fanny, who had perchance also stopped at Becker's that day, had tootled such a shrill 'Margaret, dear!' that nearly every patron had gawked. Any chance of a brief exchange, let alone an escape, was effectively dashed.

Fanny had apprised Margaret of her mission to locate a very particular shade of forest green satin that she had seen in London. Margaret wanted no part of the conquest, particularly as she'd made no progress on the curtains. Still, she could not find it in her heart to so rudely abandon her new sister.

"I am sorry, Fanny." Margaret offered a bashful smile. "The mill has been quite busy and—"

"Oh, stuff the mill!" Fanny's glove skimmed disapprovingly down a bolt of deep teal silk. "You sound just like John and my Watson. You might as well take brandy and cigars with them next!"

A forced laugh burbled in Margaret's throat. In truth, the thought of holding her own with the masters in a smoke-filled debate was not entirely repulsive.

Though not yet an expert, she'd learnt much about the world of cotton. With John's hand mending and business booming, her interest in the mill had been well-timed. To ease her in, John had asked Margaret to sort and file the documents he'd only ever handled himself.

It had taken but a glance at the chaos on his desk, however, to realize what she was in for. His cheeks had reddened tellingly at Margaret's chiding gasp as she practically shooed him away. From that moment on, Margaret was set on restoring order and easing her husband's burden.

Beyond her expectations, she had come to enjoy it. Once tidied a bit, the office became almost inviting. She came to await the sight of that golden light, dingy and soot-filtered as it was, that could still sparkle the motes of dust. It brought to life her favorite childhood memory: her, nestled between piles of books in her father's study, her tiny fingers straining to catch each shimmering fleck. The happy thought sustained her through even the dullest work.

The more Margaret sorted and filed, the deeper her fascination became. In days, she'd learnt the full history of Marlborough Mills. In weeks, she'd understood what drove all of England's cotton industry. She read about the unabating price climbs in America, of acts of Parliament and of workers' rights. She'd even devoured the pamphlets, her favorite being a dog-eared booklet with a bright glossy cover from the Great Exhibition.

So engaging were these new diversions, in fact, that Margaret could not recall the first signs that something was amiss. First came the masters' wives' curt nods in the street. Then came tea with Mrs. Hamper, whose smile was too smug and lemon-pursed to be imagined. Even Dr. Donaldson's wife had turned up her nose a bit when they'd met at the grocer's.

At first, Margaret could only guess at a reason for gossip. Had she committed some great gaffe at the wedding?

Regardless, the specter of town chatter had done little to dampen her enthusiasm for her first visit to Princeton since she'd returned home. The O'Neill children had taken the croup, forcing her to wait over a week past the accident to see little Jim. Despite the circumstances, returning to those dirty, narrow alleys gave Margaret a nostalgic anticipation. She'd even gone so far as to look for her old mulberry-colored coat to celebrate the occasion—only to realize that Aunt Shaw had likely tossed it after the move to London.

Perhaps it was due to that loss of the coat that she felt such a strange foreignness as she passed under the canopy of damp laundry. So too did she feel the beady-eyed stares peeking through the windows. Those who did venture out offered abrupt 'hullos' in lieu of exuberant 'Miss Hales!' It was only reasonable, she reassured herself, that they should not cry 'Mrs. Thornton' with similar enthusiasm.

If her reception was not all she'd dreamt, her visit with the O'Neills was even more disheartening. Mrs. O'Neill made no more conversation than necessary, too busy wading through children tugging at her skirts. Poor Jim made for a pitiful sight in his bandages, flushed one minute and wracked with chills the next. He'd fallen into a fitful slumber only a minute after Margaret sat with him. She'd departed soon after, in far lower spirits than when she'd arrived.

The events in these first weeks back in Milton had all amounted to a sobering reminder. As a master's wife, she had duties in the home and in society. As Margaret Thornton, she shared in the responsibility of a child hurt in the mill. Her mill.

She could not forget her gratitude to the workers of Milton. When she had come, a foreigner from the South, they had made her feel more welcomed and appreciated than gentler folk ever had. She yearned to assure them that she was still a friend, if never again a confidant.

And, if no strata of society would accept her, at least Nicholas understood. Other than at the mill, she thought with a frown, she had seen regrettably little of him and the Boucher children of late. She would have to visit—

"Oh! Mrs. Slickson!"

Margaret's spine locked in apprehension as a very starched Mrs. Slickson waved in reply to Fanny. Of all the masters' wives, she seemed to whisper and connive more than any other. It was no surprise that she and Fanny were thick as thieves. It was even less surprising that the woman oozed the same reptilian charm as her husband.

The thought of the Slicksons, two lizards atop a log, tickled the corners of Margaret's mouth. She bit her lip just as Mrs. Slickson warmly clasped Fanny's arm.

"Mrs. Watson," she said sweetly. "...and Mrs. Thornton...What a lovely surprise to see you both!"

Margaret bobbed her head with polite restraint. Mrs. Slickson's strategically smug pause had not escaped her. Conniving indeed.

"You will have to excuse me if I seem fatigued," the woman announced breezily. "I am just returned from the de Clares in Piccadilly." She turned expectantly to Margaret. "You are acquainted with the family, I am sure, what with your London connections?"

"I regret to say I am not." Though the family name was vaguely familiar, Margaret felt distinctly that she'd already met and disliked them.

Conversely, Fanny's eyes were alight like candles at Christmastide.

"Ah, the de Clares! I was a bit disappointed that they could not attend my brother's wedding." Fanny cocked her head proudly. "Miss de Clare has always said how much she'd love to visit us all here in Milton."

"But of course, my dear!" Mrs. Slickson smiled thinly. "Though do remember, they always reside in Corfu until mid-October. At least, they did when I joined them but two years ago."

"Ah...well, naturally. It would take the world to part them from beautiful Corfu. The Riviera is so scenic, is it not?"

A shrill peal of laughter wiped the seaside fantasy clear off Fanny's face. Margaret watched in horror as Mrs. Slickson clutched her side.

"Oh, Mrs. Watson! To suggest that the Riviera is anywhere near Corfu! Why, one who did not know you better might not understand your humor! Granted, the Riviera is lovely, though it has attracted a worldlier foule in recent years."

The gleam in the woman's eye as she straightened was enough to stoke Margaret's ire. That Fanny was untraveled was obvious. But to comment on it, in public, took a different sort of meanness.

Clearly, Margaret thought with a twinge of pity, it was a rather one-sided friendship.

Fanny croaked out an uncomfortable laugh. "So you do understand my humor, Mrs. Slickson! A bit of fun, is all." Her eyes widened with pathetic hopefulness, like a child too eager to please her teacher. "But, in all seriousness, I would give a thousand trips to the Riviera, or Corfu for that matter, for but a glimpse of the Alhambra."

A wave of anxiety almost made Margaret forget her vexation. It had been hours since she'd thought of Frederick and Dolores. The reminder of the uncertainty, of having no word in weeks, sent her heart plummeting. She prayed that the Alhambra was all Fanny would mention of Spain...

"I've always dreamt of it," Fanny continued obliviously. "Those glorious towers touching the sky. So romantic."

"Very romantic, if not entirely Christian, you know," chirped Mrs. Slickson, her interest in the conversation (and Fanny) clearly waning. "But of course, one can only see the sand and surf of the Adriatic so many times, can they not?"

Upon seeing Fanny's mouth open in that dreadful fish-like way of hers, Margaret was compelled to intervene. However, as she had never mastered Milton small talk, Mrs. Slickson beat her to the punch.

"And you, Mrs. Thornton," the woman said primly. "Marlborough Mills seems quite busy at all hours these days, from what my husband informs me."

"That is true. There are still orders to be caught up on from the strike, but we are managing well."

"We?"

Margaret's fingers curled a bit too tightly around the handle of her bag. She could dance around it all day, but best to get her great "confession" over with.

"Yes. I have taken on certain...duties at the mill."

Both women regarded her, aghast, though only one truly seemed surprised.

"Duties? Do you mean to say that you walk the floor?" hissed Fanny, her eyes veritable saucers. "It was one thing for mother to do it—even dressed in black as she always is—but surely, you would not! You would sully every gown! It is not the done thing!"

Such a vision of herself, striding around the mill floor with that stern brow, almost set Margaret to a snort. "There is little need to worry, Fanny," she consoled. "At present, I am merely learning how the machines operate—the basic tenets of business as I should. I am also filing and attending to the books."

"Yes, I had almost forgotten, Mrs. Thornton," Mrs. Slickson cut in. "You are a regular heiress now! What good fortune to have such a benevolent uncle—"

"Friend, actually." Margaret sniffed. "Of my father."

"But was the man not an academic?"

"He was indeed, but he owned many properties in England, he—"

Margaret stopped short. To discuss Mr. Bell's business affairs in front of this insufferable busybody would be the greatest disrespect to his memory.

"Oh, but you must forgive me," Mrs. Slickson said, interrupting the pregnant silence. "Let us not speak of business like our husbands, ladies. Truly, Mrs. Thornton, I must compliment you again on your lovely wedding celebration as I barely spent a moment with you on the special day. It was the toast of Milton!"

"I thank you," said Margaret, not grateful at all.

"Was it not splendid?" Fanny poked her head forward, rather desperately, between the two other women. "Well, almost as splendid as mine, anyway. Thorntons will have only the best."

"And such an exquisite gown!" gushed Mrs. Slickson, gesturing toward Margaret's skirts. "Mine was not so fine, though the fashion of some years ago was not as extravagant as now, of course. And so many guests!"

"A few more than I'd have preferred, admittedly."

"Oh, but of course. After your country upbringing it must have seemed as though all of England was there!"

"I—"

"I confess," continued Mrs. Slickson, ignoring both Margaret's interjection and reddening face, "I was rather curious about one of them. None of the ladies could quite identify him! Surely you remember: a rather raggedy-looking fellow?"

Margaret swallowed a dry pocket of air. She'd not thought of Everhart in days—perhaps at least a week. She'd no intention of renewing the memory.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Slickson, but I do not recall. Perhaps it was one of our buyers?"

"Surely not!" Mrs. Slickson gasped, clutching her chest. "He looked as if someone had taken him right off the street! It was gracious of you and your husband to receive such a disreputable looking fellow."

Margaret's stomach twisted with apprehension. One look at Mrs. Slickson's goading eyes made it lurch.

What did she know?

"You must have spoken to your husband for scarcely five minutes that whole night!" the woman prattled on. "There must have been masters from every corner of England! And to think of Mr. Thornton leaving his poor bride so unattended, nearly swooning—"

"I assure you," Margaret interrupted shakily, "that I was quite well."

"Oh, poor dear." Mrs. Slickson winked conspiratorially at Fanny. "We married women all feel as though we should endure in silence. But it was plain to see that you were suffering from some ague." She flicked a bit of lint that had nested on the ribbon of her bonnet.

"Of course, I would be considerably distressed if such a scoundrel should sit so very close to me on a chaise. The utter presumption!"

The shop was buzzing with patrons, but the silence following Mrs. Slickson's words only amplified Margaret's fury, at this woman and at herself.

What a fool she had been to presume only Hannah had seen that horrible interlude with Everhart!

"Mrs. Slickson," she enunciated tepidly, "I wonder if you've not heard how Mrs. Hamper's children are doing? I hear that the croup has struck the house not this past week."

"The children are sick as can be, from what the servants tell me, though one can only trust so much of what servants say, of course. I am positive one of the servants up and gave it to poor little Christiana Hamper. And what with nine children! Well, they all went down like grass in a gale!"

Mrs. Slickson's fox smile, fake as it now so patently seemed, set off warning bells in Margaret's head as she set her sights again on Fanny.

"Before I forget, dearest Mrs. Watson, how goes Mr. Watson's speculation in London? My husband tells me that you traveled there recently."

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Fanny. "He has a great many clients and has been spending quite a bit of time there."

"It is wonderful to hear of his success! Though, my dear, I do not wonder that you might feel a bit...well...abandoned?"

Fanny waved a dismissive hand. "Not in the least! Every minute he is in London is well worth it. Why, we are to purchase a new Victoria with gold-trimmed wheels next week. Made by the Queen's coachbuilder himself!"

"How impressive! You shall have to take me on a drive the first of Spring." Mrs. Slickson sighed wistfully. "If only I could bear to part with my Slickson as you do your Watson we might be able to go on a proper European tour next year, but I do not know what I would do without him, and our dear children, so close by."

Her eyes flicked down to Fanny's tightly-laced bodice.

"Of course, not all women are so blessed to have both a husband and four healthy children."

Margaret turned to Fanny, finding what she feared she would. A telltale stripe of red was already blooming from her nose to her cheeks.

"Why, Mrs. Watson! Whatever is the matter? You look positively flushed!"

Though Fanny could not look Mrs. Slickson in the eye, her lips dragged over her teeth into a ghastly smile. "I am quite well! Merely the thought of such...such...exhilarating travel."

Though she'd never lay hands on anyone in violence, the thought of shoving the odious woman into a stack of boxes flashed in Margaret's mind with righteous indignation. To shame a woman for being untraveled was rude. To shame a supposed friend for being childless was despicable.

Yet for John's sake—for Fanny's—she would be civil. Must be.

It was then that it struck: That earlier tidbit in Fanny's inane ramblings that Margaret had retained. It was a piece of gossip, she knew, that Mrs. Slickson would certainly not care for.

Before she realized what she was doing, Margaret clamped a firm hand on Mrs. Slickson's shoulder. The woman looked up, the vaguest flicker of fear in her eyes.

"I would take care not to speak in such a way of others when—"

At that moment, the clocked chimed three.

In an instant, the woman's color returned, along with that look of insufferable triumph. Wordlessly, Mrs. Slickson shrugged off Margaret's touch, as though she'd been naught more than a fly.

"My word!" the woman cried. "And I thought it was only half past! I must be on my way. We are to receive Baroness Portman tomorrow. Dearest friend of the family, you know."

One woman red and the other pale, Margaret and Fanny merely nodded and muttered their goodbyes. When the door chimed and closed, Fanny hooked Margaret's arm in her own. Rage was still pulsing too hot in Margaret's veins, still feeling her glove on that odious woman's silk, to acknowledge the affection of the gesture.

"Come," Fanny said with a sniff. "I surely remember Becker's wares being far better than this!"

It was only a few steps from the shop that the young woman's still pallid complexion turned a sour olive. Margaret ushered her over to a small bench and hailed a cab.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Margaret found herself with a mouthful of ermine.

"What did you mean by insulting her in such a way?" Fanny retracted her muff, shoving her hands into it with a pout. "You have all but ruined every chance I had of summering with the de Clares!"

"I thought you both better acquainted, Fanny," Margaret whispered. "I would never have thought her to treat you so ill."

It was tempting to lash out at Fanny for her insipidity. That she would ignore a grievous insult in the name of fashion was so like her. But from the scrunched and wounded look on Fanny's face, it was far more than the loss of the de Clares that vexed her.

When she finally spoke, it was in a low voice that Margaret could scarcely hear.

"It has been two years already. I've almost no reason to hope it now, you know. I've no idea what I should do if we cannot...If I cannot..."

As she saw Fanny's reddening eyes, unexpected pity again swelled in Margaret's heart. Never had Fanny shown she was capable of such deep feeling, other than for her beloved piano. Instinctively, she put her hand on Fanny's. It had already gone cold after fidgeting its way out of the muff.

"I've little knowledge of these matters, but please—you musn't lose heart. I am sure that God will bless you and Watson soon enough."

"You think it?"

"Yes, I do, sister."

A glassy sheen covered Fanny's eyes, and Margaret almost did not know where to look. The indignant sniffle Fanny gave came almost as a relief.

"And I know for a fact that the de Clares do summer in the Riviera."

"I've no doubt of it. And I hope that you may travel there soon enough. Perhaps a tour of the entire Mediterranean would suffice."

Fanny turned toward the window, her eyes full of rapture at the thought. When she turned back around, her face had given way again to dreadful alarm.

Margaret sighed with more maternal than sisterly exasperation. "Whatever is it, Fanny?"

She cocked her head in that proud and unmistakable Thornton way, even as her brow furrrowed with hesitation. "Well suppose...suppose, we should we be so blessed—my Watson and I, I mean—supposing he is driven to the Garden during...well...you know! However should I bear it?"

Between her sister-in-law's wide eyes and fish mouth, Margaret had to try harder than ever not to laugh.

"I think you are more than safe from such dangers. Your husband cares for you deeply and would not be so tempted."

"Yes, but just look at Mrs. Slickson!"

"You are not Mrs. Slickson. And please be glad of it."

Despite Margaret's vehement assurances, Fanny's expression was implacable. With a weary roll of her eyes that turned to a smile, Margaret clasped Fanny's hands in hers.

"There is but one reason I can think of that your Mr. Watson could be driven to such vice."

Fanny looked up, agog. She squeezed Margaret's fingers with imploring desperation.

"Yes? Oh, do not leave me in such dreadful suspense!"

As seriously as she could manage, Margaret looked into Fanny's wide blue eyes.

"It is if..."

"Dear heavens, I shall scream!"

"...It is if the good ladies of the Garden are served with an infinite supply of fried potatoes."

After a few moments of perplexity, Fanny—followed by Margaret—dissolved into peals of much-needed laughter.

John had said he would not be home until well after ten o'clock. Margaret had waited until eleven before finally lying down.

She fluffed her pillow, searching in vain for a comfortable position. The events of the day swirled in her mind.

Poor Fred.

Poor Fanny.

Reptile Slicksons...

Margaret turned upward only to glare at the ceiling in frustration. Even if there was talk, it was meaningless.

It was all but certain she would never see Mr. Everhart again.