If Birmingham was crowded on Sunday, it was an absolute circus on Monday. The High Street Market, in particular, overflowed with wheelbarrows and carts that clamored past with little regard for pedestrians. Sam and Sarah had to squeeze between masses of people on the narrow walkways just to avoid getting run over. Even then, they could hardly get anywhere with so many people pressed up against shop windows to examine the goods inside. "Don't they know people are trying to get somewhere?" Sam grumbled under her breath. It didn't help that it was almost noon and she'd had just a single piece of toast for breakfast. Nothing made her more impatient than hunger and hoards of inconsiderate strangers. No wonder Sarah had been surprised when JB took off on his own and left Sam to accompany Sarah on her market run. This certainly was not a place frequented by upper class women.

Sam hoped JB was making more progress than she was. He'd gone to inquire about hiring a coach to take them to Winchester sometime after the dance next week. He still hadn't discovered anything out of the ordinary relating to Jane Austen, but perhaps if they were closer to Austen's final residence in Winchester, they would come across some clues before her death.

"Will Mr. Byron be cross with me for troubling you with this excursion?" asked Sarah as she shuffled a few steps forward. At this rate, they might as well raise their own chickens instead of waiting to buy their eggs.

"I assure you, Mr. Byron is aware that I insisted on joining you here and he cannot hold you responsible for my stubbornness." I'm the idiot who thought this would be fun , thought Sam. Serves me right for thinking people might have better mannersin the 1810s. She exhaled slowly, knowing it was the hunger talking. She was no more entitled to the walkways than anyone else. Yeah, but at least I'm not standing in the middle of the—

"Mary!" Sarah called out, waving her hand at someone in the street. Sam leaned forward for a better view and spotted a tall brunette with a basket of eggs waving back at them from a few feet away. She wore a pink dress under a red spencer. Her bonnet was simple but for a single ribbon tied around the brim. Fashionable, but likely working class, Sam suspected.

"That is Mary Ashford," Sarah said, still smiling at Mary. "She was a playmate of mine as a child and remains a dear friend. She is most charming and walks here to sell eggs from her uncle's farm twice a week."

Mary nudged her way closer to them with her large basket, which Sam thought looked quite heavy. It was impressive to think she came on foot to this rowdy square twice every week with a full load. Sam also admired her assertive gait, which was surely necessary to get anywhere around this place.

"Good morning, Sarah," said Mary. "And to you, Miss…"

"Mrs. Byron," Sarah said.

Sam offered a smile despite her sour mood and curtseyed to Mary. "A pleasure, Miss Ashford. And you may call me Amelia."

Mary returned the curtsey and laughed. "Then you shall call me Mary." She then shot an expectant look at Sarah. "And of Whitsuntide?"

"Indeed!" Sarah squealed. "Aunt Caroline agreed to let me attend as long as I am accompanied. For that, I have Amelia and her husband to thank. It is doubtful my aunt would approve of the outing otherwise. She forgets I've not always lived as I do now. It is astonishing she has no qualms about me coming here alone every Monday."

Mary feigned a gasp and said dramatically, "Ah, it must be my eggs, so delectable she will risk even her dear niece's chastity for them."

Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I beg you, do not mock me," said Mary with a smirk. "They are delicious eggs. I laid them myself."

At this, Sarah and Sam both burst out laughing.

"I must admit," said Mary after their laughter simmered down, "I am very pleased to know I will see you at Tyburn Inn next week for the dance. Hannah will be joining me, but I should like to see you too. As you know, Hannah and Benjamin are now engaged and I suspect she will be less interested in dancing and talking about the gentlemen in attendance." There was an impish gleam in her eye.

Sarah gave Sam a playful nudge and nodded at Mary. "I believe I would be in much the same situation if not for you, Mary, as Amelia's husband will be joining us." Sam must have made a face because Sarah giggled. "Oh, do not look so vexed, Amelia. It is no secret Mr. Byron adores you. In fact—" she turned back to Mary— "Just yesterday Amelia was singing for us and Mr. Byron was playing the pianoforte. I daresay, in the middle of the song he stumbled over the notes because he was so enchanted with his wife's voice."

Sam suddenly wished the brim of her bonnet would extend downward over her face. She felt a rush of heat blaze from her neck to her ears and it took an incredible amount of self-control not to cry out, That is not what happened! But how could she explain that? Oh, no, Amelia, you misunderstood. He's not actually my husband and we've been lying to you this whole time. No, Sam would have to stew in her discomfort if she didn't want to set off any red flags.

The women chatted a few minutes more, then—to Sam's relief—Sarah purchased a dozen eggs and everyone said their goodbyes. Sam had hoped that would be the last time Sarah brought up her "marriage," but the topic arose once again that afternoon while Sarah and Sam were trimming bonnets in the drawing room.

"Do you love your husband?" Sarah asked, plucking a green ribbon from their supplies basket.

"Erm…" Heat flooded Sam's face for the second time that day.

Sarah shook her head and turned away. "Forgive me. I am intolerably rude."

"No, dear Sarah," Sam tried to assure her. "I was simply caught off guard."

"Aunt Caroline is so traditional, you know. I think she worries I may die an old maid if I am not married before thirty. She says nothing, but I know she hopes I will choose security over love if I must choose one or the other in marriage."

This was a tough situation to navigate. What advice could Sam possibly offer her friend when they lived in such different worlds? She was certainly inclined to tell her not to rush into a marriage with any doubts, but unmarried women didn't face the same barriers in the twenty-first century as they did in the 1810s. If Sarah did not marry, she would have to depend on her family the rest of her life—assuming they lived long enough to support her. If not, poverty and starvation were real possibilities. But was that worse than spending the rest of her life with a man who may not love or respect her? Certainly, healthy marriages were possible in the 1810s—Mr. And Mrs. Daly seemed to love each other—but toxic relationships were just as possible. Sam had to tread carefully with her response. "Do you have your eye on anyone at the moment?"

Sarah shook her head. "I always said I would worry about marriage when I was older. Well, now I am older and I've no idea where to begin."

That's how Sam felt about cooking. She could only imagine how much fabric she could buy with all the money she usually spent on takeout. This, of course, she did not mention to Sarah. Instead, she suggested, "I think you must decide what's most important to you personally and let that guide you."

Sarah frowned. "In see."

Fair enough, it wasn't exactly the most specific answer. Sam sighed. "If you find yourself wondering if you should accept a marriage proposal, simply ask yourself, do you feel at ease in conversations with him? Do you enjoy his company? Is he someone who respects your opinions, someone who supports your talents?"

Sarah grinned. "Someone like your Mr. Byron, you mean? You do love him, then."

"That is not what I said." Sam resumed her trimming. She pretended to examine the variety of ribbons. "Which color should I use?"

"I like the blue one."

Sam reached for the baby blue ribbon in the basket and cut a yard for herself. "That should be lovely."

"He most certainly loves you," Sarah added.

Sam stabbed the ribbon into her bonnet with a pin. This was all ridiculous. JB had known her for just a few weeks. She hoped he liked her, sure. She definitely liked him—as an acquaintance, of course. Anything else was simply out of the question. JB had made that perfectly clear.

Sarah was still staring up at Sam, her blue eyes full of wonder and something else that Sam couldn't quite place. Her eyebrows were such a light shade of blonde that on the surface, it was often difficult to discern the nuanced emotions that hid underneath. It took Sam a few seconds to realize why Sarah kept pressing the subject: she needed hope. For many women in the Regency period, marriage meant the end of life as they knew it. It could mean leaving their families forever, adapting to a foreign environment dictated by their husbands, and raising multiple children—many of which may die in infancy. Sarah's life had already been uprooted once when she lost her entire immediate family. And while Sam had never met her birth parents, her early childhood in foster care had given her plenty of experience with sudden change—both good and bad. She understood how it felt to be on the verge of a dramatic shift beyond her control, and hoping against all hope that this change would not be as horrible as the last.

Sam rested her hand on top of Sarah's and said, "You've nothing to fear, Sarah. I am very happy, and you shall be too."