Page 36

“I realize she might be difficult to get to know,” he said carefully, “and I wouldn’t wish for ye to pressure ’er or make ’er uncomfortable. But I know the two of ye would get along, if she do wish for a friend after all.”

Emma nodded at once, her spirits clearly brightening. She was no doubt pleased to have something else to focus on other than the heavy burden on her soul. “I be more than ’appy to try again. For ye and for Miss May.”

August smiled his gratitude. Nicholas was a fortunate man to have acquired the love of such a selfless woman. And August was a fortunate man to be friends with them both.

Would the three of them one day be fortunate to have Miss May enter their tightknit circle?

An idea popped into his head, and he grinned. “If ye do find it difficult for ’er to speak, simply ask her what she enjoys readin’. That’ll be sure to solidify a place for ye in ’er life.”

Emma looked at August curiously, but he merely continued toward her home. After ensuring she was safely within, August headed to the pub and Nicholas, a lighter step to his gait.

He had a task to see to, yes. But in that moment, he was more motivated to see it through than ever. For the very moment Nicholas and Emma were free to be together, August could finally do what he wished to do—and that was pursue Miss May.

Because if he was considering marrying a woman he’d known for but two days, he knew she had to be someone special, indeed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Now there is nothing in this world I abominate worse, than to be interrupted in a story...”

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, Laurence Sterne

Livvy sat in the sitting room with her father the next late afternoon, quietly stitching away as she glanced again at Robinson Crusoe. The book sat in the center of the table beside her, though Livvy could have sworn it had been inching toward her since she’d laid it to rest there an hour before. Those sneaky books always tended to do the same whenever she reached the penultimate chapter.

Not even Father would fault her for laying down her stitching right this minute and picking up the book to finish it. But Livvy wouldn’t do it. She refused to give in, performing a much more important task at the moment—being in the service of Mrs. Otterham.

Anyway, she was nearly finished. One more handkerchief to embroider with her friend’s initials and favorite flowers, then she’d have five ready to go. Now poor Mrs. Otterham would at least have a few spare when the rain inevitably pelted her eyes again. Livvy could easily sacrifice putting off her book for a few hours to create but a small token of her appreciation for all the woman had done for her.

A sharp pain stung her forefinger, and she gasped, pulling the needle from where she’d stuck it into her skin yet again. Swiftly, she pulled her finger to her mouth, grateful none of the blood had fed into the handkerchiefs.

“It be nice to see ye doin’ somethin’ other ’an readin’,” Father said across from her, managing to pull his pipe from his mouth to speak. “E’en if ye’ve ’urt yourself more times ’an I can count.” His eyes shone at his teasing.

Livvy hmphed under her breath. Despite the fact that Father’s criticism was thinly veiled with humor, she still couldn’t return his smile. Stitching was for the birds. Or at least, it was for women who didn’t mind such a tedious task.

She glanced again to the book before reining in her eyes once again.

I be doin’ this for Mrs. Otter’am. I be doin’ this for Mrs. Otter’am.

A knock sounded at the front door, but Livvy didn’t look up, focusing intently on her stitching instead. At any rate, she knew who was visiting.

Their maid-of-all-work, Sarah, would answer the knocking, then she’d alert Father that one of his work associates or fellow supervisors had come calling—as they often did to discuss Sir John’s many wishes to enhance his gardens. They would meet in the small study next to the sitting room where Livvy would hear them speak until dinner.

She’d offered to leave the sitting room many times so Father could meet in privacy in a larger room, but he always told her not to worry, that he was more than happy in the study. In truth, Livvy knew he met in there because he was embarrassed by her and didn’t wish to feel even worse about excluding her from the conversation.

In truth, she far preferred not having to sit through business meetings. She truly did try to make Father proud, to not speak about books and to pretend like she was enjoying the conversation, but she found herself fretting too greatly about what others were thinking about her—no doubt because of Father’s words.

“Ye be different from ’em, Liv, and ‘different’ makes others uncomfortable.”

The problem was, Livvy didn’t see herself as so very different. Peculiar, perhaps. But why not…unique?

At any rate, Mrs. Moon loved to read, Mr. Otterham preferred not to socialize, and there was bound to be someone else on the Mount who made lists of their favorite things. Why was Livvy the outcast when she was simply everyone else’s single oddities all rolled into one, like a Chelsea bun with too many currants? Was there no one on this earth who liked an excess of currants in their buns?

A smile that reached warm brown eyes flashed through her mind, but she set it aside. That possible-currant-lover was already attached to another, and she would do well to remember it.

As these thoughts and more continued, Livvy carried on with her stitching in the sitting room, fully expecting the very same events to occur as always as Sarah entered the room.

To her utter shock, however, Sarah did not turn to Father. She focused her attention on Livvy, the maid’s look of bewilderment no doubt matching Livvy’s. “Miss Pengelly, Miss Moon, and Miss Moon be ’ere to see ye, Miss May.”

Livvy’s stomach heaved like a barrel caught in the harbor water. “Me?”