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Making a mental note to bring him three sandwiches, she left the production room and slid the door closed behind her, quietly thinking through the remaining daily tasks. After lunch, Mrs. McArdsdale was scheduled for a fitting for what passed for an evening gown in Roslyn (she had not elaborated her desires beyond bottle green and fancier than anything Davina Hatterson has which would be a great deal more helpful if Maggie had any idea who Davina Hatterson was), then Bridgers wanted to meet with a potential client for a full suit, which would be a first, and she had told Tom she would bake biscuits to go with the fish he was roasting for dinner, and then she had to⁠—

She paused halfway to the apartment stairs, her ears picking up a dreadfully familiar voice.

“Admittedly, Magdalene’s worst trait by far is her subtly,” Bridgers was saying, not bothering to keep his tone neutral. “Perhaps if she threw a parade announcing that she isn’t interested, you would better understand her stance on the matter.”

Bridgers was the showman of the family; he charmed birds out of the sky without lifting a finger, and he never relied on open hostility the way he was employing it now. Maggie stepped quietly into the hallway, following the sound of his voice to the main shop floor, where she saw his rigid back standing before Reverend Myerson, who was turning his damned stupid hat in his damned stupid hands again.

“As it is, Mr. Cruthers,” the reverend said, looking irritated. “I’m here to discuss some basic items for the church’s charity. Nothing extravagant, just some trousers and shirts for the boys, some dresses and pinafores for the girls. The orphanage is well-run, but they need new clothes.”

This shut Bridgers up, but Maggie’s suspicion only increased. She walked fully into the room, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist. “You want us to donate clothes to the children?” she asked. She had decided, after the Independence Day celebration, not to bother being polite to Myerson. It seemed to have no effect on him either way, at any rate, and simpering to the clergy was so tiring.

“Certainly not.” He eyed her with what looked very much like indignation. “We have coffers. We would pay.” He stood a little straighter, pausing his hands’ assault of his hat. “We are trying to keep money in the community. If you are too busy, we will of course go to St. Cloud.”

Maggie looked at Bridgers, who was staring at the reverend with undisguised annoyance. “We do have quite the waiting list, Sam,” he said, his voice clipping at the reverend’s Christian name. “But we appreciate your interest.”

“We can accommodate clothes for orphans,” Maggie said mildly, slipping her arm into Bridgers’. “We’re very upright and moral like that.”

“Saintly,” the reverend replied, dry. “I just wanted to see if it was even possible. I appreciate your time and can come back whenever you have the availability. There’s no rush, of course.” His smile was forced, and he inclined his head. “Thank you both.” His gaze froze on something over Maggie’s shoulder, then his face turned wary, and his shoulders slumped. “Miss Barrow.”

Maggie glanced behind her; Lou stood in the hallway, one hand clutching her skirt, the other dropped to her side, flexing and unflexing rhythmically. “Sam.” Her tone was measured and she looked prepared to fight. Maggie had a sudden vision of Lou as Joan of Arc, head-to-toe in steel, ready to lead an army against England or whatever Joan of Arc had done to get herself burned at the stake. She should ask Mrs. Cavenhill if she had any books on the Hundred Years’ War. “Dropping off some Godly pamphlets? Preaching against the sin of having fun at a tavern during a festival?”

The reverend’s face took on a pained expression, and Maggie looked at Bridgers, who looked back at her with eyebrows raised.

“No.” Myerson shifted his weight. “I don’t have anything against fun,” he added, glumly.

Lou snorted, and he looked affronted.

“The reverend was looking into ordering some clothing for the orphanage,” Maggie supplied, ignoring how Bridgers’ head was still swiveling between Lou and the reverend like a spectator at a racquet game. “We said we would be happy to accommodate him.”

“For the children,” Bridgers said solemnly.

“Of course. For them,” Maggie agreed, hoping her face looked serene.

The suspicion didn’t lift from Lou’s expression, and Reverend Myerson looked fed up. Maggie had never seen the man so emotive, and she felt an odd niggle of guilt.

“How magnanimous of you, Sam,” Lou said, drawing the words out sarcastically. “What a giver you are.”

The reverend—Sam, Maggie decided—did not rise to the bait. “Thank you for your kind words,” he replied, inclining his head. “And thank you both for your time,” he said to Maggie and Bridgers, who both nodded in return. He slipped out of the shop, walking with rigid determination down the street towards the church. Lou yanked her apron back into place and spun around, going back into the production room without a further word.

“Odd,” Bridgers said.

“Odd,” Maggie echoed. “Seems he’s lost interest in me.”

Bridgers raised his gaze to the door Lou had just disappeared through. “I’m starting to wonder if he truly ever had any.”

Chapter

Thirteen

“And where will Emmy be?” Maggie ducked further into the corner of the butcher shop, away from the wide windows in front where anyone could see her and Theo conversing. Not that they were doing anything untoward—he was across the room, removing a particularly bloody apron from around his waist, and at any rate, Maggie didn’t imagine herself so interesting as to warrant being spied on—but paranoia’s water ran deep, and she hunched her shoulders to seem smaller.

“Lou will take care of her. Laura and David are coming over to ours for dinner, as well. They want to start trying for a child, and I think Laura finds Emmy to be good practice.” He balled up the apron and tossed it into the Bloody Rag Basket, a sinister wicker contraption that sat on the floor, awaiting more sacrifices.

Maggie smiled, unfurling a bit. “She’s probably a terrible example. I can’t imagine most babies are so easy.”

Theo’s ears and cheeks went red, and he crossed his arms awkwardly. “Yes, well, she got a lot of that from her mother.”

Theo might as well have dropped the words on the floor with a clatter. He rarely mentioned Sarah, and Maggie considered if this was a door opening, just a crack. “You don’t talk about her much,” she said, straightening out and smoothing her skirts.