Chapter 2

Harriet had abandoned the debate over the gold silk and was now pacing the shop floor, looking for a mirror that flattered her profile. She stopped short when she saw the woman in gray. A look of profound, theatrical disgust washed over Harriet's face. She looked at the old woman, then at the lace in her hand, and then turned to the hovering shop assistant."What," Harriet demanded, her voice ringing out in the suddenly quiet shop, "is that doing in here?"The assistant, a nervous girl with pins held in her mouth, turned pale. "Miss Finch, I—""Does Madame Valerius now cater to the workhouse?" Harriet took a step closer to the old woman, pulling her expensive skirts tightly against her legs as if proximity might transmit a disease. "Or did someone leave the servants' entrance ajar?"The old woman did not flinch. She slowly turned her head, fixing Harriet with a look from beneath the brim of her ugly black bonnet."I am merely looking at the lace, young lady," the woman said. Her voice was raspy, dry like autumn leaves, but remarkably steady."You are touching it!" Harriet snapped, her face flushing with the indignation of a woman who has never once been told no. "With bare, filthy hands! You will ruin the weave! Look at you—you couldn't afford a single inch of that lace if you saved for a decade!"Mrs. Finch, drawn by the sound of her daughter's elevated voice, hurried over, her eyes narrowing at the intruder. "Good heavens, Harriet, step away. The woman probably has fleas. Girl!" She snapped her fingers at the paralyzed assistant. "Remove this vagrant at once! We are spending a fortune in this establishment, and I will not have my daughter breathing the same air as a street beggar!"The shop fell dead silent. A dozen aristocratic women watched; none of them moved. It was the cardinal rule of their class: never intervene in someone else's tantrum. It was terribly poor form.Beatrice felt the familiar, hot prickle of anger at the base of her neck. She looked at the old woman. The woman stood perfectly still, her thin shoulders squared, still holding the edge of the Brussels lace. There was no fear in her posture, only a deep, profound weariness.Beatrice dropped the bolt of green velvet.Beatrice closed the distance across the shop floor in four long strides. She didn't hurry. Hurrying showed panic. She walked with the measured, heavy tread of someone completely comfortable in her own authority."Miss Finch," Beatrice said.Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a specific, cold resonance that made Harriet jump.Harriet whipped around, her eyes wide. When she saw it was only Beatrice Hastings, the spinster with the mediocre dowry, her expression soured. "Miss Hastings, this does not concern you.""You are quite right," Beatrice said, stopping beside the old woman. She was taller than Harriet by several inches—a physical advantage she rarely used, but was currently very grateful for. "It does not concern me. However, your volume is giving me a migraine, and I am finding your lack of basic manners deeply offensive."

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