Chapter 4

"I apologize," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to a softer register. She offered a tired smile. "I fear I have a terrible temper when it comes to bullies. Are you all right, Madam?""I am quite well," the woman said. She looked down at the lace in her hand. "Though I fear I have caused a disruption. The young lady was correct in one regard: I cannot afford this lace."Beatrice looked at the delicate spiderweb pattern of the fabric. It was beautiful. "It is meant to be admired," Beatrice said gently. "Madame Valerius leaves the offcuts here for inspiration.""I used to make lace," the old woman murmured, her thumb rubbing the edge. "A long time ago. My hands..." She held up her bare hand. The joints were swollen, the fingers slightly twisted with age and arthritis. "My hands do not obey me anymore. I merely wished to feel the quality."Beatrice's chest tightened. There was something about the woman—a quiet, unbroken dignity that made Beatrice's heart ache. The cruelty of the world, especially the London world, was so casual. It ground people into dust without a second thought."It is beautiful work," Beatrice said. She looked toward the counter. The nervous assistant was watching them with wide eyes.Beatrice reached into her reticule. She withdrew a small leather purse. She didn't have much pin money; her father's estate was heavily entailed, and her brother was notoriously tight-fisted. But she had enough."How much for this piece?" Beatrice called out to the assistant.The assistant blinked. "Oh, miss, that is an offcut. We usually sell it for five shillings."It was a lie. Five shillings was practically giving it away for Brussels lace, but the assistant was clearly terrified of Beatrice after the dressing down she'd given Harriet.Beatrice walked to the counter, placed a shiny half-sovereign on the glass, and waved away the change. She picked up the lace, wrapped it carefully in a sheet of tissue paper, and walked back to the old woman."Here," Beatrice said, holding out the small, rustling package.The old woman looked at the package, then up at Beatrice. Her white eyebrows drew together. "I cannot accept charity, child.""It isn't charity," Beatrice said firmly, though her eyes were kind. "It is an apology on behalf of my entire miserable generation. Please, take it. Use it to mend something, or simply keep it in a drawer to look at. But do not let that wretched girl's voice be the last thing you remember of this afternoon."The old woman studied Beatrice's face for a long, quiet moment. It was an unsettling gaze; it felt as though the woman were peeling back Beatrice's skin and examining the machinery underneath. Slowly, the gnarled hand reached out and took the package."You are a very strange girl," the old woman said softly.

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