Chapter Fifteen
The village of Perchance-By-The-Sea was as picturesque as they came. It had winding cobbled streets, a handful of quaint shops selling sweets, ribbons, and other finery, and houses with white curtains and cheerful flowers in pots by the front door. It smelled of salt and was lulled by the sounds of the ocean.
It was also overrun with unmarried ladies of good birth.
In other words, a nightmare.
When Dougal shifted uncomfortably, Meg sent him a sympathetic smile over her strawberry ice. It was cold and sweet and delicious, and she could have immediately eaten two more. If there’d been any left. Some villages specialized in traveling book libraries, or fishing nets, or baked apples.
Perchance-By-The-Sea currently specialized in ladies eating ices.
Meg might have thought herself in London at Gunter’s with the most fashionable set stopping for a treat. There were bonnets, there were ribbons and lace, smiles and sidelong glances. Fluttering eyelashes.
And virtually no ices left to be had.
And with garden tours no longer allowed, the ladies clustered around, turned in Dougal’s direction as though he were the sun to their sunflowers.
“It’s not usually like this,” Dougal muttered, looking both bemused and embarrassed. Adorable. “This is a little town with seashell art and a single bathing machine to rent.”
“And a single duke under royal decree to marry,” she reminded him. As if he needed reminding. As if she did. The bright day dimmed a little. Which, again, was ridiculous. Nothing had changed. Even if the strawberry ice turned to dust in her mouth and she put the cup down, unfinished. Get ahold of yourself, Meg.
“I’m just going to pop in here for a moment,” she said brightly, motioning to the dressmaker’s shop.
“Are you abandoning me on the field of battle?” Dougal asked, as the ladies began to press closer.
“Bloody right,” she shot back, but she wasn’t really abandoning him. She just needed a moment to put herself to rights again. She didn’t want him to see her reaction, her utterly absurd distress. She needed to be quiet, practical Meg again. Not whatever this version was, who wanted to gnash her teeth and throw ices at perfectly pleasant women. Who wanted to lick strawberry ice off of Dougal’s lower lip.
Clearly the cold sea water had disordered her. No wonder people thought it was dangerous.
The bloody riddle wasn’t helping either. But at least it was a suitable distraction.
Miss Chan’s Haberdashery was cozy and neat and soothing. There were more seashells than the usual shops Meg had been in, but it had the same smell: dust, candle smoke, linen. She took a deep breath, calmed herself. Glass cases displayed pins and brooches and carved pearl buttons. Ribbons dangled from ceiling latticework and bolts of fabric lined the walls of the back room, with an abundance of painted silk. There were tiny paintings of ships and anchors and gulls, and yet more ships cradled cleverly inside of bottles. Seashells, and more seashells.
She wished again that Dahlia’s riddle had involved something a little less ubiquitous in a seaside town.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” the Chinese woman behind the counter smiled. She wore a dress made with the most marvelous pink plaid. Promising, that.
“Hello,” Meg smiled. It was usually best to buy a little trinket before trying to convince someone to buy something from her, but she didn’t have enough money on her to risk it, being so far from home. “You have a lovely shop.”
“Thank you.”
Meg waited until the other customers had wandered out of earshot before taking a pile of twenty or so handkerchiefs out of her reticule. She laid them out on the counter. “I wonder if you might consider these for your clientele?”
Miss Chan had a sharp eye, a knowing smile, and a very faint accent. “These are very well done.” She nodded to the embroidery on Meg’s pelisse. “Your work?”
“Yes,” she said. “You won’t find anything like it.” It still felt strange to boast about her own work, but she had learned to do so, around the same time she had learned to scrub out a stove and use madder root to dye her own threads.
“It would appear not.” Miss Chan touched a fat hedgehog, red birds, holly berries. “I am certain I can sell these. I could sell more if you have anything with seashells.”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t.” She should have thought of it. She wasn’t sure she would have time to make any before she had to leave Thorncroft Abbey. Which would be soon. Sooner than she liked, and already later than was probably wise.
Meg felt a little better when the transaction was complete. Every penny helped. Her uncle, after all, could not be relied upon to see to the tenants’ needs, especially when it came to leaky roofs and empty larders. Meg might not be able to grow enough blackberries to consistently feed a person, but she could embroider them well enough. They sold decently when she could find herself in a little village who did not know her or her godfather. Trade, after all, was not to be trifled with when you were a viscount’s daughter.
Even if the thought of eating one more spoonful of mashed turnips was enough to make you scream.
And since her purse was finally a little full, she was perfectly justified in giving some back to Miss Chan in exchange for one of the travel pamphlets in a basket by the door. Tours of Thorncroft Abbey, Historic and Scandalous Ducal Residence! The drawing of the abbey was rough but earnest. Inside were snippets of history and details on how to apply to the housekeeper for a tour. Not entirely unusual. Except for the promise of scandal. Clever, that.
She darted outside to show Dougal, but stopped up short when a tall, statuesque lady smiled brightly at her. And Dougal.