Free A Heart Most Worthy by Siri Mitchell Page B

was something in Madame’s eyes, something in her demeanor that made Luciana reluctant to be singled out for that woman’s attentions.
    “I would like for you to assist me at this afternoon’s fitting.”
    A fitting? What did she know about fittings? “But – ”
    “It will be at two o’clock.”
    “I don’t – I can’t – ” She hadn’t taken the job with Madame in order to work in the shop’s window, visible to every passerby. She wanted to be hidden, not exposed.
    Annoyance was beginning to creep into Madame’s eyes.
    “I can’t – speak English.” There. Now Madame wouldn’t want her.
    “Don’t worry. Mrs. Quinn won’t be conversing with you.” Luciana flushed from both the miscomprehension and the implication. “I don’t think – ”
    “That’s right. You don’t! Because if you think that I’m giving you options instead of orders, then you can leave right now!”
    Luciana flinched as if she had been slapped. She’d never been given orders as if she were a mere – an ordinary – working girl. She couldn’t bring herself to even think the word servant . But leave? She couldn’t – she wouldn’t! She would do whatever it took to be allowed to stay. Even if it meant creeping out of her third-floor hiding place. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean – of course I’ll – ”
    Madame was already regretting her words, though not her feelings of frustration. Mrs. Quinn was nearly on her doorstep. What she needed was an ally, not a recalcitrant employee. “Two o’clock.”
    As Julietta and Annamaria had observed the conversation, their eyebrows shot up toward their foreheads. They hardly waited until Madame had gone before speaking. “Mrs. Quinn!” Julietta was already crossing herself. She couldn’t decide whether to bless her good luck or curse her misfortune. In the past, Madame had always asked her to assist with the clients. But there were clients and there was Mrs. Quinn.
    Mrs. Quinn? Luciana already hated her. “Who is Mrs. Quinn?”
    “A strega.” On that point, both Julietta and Annamaria were agreed.
    A witch? Surely not. But Luciana, looking over at the other two girls, could not ignore their reactions. They couldn’t actually believe in witches, could they? Surely they were more educated, less ignorant, than that.
    Mrs. Quinn herself would have been completely surprised and not a little hurt at that assessment of her person. She’d lived her life as an activist, after all. Those who knew her considered her to be remarkably and gratifyingly modern. A bastion of tolerance, a scourge against racism. She’d married an Irishman, hadn’t she? She had been hard at work in the National Women’s Party to advocate for women’s suffrage. And she patronized Madame Fortier’s shop.
    It helped, of course, that the woman was the best gown maker in Boston. And it didn’t hurt that she was truly European instead of second-generation Irish. Most of the other dressmakers had Gallicized their names and sprinkled their sentences with French phrases. Madame’s accent, however, was authentic. And that counted for quite a bit in Mrs. Quinn’s mind. She could not have said for certain from where exactly Madame had come, but she presumed it was some place respectable.
    Mrs. Quinn was a Champion for the Downtrodden and a Defender of the Meek. The poor, the weak, the destitute could have no better friend than she. A witch, she was most definitely not.
    She did, however, have a blind spot on the topic of Italians, as did most people in America with any kind of intelligence. Especially southern Italians, whom everyone knew to be inferior in every way to northern Italians. They were no more than overgrown children, really. Of limited intelligence and questionable virtue. Intractable and stubborn. They seemed to always think much more highly of themselves than they ought. And their homes! They swarmed to the North End like rats from a sinking ship. What sort of intelligent people would live