Free To Kiss a Thief by Susanna Craig

together and planned a sort of festival on Michaelmas—folks sellin’ their wares, and food and drink, of course, and a dance.”
    â€œA festival?” He was struck afresh by the contrast between Sarah’s plain looks and her frivolous desires. Had his father known of the latter, he hoped the man would never have been taken in by the former—enormous dowry or no. Surely his second marriage had taught him something about the folly of making such a bargain. And Michaelmas? That was six days off. He had no intention of wasting a week in Haverhythe.
    â€œAye. I suspect that’s where she got off to. She and Mrs. Norris likely had somethin’ to chat about this morning.”
    Of that St. John had no doubt.
    â€œMr. Beals, I have a rather delicate question—one I very much regret having to ask,” he said, drawing one finger along the edge of his saucer. “How has Mrs. Fairfax managed to support herself all this time?”
    â€œWell, I reckon she had a bit of something from your folks when she arrived,” Beals said, sounding as if he expected the information to provide some reassurance. “But like most hereabouts, she makes do on very little. O’ course, the lessons help a bit.”
    â€œLessons?”
    â€œOn Mrs. Norris’s pianoforte,” he explained. “She offered Mrs. Fairfax the use of it to teach some of the girls in the village. She plays right pretty, you know. Why, she’s even got Miss Susan Kittery to make somethin’ that passes for music . . .” Beals waggled his head. “Miss Susan’s a winning little thing. No talent, though. Mrs. F. earns every penny she gets.”
    Despite Mr. Beals’s attempt at reassurance, St. John knew very well that the few shillings Sarah made giving music lessons would not have been enough to sustain her and the child, no matter how simply they lived.
    And he did not need the baker to tell him how she had made up the difference.
    â€œI don’t know what happened twixt the two of you all those years ago, but it seems you got off to a bit of a rough start, lad.” Beals paused to give the tea in his cup a vigorous stir, the delicate spoon dwarfed by his beefy thumb. “And even though you’re not askin’, I’m goin’ to offer some free advice,” he said, leaning toward him and lowering his voice. “If you aim to get Mrs. F. to come back to you, you’ll want to woo her to win her.”
    â€œWoo my wife ?”
    â€œAye. Think back to your courtin’ days. Do summat that’ll make her happy. God knows she ain’t had awt o’ that in years, ’sceptin’ the wee ’un.”
    In one sense, Beals’s advice was sound. If St. John had any hopes of getting into Sarah’s home to look for evidence without her calling down the wrath of half of Haverhythe, he might be best served by trying to get into her good graces first, perhaps even to make it seem as if he hoped to reconcile. Staying until the festival would give him ample time to devise a plan of attack.
    St. John unfolded himself from the chair and gave the baker a nod. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
    But inwardly he was still thinking, Woo her? Pay court to the woman who had likely cuckolded him and stolen an irreplaceable family heirloom in the process? He settled his hat on his head and prepared to meet the glare of the noonday sun. From across the street, the glint of gilt lettering on glass caught his eye.

    Gaffard’s
    â€œFine Things from the Four Corners of the Globe”

    And all at once it struck him. He did not think he could bring himself to do anything for Sarah. But perhaps something for her little girl . . . ?
    Without further ado, he stepped across the narrow lane, boot heels ringing against the cobblestones, oblivious to the sight of Sarah ducking furtively into a doorway up the street.

Chapter 6
    â€œY oo-hoo, Mrs.