Free To Kiss a Thief by Susanna Craig Page B

measuring and planning, Sarah stood as mute as a dressmaker’s dummy. “He won’t want to see you wearin’ the weeds like he were dead ’n’ gone.”
    Sarah looked down at the dress that had been the badge of her suffering, her entry ticket into the society of unfortunate women who lived on Haverhythe’s fringes, women like “Mad Martha” Potts and Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Dawlish.
    The Merry Widow Fairfax.
    â€œGaffard’s has some new fabric, just in. Will we go down-along and—?”
    â€œNo!” It would never do to look as if she had followed St. John there.
    Startled, Emily drew her hands away. “Mrs. Fairfax?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Emily. A new dress would be lovely. But I don’t need it. I’m sure my husband would not want me to spend—”
    â€œBother that.” Emily laughed. “A man always wants to see his woman look her best, no matter what he says. I know just what to do. You leave it to me, and we’ll just see if you don’t have a new dress in time for the festival. I think Ma even has a new bonnet in back. Mrs. Kittery turned up her nose at it—said it weren’t good enough. But with some new trimmings and such, I think it’ll suit.”
    â€œI couldn’t possibly—”
    But Sarah’s protests fell on an empty room. Emily had already ducked into the workroom behind the shop and was rummaging around in search of the discarded bonnet. She returned with a dainty chip hat decorated with feathers that would have perched on Mrs. Kittery’s head like a wounded bird.
    â€œOooh!” Clarissa exclaimed, reaching out a hand toward the hat.
    Emily held it just out of her reach and looked at Sarah. “Don’t you worry. This’ll be Mrs. Kittery’s present to the happy couple, like.” She smiled broadly. “What she don’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”
    Sarah glanced down at her dress again. The black crape was rusty with age and shiny with wear. How good it would feel to wear something fresh and pretty again! She had always enjoyed pretty things, even if her dull brown hair and rather colorless eyes kept her from being pretty herself.
    â€œAll right.” She whispered her reluctant consent, knowing what trouble those little words could cause. Once Emily had finished her measurements, Sarah gathered up her daughter and stepped cautiously into the street again, peering in either direction for any sign of her husband before darting along the footpath to the vicarage.
    By the time they reached the vicarage, her exhaustion had got the better of her, and no amount of blinking could sweep away the tears that reduced Abigail Norris’s carefully tended roses to blurry splotches of color.
    â€œH-have you h-heard?” she choked out when Abigail opened the door.
    â€œMama?” Clarissa asked, worry marring her childish features.
    â€œAh, Miss Clarissa,” Abby said, holding out a hand toward the girl. “I was hoping you’d come along with your mama. Cook has some fresh apple tarts in the kitchen, and I was wondering who we might find to taste one and see if it was good.”
    Sarah gave a nod, equal parts consent and gratitude, and Clarissa followed eagerly.
    When Abigail returned alone, she enveloped Sarah in a sisterly embrace. “There, there, dear. Yes, I’ve heard. I imagine there are few who haven’t,” she added with a somber shake of her dark head as she released her. Abby, who was Sarah’s elder by only a few years, would never be mistaken for a gossiping matron. But having come to the village when she was just eighteen, on the occasion of her marriage, the vicar’s wife had a vast deal of experience with the ways of Haverhythe and its fascination with strangers. “The steepness of the lane is no obstacle to telling tales, I’m afraid.”
    Sarah allowed herself to be led into the drawing room. “But it