*
When the next day dawned bright, I had little time to spare on the witch’s bottle. After taking breakfast in my room again, I dressed and limped awkwardly downstairs to prepare for a group of ladies who were meeting at Brighmor later that afternoon. As part of the initial plan to counter Nathan’s accusations, I had invited several friends over during my rounds last week, to knit wool stockings for the poor. In the dead of winter, I knew these tokens of charity would go far to sustain me in the opinion of our less fortunate citizens.
This ulterior motive aside, I usually didn’t mind needlework, and looked forward to spending the afternoon with my friends until a note arrived from Phoebe Trumble. In her perfectly shaped handwriting, she praised my intentions and said that she would arrive at two o’clock sharp to help with this worthy endeavor. I crumbled the note into a tight ball and threw it in the hearth, knowing full well that Phoebe hated knitting almost as much as she hated the poor. Most likely the primary reason behind her visit today was to get a good long look at my husband. Taking proper heed of Nora’s warning, I would make sure the conniving jade went home without so much as a peek.
Katrina Oswald, Allison Dowling, and Nora Goodwin all arrived at the same time, having walked the distance together. Mary showed them into the drawing room where I was sorting through a basket of yarn. Each lady selected a color, and we got right to work while catching up on the more lighthearted gossip. As the minutes passed, I began to hope that Phoebe had changed her mind when I heard carriage wheels and saw her shay coming up the drive.
“Oh, bother,” I mumbled into my knitting. The whole group fell silent as we waited for her to be shown in.
“Do forgive my lateness,” Phoebe said, kissing me on the cheek in greeting. “I got word from the milliner that my new gown was finished, and I just had to pick it up to wear today.”
My knowledge may have been limited in regards to growing wheat and balancing ledgers, but I knew my business when it came to gowns, and that one had cost more than most small farmers made in a year. Since Phoebe’s father owned only a midsized farm, I assumed it to be a gift from her wealthy grandfather who owned a shipyard in Philadelphia. “What do you think?” she asked, turning a circle to better show off every pleat and tuck. “Is it not the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?”
To my dismay, it probably was. My spirits fell even further, seeing her so stunningly clad with her beauty set off to perfection. Her hair resembled spun gold, and what wasn’t pinned up in back curled beautifully around her flawless oval face. Her skin was the very essence of cream, even more so than the yards of cream silk she wore, patterned with small bouquets of flowers in a pale blue that exactly matched her eyes. She looked absolutely lovely, and I gave an irritated sigh, knowing Henry may well fall in love on the spot like most of the other men in Hopewell and surrounding villages.
With a swirl of her skirts, Phoebe took a seat next to Allison Dowling. “Dear me, how fast your needles fly,” Phoebe said, glancing over at Allison’s work. “Too bad your stitches aren’t a bit tighter.”
Allison stopped knitting and held up the stocking for closer inspection with genuine distress. “Do you really think so? Maybe I should just start over.”
“Don’t you dare.” Nora glared openly at Phoebe. “No one here knits prettier than you. The lucky girl who gets those stockings will be the envy of all her neighbors.”
“And the one who gets these will be the laughingstock.” I held up a dozen lopsided rows of poorly shaped stitches.
Nora and Katrina laughed in agreement, each commenting that it was really the thought that counted. Allison struggled to find something nice to say. “I’m sure they’ll be fine once they’re finished,” she said politely.
Phoebe brought out her own needles and began. Her needles moved almost as quickly as Allison’s, leaving in their wake row after row of perfect stitches. “It’s always been a mystery to me why women are not more equally favored in the feminine arts,” she said. “I guess even God must have his favorites.”
“Is that what the Presbyterians are preaching nowadays?” Nora asked coolly.
“It hardly takes a preacher to see that some women have been more abundantly blessed than others. What do you think, Selah? Am I not right?”
“I think my inability to knit has absolutely no bearing on God’s love for me,” I replied tartly.