Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“A friend of my father’s was recently in town,” Miranda said smoothly. “My father left me a little bit of money after all. We’ve used it to apprentice Robbie to a shipwright.”


Mrs. Blasseur looked suitably impressed. “A lucky chance, there. Jeremy, isn’t that lovely?”

“Yes, Mama.” Jeremy didn’t sound so dutiful, though, whatever his words. “It’s wonderful for Robbie.”

“It’s so lovely that he’ll not be spending his afternoons with those wretched boys,” Mrs. Blasseur continued.

“Yes.”

Was that anger in his voice? Anger, from even-keeled Jeremy?

“I’m always happy when someone escapes Temple Parish,” Jeremy added stiffly. “This place kills.”

As if to underscore that, Mrs. Blasseur coughed twice. Jeremy met Miranda’s eyes, his gaze communicating what he did not need to say any longer.

Get out. Get out, if you can.





Chapter Eleven




AS IT TURNED OUT, Turner settled the details that very morning.

It was scarcely ten when a runner came by. Robbie was to report to the shipwright for his apprenticeship in a handful of hours. Miranda helped him pack his things, and hugged him good-bye. He harrumphed at this treatment, and pulled away. But before he left, he stopped in front of her.

“Miranda?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll still see you on Sundays, won’t I? You’ll want me to come over?” His voice had grown so deep that it almost disguised the querulous note to his inquiry.

“I’d be miserable if you didn’t,” Miranda told him.

He turned away. “Huh,” he said.

Miranda tugged on his elbow. “You know,” she said, “I love you. If ever you need anything…”

“Sure.” He shrugged, and then looked at her and straightened to the height of his not-quite-five-feet yet. “I’m going to be a shipwright. So, later, when you need something, I’ll be the one to provide it.”

There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, as he took his satchel to the door. Don’t get in trouble. Don’t drink gin. Try not to do anything stupid.

Instead, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. “Here,” she said, handing it over. “You forgot to pack one.”

He rammed it into his pocket and then left with the courier. While she waited, Miranda piled her own things into the valise that the runner had brought. She finished packing before the courier returned; there wasn’t much to take. But a scant hour later, she left her garret room for good.

The runner conducted her across the water, past the cathedral and up a slope. Halfway up the hill, he turned onto a street overshadowed by trees. The bare limbs moved slightly in a breeze that brought with it only the smell of fallen leaves—no sewage, no starch. A row of houses, several stories high, rose on one side of the street. On the other was a park and a large stone building.

She had no time to explore her environs before she was ushered into the house.

She’d imagined Turner would obtain something for her along the lines of his own residence—a few rooms, perhaps smaller. But this was a lavish affair. The entry opened on a wide staircase, spiraling up two stories. A housekeeper—she introduced herself as Mrs. Tiggard—greeted Miranda, and she presented a cook and a pair of maids. She’d scarcely had a chance to get an impression of richly-papered walls and dark polished wood in the entry, before she was whisked on a tour of the house: parlor, pantry, dining room, all on the ground floor; then, up a flight of stairs, a sitting room, a morning-room, and a library. On the floor above that there was a dressing room and several bedchambers. The largest had been furnished for her.

The bed had four solid posts, and was covered in ivory linen sheets and a heavy gold coverlet. It seemed far too large for one person—or, for that matter, for two. Tonight, he’d come to her. There. Her skin tingled. Oh, God. She was really going to do this.

Before she had a chance to think matters through, however, a dressmaker was announced, along with three assistants. They’d brought with them a handful of mostly-finished gowns. Satins and silks and fine merino wools in browns and greens and blues—terribly impractical attire if one were to go walking down Temple Street. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as they tried them on her, pinning and basting in place. It was as if she were dressing up again as a lady. This time, the charade would last not for an afternoon, but for a month. This time, she was being paid to have the gowns, instead of paying for their use.

The dressmaker clucked at the light stays she was wearing, frowned at her chemise, and sent one of her assistants out with a list of items to be purchased.

She was pinned and measured and prodded; the assistants made adjustments, and no sooner was one dress fitted than it was whisked away and another put on in its place.