Prudence passed Maria a glass of water.
“Drink. Or at least hold it. People bother brides holding glasses less often.”
“They bother me anyway,” Maria muttered, but she took it. Her hands were cold against the glass. She hadn’t seen Stephen since the morning he had cryptically made a strange comment about herfinding a husband.
Only to act brashly the next day and ask for her hand in marriage.
The dressmaker stepped back, squinted, and tugged the front of the silk an eighth of an inch.
“There,” she declared. “The line is kinder. I believe this is better.”
“I don’t need kindness from cloth,” Maria said, unable to help herself. Whenever she was with her closest of friends, honesty came easily to her.
“You need it from somewhere,” Prudence said mildly. “We’ll take it where it comes.”
Temperance spat a pin into her palm, then looked horrified at herself and reached for a dish.
“Sorry. Habit. The nuns used to say we’d swallow our own mistakes.”
“We did,” Charity said. “Just not pins.”
“Speak for yourself,” Prudence smiled.
It was the usual chatter amongst her friends, but Maria’s mind was spiraling.
“I can’t do this,” Maria breathed finally.
“Can’t do fittings,” Charity asked, “or can’t do weddings?”
“Can’t do any of it.” Maria stared at the window, at nothing. “I feel like I’ve been picked up, turned, and set down heading another way without anyone asking if my feet were attached.”
“Your feet are attached,” Temperance said briskly. “No need to be so dramatic, darling.”
The dressmaker clicked her tongue.
“We must finish the hem before luncheon,” she said. If she sensed the tension in the room, she definitely did not make a fuss about it, to Maria's relief.
“We will,” Charity said. “Would it be possible to give us a few moments alone, perhaps?”
Maria felt grateful. The dressmaker nodded and then finally left them alone with the privacy that they needed.
“All right, Maria. Start at the beginning. What is this about?”
“Running,” Maria said without thinking.
All three of them stared.
“Running where?” Prudence asked, steady as always.
“Anywhere,” Maria said. “The kitchen gardens. The next parish. Scotland. I don’t care.Away.”
Charity traded a glance with Prudence over Maria’s shoulder. “You won’t do it.”
“I might.”
“You won’t,” Charity repeated, matter-of-fact. “You’ve only ever run from one thing in your life, and that was toward us.”
“If you run again, it would need to be toward something. You hate empty roads,” Temperance added.