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Lina was nodding encouragingly. “That’s a marvelous plan,” she said warmly. “Meggin is a very lucky little girl to have you as a mother, Mrs. Fishpole.”

Mrs. Fishpole was blinking rather rapidly. “As to mother, well I never thought to be such a thing. But I suppose—”

“You are definitely Meggin’s mother,” Lina said cheerfully.

Meggin peeped out from the iron circle of Mrs. Fishpole’s arms like a sparrow waiting for a plump worm.

“I believe that Father Rumwold in the Minster Church is in need of a housekeeper who can cook,” Tom said, not thinking it necessary to add that Father Rumwold had never had a housekeeper and showed few signs of needing one. “You would be an excellent candidate. If you are interested, I could send a note, suggesting your services to the father. It’s a small household, just himself and two clerics.” And, he thought to himself, Rumwold is just the sort to enjoy a good fish and sausage pie.

“I’d be grateful,” Mrs. Fishpole said with a sharp nod. “I’ve never done any housekeeping, but I wouldn’t mind putting my hand in.”

“Excellent,” Tom said, scribbling a note for Reverend Rumwold and giving it to Mrs. Fishpole. “May I pay for Meggin’s passage to the North Country, Mrs. Fishpole? I feel responsible for the distress that I caused both of you in the past few days.”

“As to that, I won’t say no,” Mrs. Fishpole said. “Things are a bit tight, and I meant to borrow some from my brother-in-law, but he’s not a ready man.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Tom said. Lina was kneeling next to Mrs. Fishpole’s chair and saying something in Meggin’s ear without disturbing her snug place on Mrs. Fishpole’s lap. The little girl was smiling and then Lina put something in Meggin’s hand and closed her fingers around it. Mrs. Fishpole didn’t notice; she was busy pushing back all the money Tom had given her except one guinea.

“This’ll be enough to get us to East Riding, and I thank you for that. I’m not taking any charity, not if my name’s Elsa Fishpole. Meggin and me will make our way with what we have, and a deal of hard work, and that’ll be enough. Right, Meggin?”

Meggin looked up at her and then suddenly burst into tears.

“We’ll be fine,” Mrs. Fishpole told her roughly. But she was rocking her back and forth with a manner that belied her curt words. “No crying, now. We Fishpoles don’t cry.”

Lina and Tom finally tiptoed out of the room with whispered farewells, as Meggin seemed to be bent on proving that sometimes Fishpoles, especially the little ones, did cry. And cry.

“What did you give Meggin?” Tom asked curiously, when they reached the street and climbed into their hackney again.

“My ring,” Lina said.

“Your ring? What ring?” Tom asked.

She shrugged. “A ring your brother gave me.”

“He gave you a ring?” Tom hardly recognized his own voice. That was the voice of a man about to commit homicide against a member of his family.

Lina touched his arm. “Only when I dragged him into a shop and demanded it,” she said, smiling up at him.

“Oh.”

“It was a pretty little emerald, though,” she said cheerfully, “and since Mrs. Fishpole does not know my name nor my direction in London, she will have no way to return it to me. Therefore, I would guess that she will swallow her pride, sell the ring, and be able to set herself up with some comfort in Beverley.”

Tom felt a reluctant smile curl his mouth. “You’ve solved it all, haven’t you?” he said. “You knew I’d done the wrong thing taking Meggin away; you forced Mr. Sigglet to give you the proper directions; you found a way to give some money to Mrs. Fishpole when I utterly failed in that respect. You are going to be a superb vicar’s wife.”

“Hmmm,” Lina said. “Perhaps, if I chose to be.” Then she stretched up and for the very first time, under her own initiative, gave him a kiss.

Thirty-three

Because Rees Is a Very Good Student

Helene burst into the music room looking as vividly happy as Rees had ever seen her. He took one glance and went back to his score, pounding out a cello accompaniment to the Captain’s aria he wrote yesterday. He didn’t look up until she stuck something in front of his eyes.

“Do you know what these are?” she burst out.

“Flowers.” He played the first few chords again. They sounded pedantic. Perhaps they would flatten the exuberance of Come to the Ball! Perhaps he should try oboes instead of a cello.

“Not just any flowers,” Helene said, pushing him over on the piano stool. “I had them on my bedside table, ever since”—she seemed to be turning a little pink—“since we walked in the woods, day before yesterday.”

“Yes?”