CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

NEW PROVIDENCE—1720

MARY SAT AT MOLLY’S STALL, HUNCHED DESPONDENTLY OVER HER PIECEWORK. When Mary had returned from church the day before, Anne had still been lying there in her chemise, her skin slick with sweat. Mary had tried to engage with Anne. She’d tried to be friendly, even tried to be flirtatious, but Anne hadn’t responded to anything with more than a yes or no. Anne had said she felt sick, and wouldn’t eat anything Mary had offered. Her face was swollen and bruised again, worse than Mary’s, but she’d refused Mary’s offer to take a closer look.

When she’d left the hut that morning, Anne still hadn’t gotten out of bed.

Mary looked up at the sound of palmettos shifting and saw Livie approaching Molly’s stall through the dappled light beneath the palm trees. Mary’s stomach tightened. She wished Molly would hurry back from her house with her pennies. Mary was only minding the stall while Molly fetched payment for her.

“Hallo, Mary!” Livie said cheerfully. “Good to see you again.”

“Livie,” Mary said stiffy.

“You’re looking well, Mary.” Livie stopped in front of the stall, a delicate sweat beading her brow, a friendly smile on her lips. “It looks like that bruising is going down quickly.”

Mary bent back over her work. “Quick enough, I suppose.” It was a gusset for an elbow—a particularly troubling piece of stitching, all angles. Nothing forgiving about it.

“I thought I might find you here. Nat said you worked for the sempstress.” Livie cleared her throat as she looked away, running her hands over a bolt of gold chintz. “I’ve need of a dress, Mary.”

Mary set her needle down. “Describe what you’ve need of,” she said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. The sooner she helped Livie, the sooner she would leave.

“Well.” Livie gave her a sly look. “It’s to be for a special occasion. Silk, if possible, and I’ll want it in a color that suits me.”

“We have that organza silk in blue—well, sort of an indigo, really—and a pale green color. The green would look lovely with your hair and eyes. Here, I’ll show you—” She got off her stool, feeling a pang as she thought of Anne’s ruined dress. She’d dreamed of making her another out of silk, once she’d saved up enough pennies, but she’d barely worked the calico off. She’d have to make Anne’s replacement out of cheaper material.

“Blue, that’s perfect!” Livie put a theatrical hand to her heart. “My mother always said that blue was the proper color for a wedding dress.”

Mary sat back down. “A wedding dress,” she said slowly. She knew the answer before she even asked. “Who’s the lucky gentleman?”

Livie’s eyes widened guilelessly. “Why, Nat, of course! I thought you were close? Surely he told you?”

Of course Nat’s drunken touch didn’t mean anything. Of course he was going to marry this girl—the kind of girl he’d always wanted to marry.

Not Mary.

She had wanted to marry him. She remembered when she’d wanted that so badly, when she was back in Wapping, still holding tight to her secret. She’d imagined a ring on her finger, a dress. A marriage-house, like Mum, or a chapel for a real wedding. Nat standing by an altar, waiting for her.

But her longing was different now. She could sew it up, take it in here and let it out there, dress it as something else, and alter its shape so others found it suitable—but what she really wanted sprawled deeper and wider and wilder than anything she could name. She didn’t want a marriage. Not the kind of marriage Nat wanted, not marriage like it existed within the whitewashed walls of that church.

She’d make Livie a beautiful dress, like the one she made for Anne. The dress that Anne had worn when she threatened Robbie with a wooden spoon in Mary’s defense—when she drew Mary in by that palm tree and sighed against her lips—when she’d slowly taken it off, not dropping Mary’s gaze.

“Congratulations, Livie,” she said, feeling strangely giddy as she stood again. “We’d be happy to make your dress. Come here, I’ll show you what I’ve got.”