Chapter 2
The post arrived with its usual authority, plopping onto the counter as if it owned the place. Vicky slit open the top letter—Nathan’s tidy handwriting, worse luck—while Gracie counted the till with the devotion of a woman who liked numbers more than people.
My dear Vicky,
I have had a note from your neighbor, Mr. Stouts, who expresses concern about the recent burglaries and your safety.
He suggests prudence in your hours and arrangements.
I know you do not need my advice, but you have it anyway: be cautious.
We shall send someone to mend your bell (which has terrorized even the stoutest footman), and if you wish a man posted at closing, say the word.
Your devoted brother, etc.
Nathan
Vicky read it twice, mostly for the pleasure of being annoyed. You do not need my advice was exactly the sort of phrase that marched advice straight into the parlor without being invited.
Sliding the letter beneath the blotter, she announced, “He wrote to Nathan.”
“Of course he did,” Gracie replied, not looking up. “Men like that always write to other men. They can’t help themselves.”
“‘Be cautious,’” Vicky muttered. “As if I plan to stand on the roof and wave coin at the thieves.”
“Do let me know if you do,” Gracie said dryly. “I’ll mark it in the ledger under ‘miscellaneous lunacy.’”
Vicky’s gaze landed on the stationer’s across the street. Tidy paint. Tidy windows. Tidy owner. And now, apparently, a man who thought tidying her life was part of his duties. A spark of irritation—and something less convenient—rose in her chest.
“Very well,” she said. “If Mr. Stouts wishes to concern himself with my affairs, I’ll give him something to worry about.”
Gracie’s pen stilled. “What sort of something?”
“Kindness,” Vicky said firmly. “The unrelenting kind.”
By midmorning, Abbott & Sisters was polished to perfection, and Vicky had gathered her weapons: a tin of star biscuits, a sprig of holly tied with a bow, and a smile that could disarm a magistrate. She marched across the street as if she were on campaign.
The bell above Stouts & Sons chimed with prim restraint. Hubert Stouts looked up from his counter, quill poised. Surprise flickered before his usual composure returned.
“Miss Abbott.”
“Mr. Stouts.” She set the tin squarely on the counter. “For your staff.”
“I have no staff,” he replied.
“Then you’re doubly fortunate.” She placed the holly beside it. “Decoration.”
“This is a stationer’s shop,” he said. “Holly sheds.”
“So do customers come springtime. It’s part of the season.”
Before he could respond, Mrs. Reeves from the milliner’s breezed in, saw the holly, and clapped her hands. “Mr. Stouts, how cheerful! Miss Abbott, you’ve worked your magic again.”
Vicky smiled as Mrs. Reeves left with sealing wax she didn’t need and a biscuit she hadn’t paid for. Hubert, meanwhile, looked as though he’d swallowed an ink blot.
“Miss Abbott,” he said tightly, “I must ask you not to decorate my counter.”
“Too late,” she said, tilting her head toward the bow. “It’s already the most admired thing in your shop.”
His jaw flexed, and she knew she’d won this round.
Trade carried on as usual, but each time she glanced across the street, she caught sight of Hubert adjusting the bow, straightening it with unnecessary precision. And each time, she felt the ridiculous urge to laugh.
By dusk, when their paths crossed outside and his hand caught her scarf before it hit the mud, Vicky’s heart gave a traitorous jolt. He looked at her with that steady, unreadable expression of his, and for the first time she wondered what it might be like if he set aside all that restraint.