Francie & the Bachelor: A Caversham-Haberdasher Crossover

by Sue London

  “Oh,” she said, confused by his mundane topic. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  He arched a brow. “If you know where they all are? I’ve seen a few pairs sitting about.”

  She laughed. “Yes! We can never have too many pairs of shears! But there are only five pair.” She dug in her apron pocket to produce hers. “If you start on these I will go find the rest.”

  After unlocking the front door for business, as though they might have a customer come in, Francie busied herself with finding all their pairs of scissors. Her mother’s were still tucked away in the drawer upstairs where she’d put them once mum was too ill to work. Phoebe’s were tucked in her cousin’s apron hanging in the back room. The special large pair used for cutting heavy fabric were in the workroom. But she couldn’t find Lydie’s anywhere.

  “Sorry,” Francie said, “but my little cousin must have taken hers.”

  Mr. Burnham paused at his work and grinned. “Well, won’t she be sad hers aren’t as sharp?”

  Francie wished he wouldn’t do that. Grin, that was. Bent to his work with his sleeves pushed up and his hair in his eyes, adding a grin to it was beyond bearing. Rather than answer his roguish smile she marched back out to the front counter. They were very unlikely to have any customers today, but if any came by this was typically the time they would do it. She certainly couldn’t go back to the workroom until she had decided that Mr. Burnham was less of a distraction.

  Reggie. He’d suggested that she call him Reggie. Could she? Would she? It was such an intimate thing to call a man by his Christian name. What would her name sound like on his lips? Miss Walters always sounded so formal, but would Francine sound less so in his bass voice? Would he call her Francie?

  She was, she knew, well and truly sunk. Phoebe needed to come back from London right now before Francie did something unwise.

  ***

  Miss Walters was clearly not the type to make too much of a fuss about services rendered. She’d dumped the pairs of scissors on him as though it were his job. She was so perfunctory about it that he was surprised she hadn’t included the kitchen knives as well. Then she’d disappeared to other parts of the shop as though on urgent business.

  Sharpening edges had always been a favorite hobby of his, oddly. He loved to take an edge to such a fine sharpness that you could shave with any of his knives. He most likely shouldn’t take the scissors to quite such an edge, but it was tempting. The sound of the stone on metal was a soothing rhythm, and soon he forgot about his growing attraction to Miss Walters, the loss of his friends, and the potential danger his one remaining friend might find in London. It all evaporated into a litany of metal on stone.

  That was until, at least, Miss Walters came back to the workroom and took up her sewing again. He kept his focus on his work, as he had long since discovered the error of distraction with a sharp blade. But part of him was also aware of her. The tendril of hair that had escaped the twist at the back of her neck and curled against her cheek. The way her brow was furrowed in concentration as her fingers flew over of the slick fabric. How she periodically tapped her foot, as though there might be a tune playing in her head that only she could hear. He was, truth be told, far too aware of her overall.

  Did she take any such notice of him? She hadn’t spoken when entering the room, and there had been silence other than their work ever since. Was she returning to the sullen quiet of the last few days? He missed her wicked tongue, dammit. Not that he should really think too much about her tongue, because his thoughts strayed from what it might say to how it might taste.

  “Bloody hell.” He’d known the price of distraction, but let his mind wander anyway. He stuck the bleeding digit in his mouth while Miss Walters came over to tend him.

  “Are you all right? What happened?”

  He forced himself to set down the offending scissors rather than throw them in anger. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled around the bleeding finger.

  “Let me see,” she insisted.

  Her tendency to play nursemaid was a bit irritating. On the other hand, she was the one who’d shot him, so she had a lot to make up for. He held his hand out, with the small slice on his middle finger immediately welling up with blood.

  She frowned and said, “Stay still,” before turning to riffle through the stack of scraps in the corner of the room. She brought back two small lengths of cotton and wrapped his finger carefully.

  “Don’t you want to put some honey on it?” he asked. He’d meant to make light of their earlier encounter but her eyes went wide and she swayed away from him.

  “We will see how this heals,” she said quietly.

  Bloody hell, he’d not meant to make the girl afraid of him. Perhaps he should even avoid doing so, as she was so quick to the trigger. “My apologies for earlier.”

  “Oh! I… No, there’s no need.” She seemed flustered and was avoiding his gaze again. She ran her fingers over her apron as though suddenly concerned she might have something on them. It didn’t speak well of him, he knew, but he rather liked flustering the girl. It was hard to gain the upper hand when your first few moments included being shot, so he was going to press his advantage.

  “But Miss Walters,” he said, dropping his voice to a deeper tone and spreading a hand over his chest melodramatically. “My mother would be beside herself if she heard of this. That I, her youngest son, could treat a gentle lady with such disrespect. Please say that you’ll forgive me.” Now she was blushing. A pretty English rose, indeed! What would she do if he read poetry to her?

  “D-don’t be all bacon-brained,” she stammered. “If you truly wish to apologize then keep being useful.”

  Reggie howled in laughter. Just when he thought he had her cornered she came out swinging again!

  “What?” she demanded

  But he was laughing too hard to explain, and after a bit she relaxed and chuckled before taking herself off to the front of the shop.

  No, his time spent with Miss Walters would not be boring.

  Chapter Eight

  Francine decided that Mr. Burnham must be a wooley crown, a man without as much sense as the Good Lord gave a goose. She had seen him behave a swaggering officer in front of his friend, a studious academic reading from his journals, an accomplished rake flirting over honey on her fingers, and just now she didn’t know precisely how he had been teasing her, only that he was. Perhaps the overdone apology made light of her only very narrow claim to respectability? Or had he laughed because he’d expected her to play the ingénue, simpering over his flirtation and apology? If he wanted simpering then he didn’t know Francine Walters. She would sooner put another bullet in him than make over him as though he were God’s gift. If he wanted that treatment then he’d best take himself off to London. Undoubtedly a man of his looks and profession would find a good number of young ladies who would be pleased to sigh over him.

  Oddly, however, that thought only served to make Francie more cross. She could just imagine the sort of vapid girl he would find there. She assumed they were just as stupid as the ones found in a small town like Cleadon, but with the polish that city folk liked. All powder and rouge and corset. Is that what men like him really wanted? False women? What was the point of a woman who lied about who she was and what she looked like? Could such a woman even really like herself?

  Francie looked down on the counter and realized she’d torn the receipt paper into tiny bits. Well, blast. The last time she’d been tearing paper to tiny bits had been the final week of mama’s illness. Was she more concerned about Phoebe’s safety than she’d realized? Had it been irrational to trust Mr. Manners-Sutton with her cousin’s care? Yes, Phoebe recognized the men as her brother’s best friends, but it had been years since she had seen them. Who was to say if they were truly the trustworthy sort?

  Frowning, she swept the shredded bits of paper into her hand to take to the fireplace. The past week had been frustrating and tiring. She was most likely fooling herself if she believed anyone wo
uld come into the shop today. She should be sewing to ensure she met their meager orders. There was always the chance, however slight, that with excellent work they could weather this downturn in their business. But not one respectable woman had darkened their door since Mr. Donovan’s enforcers arrived. Or perhaps it was the fact that young men had essentially taken up residence in their shop. Either way, there was little Francie could do right now to change the town’s opinion of her.

  She dusted the paper shards off her hands over the fireplace. She was achingly tired and thought perhaps her best option was simply to nap. It didn’t solve problems, but it put them at bay for a bit.

  “Mr. Burnham,” she called down the stairs. “I will be upstairs for awhile. Could you please fetch me if anyone comes calling?”

  “Of course.” His voice was deep and soothing.

  There was, perhaps, something rather comforting about having him downstairs. When the gentlemen had first suggested that he should stay for her protection she had been confused and a bit offended. Her father had rarely been home when she was a child, so it had always been just she and her mother. To suggest that she couldn’t care of herself ran counter to her experience. But was it possible that his presence was finally relaxing just a bit of that diligence she’d always had? As she took her hair down for her nap, she thought perhaps it had. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d napped during the daytime for any reason other than a terrible cold.

  If only she could borrow some of Mr. Burnham’s delicious warmth. Even thinking it caused her to blush, so that when she settled into the blankets she wasn’t quite as chilled as she would normally be.

  ***

  Reggie hadn’t heard a peep from Miss Walters for hours. He’d checked the front door and she’d locked it before repairing upstairs. After the scissors he’d gone ahead and sharpened the kitchen knives, even without her prompting. He didn’t want to leave her without knowing what she was doing, but he was quite famished and there was little in the larder to eat. He was quickly running through his ready funds keeping himself fed. Not that he’d expected to spend quite so much time in Cleadon. But with the girls experiencing such a drop off of business he was loathe to eat them out of house and home, so that meant food from the pub as he was able to get it.

  Right now, however, he wasn’t sure if he could leave Miss Walters alone. He would prefer that she come downstairs and lock the door behind him while he was out, as he did not have a key to do so himself.

  He paused at the top of the steps. The fire had burned down in the grate and there were no lanterns or candles lit to brighten the room in the afternoon shade.

  “Miss Walters?” he asked uncertainly.

  She had tidied up a bit from their morning tea, and the honey was on a lower shelf of the hutch. Although how it could be called tea without so much of a sandwich in the offing. It had only been tea. In the world he came from that was unheard of. He stomach growled as though to remind him why he was on this mission. He drifted toward the doorway she had disappeared through this morning. The door was slightly ajar.

  “Miss Walters?” He tapped gently. “Miss Walters?” The responding grunt concerned him and he swung the door open to find her sitting up in bed, squinting at him. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, a riot of golden tresses. What he could see of her gown was modest, but it didn’t detract from his attraction. She was sleepy and adorable and seductive all at once. In that moment he would have given up all his funds, his rank, even his name for the right to simply cross the room and kiss her awake. Instead, he gripped the door tightly. “My apologies. I didn’t know where you’d gotten off to.”

  His voice sounded hollow to his ears. As though he were calling up from a deep well.

  She stretched her arms above her head, pressing her bosom more tightly against the front of her gown, and he felt his knees weaken.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled through a yawn. “Apparently I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  He needed to leave. Now. “I’ll fetch us some supper,” he said abruptly. “Come down and lock the door behind me.” With that he made for the stairs.

  The damnable girl was temptation incarnate. At turns saucy and sweet, fierce and vulnerable. Even now it took tremendous will to keep his feet pointed in the right direction, and not lead him back to her bed. Her lips were begging to be kissed.

  Once through the front door he breathed a small sigh of relief. He would normally wait for her to lock it behind him, but honestly the risk of him ravishing her seemed greater than the possibility of the ruffians choosing this moment to pounce. He made eye contact with one of the thugs and used his current disquiet to enhance the glare he had for the man. If it weren’t for these bloody men he could go back to London to see his family and have Harry’s back. He didn’t slow his pace until inside the pub. Once there he downed two pints of ale while waiting for their supper to be prepared. Instead of ale for their supper tonight he purchased a bottle of claret. It might not be the wisest choice, but he found himself perversely wanting to please her. She’d never gone out of her way to please him, so why should he bother? Further, when he thought ahead to them drinking the wine together he couldn’t help but to picture they would do it while wrapped in the linens of her bed.

  As he counted out the coins for their repast he realized he’d best write to his brother for another disbursement. Jeremy managed his money, which was convenient since all Reggie really knew to do with funds was spend them. And even that he didn’t tend to do at too fancy a clip.

  With the bottle of wine under his arm and their supper wrapped in heavy paper, he made his way back to the shop. The door was locked, so at least she’d followed his instruction. He didn’t see her in the front of the shop so he rapped loudly. The sun was setting rapidly and the last thing he wanted was the shadows to close in and those dunderhead debt collectors to decide he looked vulnerable while locked outside with food and wine to balance.

  He saw her hurry through the shop with her lantern. She had dressed in a plain green gown and put her hair up in the twist she typically wore. When she opened the door her face lit up with a welcoming smile, which he assumed had more to do with the food he provided than actually him. But it felt good nonetheless.

  “Shall we eat?”

  She nodded enthusiastically and locked the door behind him as he took their supper up to their table. He noticed that he thought of it as their table now, but chose to ignore why that should be troublesome.

  Chapter Nine

  Francie took another bite of the perfectly baked meat pie and nearly groaned with pleasure. “You are spoiling me, Mr. Burnham. I should be cooking for you!”

  He shrugged. “You have far too much work to be cooking for us as well. I’m sure you three split the chores when the Grenard cousins are here.”

  “Indeed, we do.” That led Francie to thinking for a moment that it might no longer be true. What if Phoebe and Lydie never returned? Would she be able to balance all the chores on her own? It was a terribly bleak thought. With no one to grouse with, laugh with, depend on?

  “What’s wrong?” His voice was a gentle rumble.

  Her thoughts must have been writ on her face, something she typically didn’t do. She shook her head. “I’m just still worried about Phoebe and Lydie. Lord knows what they are doing in London. London! I can scarce imagine. And it makes me sad to think that they may never return.” She scowled. “That I might simply receive a letter telling me their plans. And that would be a far better outcome than anything nefarious befalling them, of course. But, well, it would be a change.”

  “You may be surprised, but I don’t ascribe to borrowing troubles by worrying. I’ve already seen more than enough of what can go wrong. Why make it that much worse by experiencing the hundreds of things that might go wrong?”

  She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. Did he have something of a point. “You mean I should just assume they are happy and safe until proven otherwise? Assume they will
come home and we will go on as we have before?”

  “If it gives you comfort, then yes. We have no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring to us.” He smiled and quoted. “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

  She thought for a moment. “Matthew?”

  He nodded. “It’s one of the few verses that sustains me.”

  If he, who had been through so much, could set aside worries then how could she not? She grinned impishly. “Yes, I remember you quoting it when I shot you.”

  “You bloody minx.” He chuckled.

  “Swearing at a lady!” she scoffed. “Why, your mother and I will never run out of things to discuss.”

  She tried to imagine what his mother must be like but did not find herself equal to the task. Although he had the rough swagger of a seaman, there was also something fine about him. Had that been his mother’s influence? He referred to her as though she were a lady of delicate constitution, but Francie found that impossible to believe. She was undoubtedly just as stubborn and tough as her wayward son. It was rare for the child to be substantially different than the parent.

  He nearly choked on his bite of pie at her threat and had to down a swallow of wine. “Yes, I’m quite sure you would keep my mother entertained for hours.”

  “What else would we talk about aside from you?” she asked. If she were to set aside her worries then she might as well have an imaginary friendship with his mum.

  “Fashion, clearly,” he said. He stroked his chin, thinking. “Relatives. I’ve never seen a gaggle of women more likely to talk about anyone not in the room.”

  “Gaggle?” she asked. “Who else is there?”

  “I have scads of sisters. Most are wives of my brothers, but they are all thick as thieves when at Dun-” he stopped himself and smoothly said, “my mother’s house.”

  So it was a named house. Had he stopped himself because he realized she wouldn’t recognize the name, therefore it could be confusing? Or for some other reason? She didn’t know any named houses outside of their county, but it was typically a rather nice manor house if it was named, she knew that much. In some ways he betrayed himself by his smoothness more than anything else. She’d thought him incapable of deceit, but just then she’d realized it wasn’t entirely true. He was well versed in the social falsehood. The sort of polite lie that is meant to protect another’s feelings but quite often did the opposite.