‘Do not pretend that none of you was eavesdropping,’ she said in frustration. She had told the staff never to gossip about clients. But it would be most annoying if they took this instance, above all others, to follow a rule that they broke with regularity.
‘He barely spoke,’ Jasper admitted. ‘And when he did, it was too quiet to hear. But he seemed angry. He nearly set the workbench on fire. The minute he left, Mr Pratchet gathered his tools and fled.’
What had she said the previous evening, to bring about such a visit? Perhaps it had been her mention of the man’s offer that had set him off. The marquess might have taken exception to it and decided to dispense with a rival. It was madness. Was he really so possessive as to allow her no male friends? She had not really intended to wed Pratchet. Nothing short of total catastrophe would convince her to marry a man who was so shamelessly scheming for her hand.
Perhaps he was angry that Pratchet had revealed his part in the deception. If so, she was not sure she minded that he had faced the wrath of the marquess. Why should all the punishment for this situation fall on her shoulders? The loss of a goldsmith would be an inconvenience. But she’d have fired him herself, eventually, just to stop the proposals. The more she thought of it, the better she felt that he was gone.
‘I think I understand what has happened,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘You are right. We will not be seeing Mr Pratchet again. Which means we are without a goldsmith.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to focus her thoughts. ‘We will manage as best we can, today. If someone comes, seeking repairs, we will send them to Mr Fairweather in Bristol. Tomorrow, I shall put the ad back in the London papers to replace Mr Pratchet.’
‘Very good, miss.’
‘I will check the workbench to see what he has done. Hopefully, Mrs Harkness will not come for her necklace. I did not think he had finished mending it yesterday.’
Jasper looked nervous for a moment. ‘Miss Ross dealt with that this morning, miss.’
‘Did she now?’ Margot glanced around the room to see the youngest of the shop girls peering at her from the back room.
With a twitch of her skirt and a bowed head, Miss Ross stepped forward. ‘It was only a single weak link, Miss de Bryun. And I have watched Mr Pratchet work, when the shop was not busy. A twist of the pliers, boric acid to prevent discolouration, a bit of flux, a bit of polish...’ She gave another curtsy. ‘I was very careful not to heat the rest of the chain.’
‘It sounds as if you learned well,’ Margot said, doubtfully. ‘But I would still have preferred that you had waited until I returned, so I could see the finished work before it left the shop.’
‘I sized a ring, as well,’ the girl said shyly. ‘It is still here.’
‘Show it me.’ Margot felt a strange thrill, half-apprehension, half-excitement. Could the recurring problem of overreaching goldsmiths be solved as easily as this?
The girl retreated into the back and returned with a plain gold band. ‘It was only half a size,’ she said modestly. ‘And up is easier than down. But really, down is nothing more than fixing a very big chain link.’
Margot took the ring and slipped it on to the sizing tool, noting the perfect roundness and the tidy way it rested, just on the size that the client had wished. Then she took up a jeweller’s loupe, examining each fraction of the curve for imperfection or weakness. When she looked up again, she smiled. ‘You do nice work, Miss Ross. Very tidy. I am sure, if this is a sample, that the chain was fine as well. Are there other repairs that you feel capable of attempting?’
They brought out the list and examined each item. The girl felt confident with all but two of the current requests.
‘Perhaps we can find something similar in the shop that you might use to practise those skills,’ Margot suggested. ‘We could break an existing piece and let you mend it.’
‘Ruin good work?’ the girl said, shocked.
‘They are my pieces. There is no reason we cannot do as we wish with them,’ Margot said reasonably. ‘If it means that I do not have to place an ad for goldsmith, it is worth the risk.’ Even better if it meant that she would not have to put up with the inconvenience of a gentleman developing a penchant for her, or her shop.
‘From now on, I wish you to spend as much time as possible at the workbench, attempting these repairs in order of difficulty. If that goes well, we can discuss wax casting.’
The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘I watched him at that, as well. He sometimes let me work the little bellows and pour moulds. It would be ever so exciting.’
‘Very good, then.’ Margot thought for a moment. ‘And it is hardly fair for me to employ you at the rate of a junior clerk if you are taking on more work. As of this moment, you will see a rise in salary to reflect your new duties.’
The girl’s eyes were as round as the ring in her hand. ‘Thank you, miss.’
She felt a ripple of jealousy throughout the room. It was hardly warranted. Other than Jasper, her staff had done little more than gossip and panic. ‘As for the rest,’ she said, loud enough to be heard, ‘we must see how we do without Mr Pratchet to help with the customers. It is quite possible that there might be more for all, if one less person is employed here.’
There was an awed whispering amongst the other clerks. And for the first time in a week it was not about Miss de Bryun’s recent strange behaviour.
* * *
All went well, for the rest of the day, except for one incident.
The shop was near to closing and the room quiet. The two well-dressed ladies who were her final customers had refused her help more than once. Yet they continued to glance in her direction as they pretended to stare down into a case of diamond ear bobs.
Margot moved closer to them, hoping that they would be encouraged to either make a purchase or leave. It was near to eight o’clock and despite the good night’s sleep she’d got, she was eager to return to her own rooms.
Before they realised she was near, she caught two dire words of their whispered conversation.
‘Fanworth’s mistress.’
‘A gentleman to see you, my lord.’
Stephen looked up from the writing desk in his private sitting room and waited for the footman to explain himself.
‘Lord William Felkirk,’ the man supplied.
‘I will be there shortly.’ He had been expecting such a visit since the last time he’d seen Margot de Bryun.
She deserved an apology, of course. Once she had forgiven him, he could make the offer he’d intended from the first. She’d been an innocent dupe in the matter of the necklace and would never have been involved at all, had he not taken an interest in her. That had been the thing to draw his brother’s negative attention. Then, Stephen had made everything worse by jumping to conclusions. But how could he ever set things right if she refused to so much as look him in the eye?
Conversation had been so easy between them, just a fortnight ago. She’d looked up and smiled each time he passed by the shop, as if she’d been searching each face that passed by her window, hoping to see him. In turn, he had been able to talk for hours without having to plot out each sentence to avoid embarrassment.
Now, when he paused each day in his walk past her shop, she gave him a Medusa stare, as if she would strike him dead should he cross the threshold. In response, his tongue felt like leather in his mouth. Even if he could have managed speech, when they had their agreement, he had given his word not to return to the