The Lady's Slipper by Deborah Swift Page B

look of her skin through the fabric, and the almost invisible seam with its tiny fairy-like stitches. They were costly, but Thomas had never been close-fisted and she always had tokens in her purse, despite hints from acquaintances that his money-lending business was teetering.
    She had a few minutes’ very pleasant conversation with the hosier, who told her about Geoffrey’s wife, Emilia, and her latest order for long hose with tiny beads sewn up the back, and lace garters. Naturally these would be unsuitable for a woman in mourning, such as herself, but she enjoyed hearing about them before she swung out of the door, the thin wrapped parcel under her arm. She was still smiling as she launched herself up the street and straight into the solid chest of Richard Wheeler.
    Agitated, she stepped back.
    ‘Mistress Ibbetson, I beg pardon.’
    ‘Mr Wheeler.’ She assessed the width of the path to see if she could make her excuses and leave, but he was blocking her way. She was sure it was deliberate. Curse the man.
    ‘Thou art not at thy easel today, then?’
    ‘No. No, I had some business in town.’ She lifted the letters into his view.
    He looked casually away, tapping his boot on the ground. ‘The rare orchid that was taken from my wood. There has still been no word of it.’ He returned his gaze to her face, which by now had grown hot under her bonnet. ‘But if it were to be replaced, returned to its natural growing place, then I assure thee, that would be the end of the matter.’
    She steeled herself. ‘I have said before, I know nothing of it. Excuse me.’
    ‘Besides, it has a sentimental value to me. I desire its return most fervently.’
    ‘Then I sincerely hope you will find it, but I say again, it has nothing to do with me.’
    Again she made to pass him, but he would not let her by. His face was stormy now, his eyebrows lowered. His voice came out loud and harsh. One of his hands was balled into a fist. He looked as though he might grab hold of her. Astonished, she backed away.
    ‘Mistress Ibbetson. I do not like to be taken for a fool. I tell the truth and I would seek the same courtesy from thee. What wouldst thou have me do? Shake thee? Send for the constable?’
    ‘You must do as you think fit.’ She turned on her heel and left him standing in the street behind her. She did not look back, just hied away as fast as she could. When she had put a good distance between them, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the warm stone wall of the bakehouse.
    She was appalled at herself. She knew she had somehow crossed a line, that there would be no going back now. Her heart throbbed at her throat. Patently, there could be no more polite conversations with him. What had got into her? Partly she knew it was stubbornness. But he got under her skin somehow, with his refusal to see her point of view. And to think she had thought him pleasant, a man with a kind heart.
    A few months ago she had stood behind him in a queue at the miller’s when a lad had come in for a bushel of corn. The miller had upped the price by a third for the lad from the price it had been for Kendall’s steward, and Wheeler had stepped forward.
    ‘Everything has a fair price,’ she overheard him say. ‘And if it is a fair enough price for the steward, then it is a fair enough price for the lad.’
    It had made her smile, the lad’s face open-mouthed with glee at his ‘fair price’ bushel of corn as he ran out of the shop, and she had caught Wheeler’s eye. He had returned a broad grin. Although not acquainted, this shared incident had meant they used to nod to each other or exchange greetings if they crossed paths. But all that was finished now. She would have to be more vigilant in the future to keep out of his bounds–and she certainly had no intention of following his suggestion that she should covertly return the lady’s slipper. Her first loyalty must be to securing the future of the orchid.
    She rushed through her