that’s what Miss Aisleen should want,” he suggested with a broad smile.
Made. The thought hung in Aisleen’s mind. A position could be made for her—not filled or earned by her, but made. She would be an afterthought in his business, like an extra flounce cut from a piece of leftover cloth meant to be swept up with the rest of the scraps. Was she always to be unnecessary to the world in which she lived: an extra piece, an afterthought, a redundant woman? Aisleen shivered.
“’Tis a wonderful suggestion,” Kathleen answered in delight. “It means ye could remain here, with us.”
“Aye, we’d be a family,” Patrick Kirwan added. “That is, if yer mother will have me.”
Aisleen rose to her feet. “I—I don’t feel well. It must be something I ate earlier. Do go on without me. I’ll walk home—it’s not far.”
She saw the look of hurt crowd out the joy in her mother’s eyes, but she could not remain. She had to remove herself from them before she began to vent her anger and frustration and hurt.
Fifteen minutes later, when the door to the rooms she shared with her mother had closed behind her, Aisleen rested her head against it. She did not cry. She had not cried since the night Nicholas Maclean attacked her and was determined never to do so again. What she needed was a plan to set herself and her mother free from the tyranny of their womanhood.
Nevertheless, she could not keep back the ungrateful, small knot of hurt she felt at the thought of Mr. Kirwan’s courtship of her mother. There had never been a suitor in her life, and it seemed there never would be.
“Wouldn’t have him in any case,” she said aloud and straightened up. She did not need or want any man’s approval. She must convince her mother to think likewise.
Yet later, in bed, she wondered what it would be like to have a man look at her as Patrick Kirwan had looked at her mother. He had seemed besotted, as though he could not drink in enough of her beauty. Was that love or merely the lust that had gleamed in animal brightness in Nicholas Maclean’s eyes?
Aisleen sighed in resignation. She was destined never to know. What she did know was that men could not be trusted.
* * *
“Whatever would I do with me patterns if Patrick did not sell them?” Kathleen asked the next morning as she and Aisleen shared a pot of tea in their parlor.
“You could sell them yourself,” Aisleen answered, helping herself to a slice of soda bread.
“Sometimes ye have the strangest notions, lass,” her mother answered with a gentle shake of her head.
“In England, many women have their own businesses,” Aisleen maintained. “Seamstresses who design gowns for the wealthy call themselves modistes, and they do very well for themselves. They drive elegant carriages and command their own servants.”
“ Musha , what would I be doing with servants?” Her mother chuckled. “As for a carriage, I cannae drive one.”
“You would not need to,” Aisleen replied patiently. “You would hire a driver, and a footman, and as many seamstresses as you like. You would sketch the designs, have tea with your customers, and leave the drudgery to others.”
“Ye flatter me, Aisleen. Even if all ye say were true, it would nae be me wish to embark on so strenuous a venture at me age.”
“You are but forty-two, Mother, and in better health than you’ve ever been,” Aisleen countered.
Kathleen smiled as she regarded her daughter. “What’ll ye be thinking of Mr. Kirwan?”
Aisleen smiled. “I can say without equivocation that he is not worthy of your consideration.”
Kathleen’s eyes filled with reproach, but she said quietly, “How can ye be so very certain of the man when ye’ve only just met?”
“One does not need a second whiff to know when a fish is spoiled,” Aisleen answered She saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes deepen, but she felt she must speak the truth. “He sees in your talent a means to increase his wealth, Mother. He did
Made. The thought hung in Aisleen’s mind. A position could be made for her—not filled or earned by her, but made. She would be an afterthought in his business, like an extra flounce cut from a piece of leftover cloth meant to be swept up with the rest of the scraps. Was she always to be unnecessary to the world in which she lived: an extra piece, an afterthought, a redundant woman? Aisleen shivered.
“’Tis a wonderful suggestion,” Kathleen answered in delight. “It means ye could remain here, with us.”
“Aye, we’d be a family,” Patrick Kirwan added. “That is, if yer mother will have me.”
Aisleen rose to her feet. “I—I don’t feel well. It must be something I ate earlier. Do go on without me. I’ll walk home—it’s not far.”
She saw the look of hurt crowd out the joy in her mother’s eyes, but she could not remain. She had to remove herself from them before she began to vent her anger and frustration and hurt.
Fifteen minutes later, when the door to the rooms she shared with her mother had closed behind her, Aisleen rested her head against it. She did not cry. She had not cried since the night Nicholas Maclean attacked her and was determined never to do so again. What she needed was a plan to set herself and her mother free from the tyranny of their womanhood.
Nevertheless, she could not keep back the ungrateful, small knot of hurt she felt at the thought of Mr. Kirwan’s courtship of her mother. There had never been a suitor in her life, and it seemed there never would be.
“Wouldn’t have him in any case,” she said aloud and straightened up. She did not need or want any man’s approval. She must convince her mother to think likewise.
Yet later, in bed, she wondered what it would be like to have a man look at her as Patrick Kirwan had looked at her mother. He had seemed besotted, as though he could not drink in enough of her beauty. Was that love or merely the lust that had gleamed in animal brightness in Nicholas Maclean’s eyes?
Aisleen sighed in resignation. She was destined never to know. What she did know was that men could not be trusted.
* * *
“Whatever would I do with me patterns if Patrick did not sell them?” Kathleen asked the next morning as she and Aisleen shared a pot of tea in their parlor.
“You could sell them yourself,” Aisleen answered, helping herself to a slice of soda bread.
“Sometimes ye have the strangest notions, lass,” her mother answered with a gentle shake of her head.
“In England, many women have their own businesses,” Aisleen maintained. “Seamstresses who design gowns for the wealthy call themselves modistes, and they do very well for themselves. They drive elegant carriages and command their own servants.”
“ Musha , what would I be doing with servants?” Her mother chuckled. “As for a carriage, I cannae drive one.”
“You would not need to,” Aisleen replied patiently. “You would hire a driver, and a footman, and as many seamstresses as you like. You would sketch the designs, have tea with your customers, and leave the drudgery to others.”
“Ye flatter me, Aisleen. Even if all ye say were true, it would nae be me wish to embark on so strenuous a venture at me age.”
“You are but forty-two, Mother, and in better health than you’ve ever been,” Aisleen countered.
Kathleen smiled as she regarded her daughter. “What’ll ye be thinking of Mr. Kirwan?”
Aisleen smiled. “I can say without equivocation that he is not worthy of your consideration.”
Kathleen’s eyes filled with reproach, but she said quietly, “How can ye be so very certain of the man when ye’ve only just met?”
“One does not need a second whiff to know when a fish is spoiled,” Aisleen answered She saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes deepen, but she felt she must speak the truth. “He sees in your talent a means to increase his wealth, Mother. He did
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