It’s #bookqw and our heroine has good reason to extend her time to ‘mourn’.
More from Chapter 1:
Annmar had to say no, and say it firmly and businesslike—not ladylike—before her choices were no longer her own.
The door to the factory opened, admitting a brief racket and Mr. Shearing. Broad-shouldered and fit, save for the slight paunch visible when he removed his custom-tailored, dark green coat, he stood a head taller than her five and a half feet. The businessman kept his waves of dark hair neatly trimmed and his strong jaw clean-shaven. Though not a dandy, he dressed well, in the appearance of Derby’s prosperous merchants, down to the black gloves he was tugging into place. One covered a hideous scar she’d once caught sight of and hadn’t forgotten, yet she’d never dared to ask its origin.
He greeted them with a pleased smile.
Dismissing her knotted stomach, Annmar extended her gloved hand in a practiced motion. “Good morning, Mr. Shearing.”
He clasped her hand, and his gaze dropped briefly, as it always did, to her bosom.
His unseemly glances no longer made her twitch. But given his unwanted attention, she still wore unfashionable, high-necked mourning blouses in maroon with dark skirts, though it had been a full year since her mother’s death.
“Good day to you, Miss Masterson.” Mr. Shearing tipped his head to Annmar and turned to assess Polly. “And to your companion, Miss…”
“Porter,” they answered in unison.
“We’re on our way to work,” Annmar added. “I’ve brought the changes to your latest illustration. Mrs. Rennet wishes to send it to the engravers this morning to meet the Mercury’s deadline.”
“Timely, our Mrs. Rennet. Please come in, and we’ll take a look.” He led them into his private domain with its large walnut desk, sturdy chair and piles of orders and invoices. With Polly along this time, the door stayed open.
Mr. Shearing spread the illustration over a side table and bent to study the fine pencil lines. Properly apart from him, Annmar waited, stock-still, yet her weight was balanced on her toes in case she had to take a step back. She forced her gaze to the drawing, but movement caught her eye, as it always did.
Businesslike, she reminded herself, but nonetheless, vines rippled down from the waves of Mr. Shearing’s nearly black hair. Leaves burst forth, and the tendrils spun like miniature gears—
No, that isn’t right. Mr. Shearing did not sport twining plants, any more than vegetation sprouted gears. Annmar dashed her hand across her eyes to dispel the image.
Polly nudged her.
Annmar jerked her gaze to her friend.
Giving a nod to Mr. Shearing’s back, Polly tapped her temples and frowned. Clearly she was indicating his, which yes, were graying. Otherwise, Polly saw nothing amiss with the man’s hair.
No one ever saw what Annmar did on Mr. Shearing or, more commonly, in the wild places along the River Derwent. Her fanciful imagination seemed destined to get her in trouble.
Eyes rising slightly, Polly mouthed, Old, and shook her head.
Oh, heavens. The man had seen his fourth decade, after all. She never should have confided in Polly…but no, she needed someone to help her out of this fix.
~~~
Victorian contraptions. Enchanted farmlands. Can one struggling orphan switch gears and run full-steam into freedom?
The Unraveling is the first volume in a serialized novel that is complete in three volumes, called The Luminated Threads.
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I’ve been working with a cover designer on new covers for all three of The Luminated Threads novels. The first is nearly complete, and I’m thrilled with the girl who is depicting my proper Victorian artist! I’m waiting to make change the covers when all three are finished, likely after the first of the year (The design company takes a decent month-long break for the holidays!).
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