Jane paused. “I have been on a journey. I came fourteen hours in a rickety carriage from Bath, my only companion a man who may or may not have been a pirate.”
“You make a joke of everything. It does you no favors,” Mrs. Sinclair said.
Jane quieted.
“It is not that kind of a journey.” Mrs. Sinclair put down a cabbage. “I can help you. But if you want no part in this, you are free to leave.”
Jane sighed at the price she had already paid to get there. “I suppose you want payment,” she said. “For your magical matchmaking that will defy the efforts of the many women before you.”
“I do. I want something of yours that is valuable.”
Jane placed four pounds and some shillings on the table, the balance of her assets after purchasing her fare to London. “This is all I have.” It was no huge sum, the same as any matchmaker asked. Jane was glad she had no more; she felt sure the woman was swindling her.
“I do not want something that costs. I want something of value,” Mrs. Sinclair said.
Jane sighed again and shifted in the rocking chair. Tired with the idea already, she compiled an inventory of the items of potential wealth on her person. The crucifix around her neck, presented to her by her younger brother Frank, which he proudly and lovingly declared to be brass, though with the way the bronze flecks often dusted her collarbones, she felt more comfortable with its classification as painted tin. Her coat and gloves were of a sturdy fabric but old; in her efforts to darn them she demonstrated her happy talent of both closing the tear while destroying the garment. She wore no rings on her fingers or jewels in her hair. She truly possessed nothing of value to tempt this woman.
“As I am sure you can see, madam, I am not a rich woman. The only thing of value I possess sits on the table.” She pointed to the banknotes. “Apart from money, I have nothing.”
“You do not listen,” Mrs. Sinclair said, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear. “I do not want something that costs. I want something dear to you.”
Jane threw up her hands in frustration, then dug them into her pockets. Her hand grasped something flaky and crisp. She turned the item over in her fingers, then pulled it from her pocket and placed it on the table.
Chapter Eight
It was a scrap of burnt paper, not half a page in size. The heat of the fire had baked it to yellow and spattered it with brown spots. Black charred the corners in half and quarter moons, as though some black-lipped monster had taken bites. Every surface that remained was covered in the neat lines of Jane’s hand, words written sideways and in the margins. She always wrote small, for paper was a luxury. The words came from a chapter toward the middle of First Impressions. The item represented the sole remaining scrap of Jane’s life’s work.
“This no doubt appears as nothing,” Jane said, “but this is the most valuable thing I own.”
“That will do perfectly,” Mrs. Sinclair said. She picked up the burnt page and stared at it.
A minute passed; Mrs. Sinclair made no sound. Jane grew anxious. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Shush,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “I am reading.”
Jane sat back in the rocking chair.
“This is rather good,” Mrs. Sinclair said at last.
“You are too kind,” Jane replied in a dead voice. She smiled to herself.
“And you are willing to give this up, in the pursuit of love?” She held the burnt paper toward Jane.
Jane shrugged. “It is but a scrap of paper. Of course.” She had memorized the words written on it long ago.
“How much do you want love?” Mrs. Sinclair asked.
Jane shifted again, startled by the question, and considered it. It made no difference now, for he married another, but she and Mr. Withers had shared a moment when they walked under a tree in Sydney Gardens. He had stopped to fix his cuff button, then turned his head to Jane. Their eyes met, and he smiled at her and she returned the smile. It was the smallest of interactions, and they had known each other only minutes, but in that moment, she did not stand alone in the world. She could not recall a warmer feeling.
Jane nodded to Mrs. Sinclair. “I wish for love more than anything,” she said.
Mrs. Sinclair stared at Jane, then nodded. “As you are certain,” Mrs. Sinclair replied, “you shall have it.” She sharpened a quill. “Let us write your wish down.” She turned over the scrap of manuscript and wrote something on the underside. “This will work but once. It is reversible. Again, but once. Give me your finger,” she said when she was done. Jane presented her left index, which Mrs. Sinclair nicked with the nib.
“Ow!” Jane protested. A bead of red dripped onto the page. “What is this madness?” She was reaching the limit of her patience.
Mrs. Sinclair shut her eyes and a chant passed her lips. Jane scowled and sucked her finger. “Say those words,” Mrs. Sinclair said, then turned once more to her cabbages.
Jane laughed. “Beg pardon. That is all?”
“Did you want more?” Mrs. Sinclair asked.
“Where am I to go? To which man shall you introduce me? Which men have I paid for with my blood drops? I don’t understand.”
“I introduce you to no one. You will meet him on your own.”
“Who?” Jane said. “Who will I meet?”
“Him,” Mrs. Sinclair replied. She handed Jane back the scrap of blackened manuscript and said nothing more.
Jane took the paper and stood there, impotent. It became apparent that Mrs. Sinclair was finished with her. She began cutting a cabbage. Jane turned in a circle and sighed. “I guess I shall be going, then?” she said. Mrs. Sinclair nodded but again
