The oldest godmother knocked her pipe—or possibly agricultural implement—against the table and mumbled something which caused Evangeline to hum thoughtfully as she studied him.
“Have you told her this?”
“That I’ve bungled the whole thing?” Max nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head. “I’m not sure. She’s mad, but I don’t know if it’s me she’s mad at.”
“Well, figuring that out would be a good place to start,” Evangeline said dryly. “But I meant about being in love with her.”
“Oh.” Had he told her he loved her? “Not exactly. I only just figured it out myself.”
“Well then, I think you know your path, young man.”
“What?” He sat forward, panicking. “No I don’t! What do you mean? You’re supposed to help me!”
“We did help you, you young idiot. We arranged for you to dance with the princess at the ball! It’s not our fault if you fell in love with the wrong woman!”
“I fell in love with the right woman!” he contested hotly.
“Then tell her that!”
Max and Evangeline sat glaring at each other, breathing heavily. Grisel sat forward suddenly. “Ooh and take her something special. Women like that sort of thing, ye ken.”
“No’ flowers,” grumbled Broca. “Too overdone.”
“Nothing alive either,” Willa offered quietly. “She might no’ like having more to care for.”
“Stew!” declared the oldest, although Max suspected she didn’t mean the food.
Blinking, he glanced around at all of them, then back to Evangeline, who nodded forcefully at him.
“There you have it, Mr. DeVille. Max. Take her something special. Something that shows you really understand her—not as a princess or a serving lass—but Ember. And tell her you love her, just as she is.”
He could feel his breaths slowing as he considered her words. “Take her something…” he whispered.
“Aye, do ye need suggestions?” Grisel offered hopefully.
“No…” He thought of his office drawer and the shoe which rested there, lonely for its mate. “I think I have an idea.”
Chapter 10
“Has…has that ever happened before?”
“That we became part of the story? No, it has not. And The Book isn’t particularly helpful on the matter either.”
“I think…”
“Yes, Willa?”
“I think ‘tis possible we’re venturing away from The Book here, Evangeline. I think we’re in uncharted territories. If it doesnae say anything about what to do when a client no’ only kens about us, but seeks us out, then I think we have to figure it out ourselves.”
“Hmm. Well, I agree. I don’t think the story is going poorly. Just…differently from planned. Max is in love with Ember, which was the end goal.”
“Aye, but he was supposed to fall in love with the princess at the ball.”
“This is true, Broca, but as he pointed out, she’s not a princess, and he’s not a prince. They’re just two people.”
“In love.”
“Exactly, Grisel. And may I say you sound like a complete nincompoop when you sigh dreamily like that?”
“Oh, thank ye for that, Evangeline. Noted. And may I just say that ye sound as if ye’ve got a stick up yer arse?”
“…Stop laughing, Broca. Grisel, I’m sorry. The rest of you, focus on the crystal ball. Now that our young client knows what is necessary, surely we’re reaching the end of this story.”
* * *
Ember tilted her head back, staring up at the beautiful, old, brick building which housed Oliphant Engraving. Even when she was a wee lassie, when it was just her and her father, she used to think this was the most beautiful building in the Highlands. Of course, it was likely beautiful because Papa was in charge of it, but he’s been gone all these years, and she still thought it was lovely.
And it held so much possibility, all of which she’d lost when she’d pushed Mr. DeVille—Max—away.
With a sigh, Ember slung her bag over her shoulder. It was almost dark, and she likely shouldn’t have come. But after two days of moping around the inn, feeling sorry for herself—and occasionally sneaking into the linen closet for a good cry, which was embarrassing—she’d given herself a firm talking-to.
Her sisters had dragged her aside and demanded to know why she looked as if her favorite sheep had died. Well, Bonnie had, because Vanessa was too busy fretting over her complexion. Apparently, after all the excitement of Viscount Whatever-his-title-was’ visit, the man had acted cold and aloof. Vanessa was certain it was because she wasn’t beautiful enough and was now spending her evenings wearing cucumbers on her eyes and smearing curdled milk across her cheeks.
Secretly, Ember thought it made her look a bit like a salad, but she was pleased Vanessa was distracted.
It was Bonnie who had hugged Ember and asked if everything was alright. Everything wasn’t alright, but Ember had been too embarrassed by her stupidity—how had she not realized Max was Mr. DeVille—to confess. Instead, she’d just accepted the hug and tried not to cry.
Bonnie had seemed to understand. She’d rubbed Ember’s back and whispered, “Whatever happened, I hope ye’re able to find a way past it. I dinnae like seeing ye in so much pain.”
And that’s what made Ember sit herself down and give herself a firm talking-to. She’d obviously lost her chance to find happiness with Max; the man had not only left her father’s workshop when she’d told him to, he’d apparently checked out of the inn completely.
But had she lost her chance with Mr. DeVille? Had she lost her chance to sell him on the idea of producing her shoes?
Well, if she had, there were other factory owners out there who would be willing to take a chance on a revolutionary new style of fashion; she was certain of it. She just needed to produce a few new pairs first, and that meant sneaking back into Oliphant Engraving after everyone had gone home for the night.
Although, was it really sneaking,
