Page 124 of A Shore Thing

“Oh dear.” Muriel surreptitiously surveyed the adjacent tables, trying to pick plausible husbands from among the diners. None passed muster. These women were elegantly eccentric and seemed incongruous with the general run of stranded families.

They traveled in their own society. Perhaps they were sapphists. She smiled. Her imagination had improved. Since meeting Kit, her sense of possibility was ever expanding.

“Were you on the train to Truro?” she asked. Sapphists or no, she’d wager they were bound for a resort. “Is Penzance your destination? Or St. Ives?”

The curly-haired woman’s face clouded.

“St. Ives,” responded the blue-eyed woman, with a peculiar emphasis.

“No.” The curly-haired woman crossed her arms. “We’re returning to London.”

Muriel’s smile slipped. Clearly she’d interrupted an argument.

“St. Ives is lovely,” she murmured.

The women seemed to have forgotten she was there.

“I can feel it in my heart.” The curly-haired woman pressed a hand to her chest. “We were stopped by fate.”

“For heaven’s sake.” The woman in pink frowned. “We were stopped by rain.”

“There’s no fixing this.” The curly-haired woman whispered it to herself. She looked wan, lines bracketing her mouth.

Muriel cleared her throat, preparing to excuse herself, but the woman gave a shake and addressed her friends in a brisk tone.

“You two go. The only thing you did wrong was follow my lead.”

“You’re not our leader,” said the blue-eyed woman mildly.

“You have cold feet,” the woman in pink suggested. “There’s no reason to turn back now.”

“I don’t think…” The words wrenched in bursts from the curly-haired woman’s throat. “I don’t think that…he…will forgive me.”

The blue-eyed woman took her hand across the table.

“Lucy,” she soothed. “It was a long night. Finish your tea. You’ll feel better.”

Muriel sucked in an audible breath.

The woman in pink heard and shot her a friendly wince. “Terrible company, as I said. Apologies.”

“Not at all.” Muriel hardly moved her lips. She was rooted to the bench. She didn’t blink.

Not Sapphists. Sisters. Kit’s Sisters. Kit’s Lucy.

She was certain. Everything fit. She understood their conversation. She understood everything.

Lucy might have broken Kit’s heart, but she’d broken her own heart in the process. She’d come to Cornwall to make things right, and maybe still could.

“Wait!” Muriel bolted up as the women rose. All three looked at her with amazement. As well they might. She was wringing her hands.

“Is something the matter?” Lucy was all solicitude. In an instant, she’d put aside her own turmoil, giving Muriel her complete attention. She had a frank gaze, inquisitive and kind. She was a duchess, for the love of God, but without an ounce of pretension. Every bit as interesting and attractive as Muriel’s jealousy had painted her.

“You’re leaving.” Muriel’s mind blurred. Should she detain them? Should she tell them Kit was in the next room?

“Back to the White Hart.” Lucy tipped her head. “To pack our bags in the hopes we’re not stuck here forever.”

Muriel’s veins felt like wires.