his wife. Although the pair were struggling to feed themselves, they’d kept the babe and raised her as if she were their own.
Fancy had been so loved by Milton and Annie Sheridan that she oft forgot that she didn’t share their blood. But even she had to admit that Da could be generous to a fault. He’d give the shirt off his back if he thought another needed it more. When Ma had been alive, she’d kept a rein on him. After her passing two years ago, the reins had been passed to Fancy. She wished she had half her mother’s deftness and grace when it came to managing Da and the boys.
“Why ain’t you changed yet, me girl?” Da asked. “Miss Bea be expecting us in an ’our.”
“I was interrupted by the lads…” Fancy trailed off as her father stopped by her bed, examining the pink dress. “I’ll, um, be ready soon.”
“This be the frock you’re wearing?” Da turned to her, his blue gaze sharp. Although a dreamer by nature, he was also shrewd, especially when it came to his children. “Thought you be saving it for a special occasion.”
“I was.” Heat climbed up Fancy’s cheeks. “I thought Bea’s party might, um, be the occasion to wear it. Since she’ll be ’aving guests from London.”
“Looking to impress one guest in particular?”
She bit her lip, too embarrassed to admit the truth.
Da gave her another long look. “That toff ain’t for you, petal. ’Aven’t I always told you ’is kind and ours don’t mix?”
He had. Time and again, he’d drilled it into her that those who travelled and those who didn’t belonged to different worlds. One could do business with settled folk, be friendly with them, but in the end the two worlds were like oil and water.
“Yes, Da,” she said. “I just thought since Bea…”
“Miss Bea is a fine friend to you and us Sheridans. But that don’t mean she understands our world…or that we understand ’ers. Take this arson business.” Da shook his head grimly. “It’s all on account o’ ’er land. As if anybody ’ad the right to possess the earth and sky the good Lord made for all o’ us.”
Since Fancy had heard this refrain all her life, she knew he wasn’t expecting a reply.
“Now I’ve seen the way you be looking at this Knight fellow,” Da said. “’E’s grand to be sure, but ’e ain’t for you. Gents like ’im care only for their money and estates, and they marry their own kind, who can bring ’em more o’ the same.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “Don’t fret, Da. I’ve got my ’ead on my shoulders. I know no gentleman would look twice at me.”
“That ain’t the point, and it also ain’t true.” Da took her hand in a callused grip, giving her a brief squeeze. “You be a fine woman, Fancy, with a worthy set o’ skills and a tender ’eart. Any man be lucky to make you ’is wife. And you’ve ’ad no lack o’ suitors. Three fine fellows asked me permission to court you…and you turned ’em down.”
Because all those men wanted was a wife to travel with them and do the chores, she thought glumly. To ’elp with the tinkering.
“Those men weren’t right for me,” she said.
Da raised his brows. “Not even young Sam Taylor?”
The Taylors were another tinkering clan and close friends of the Sheridans. Sam, the eldest son, was a couple years older than Fancy. Although handsome and nice, he wasn’t what she longed for: a prince. By prince, she didn’t mean a man of wealth or rank, but one with a noble heart. One who would love her the way heroes loved their heroines in faerie tales, with an all-consuming passion. She yearned for the devotion she’d seen between her parents, who’d loved each other through thick and thin, health and sickness…and even beyond.
Since Ma’s passing, Fancy had overheard her father talk to his wife as if she were still there.
Annie, me girl, he’d say. You wouldn’t believe what I brung back from the market today.
Her parents’ love outlived death, and that was the kind of love she wanted.
“Sam ain’t right for me,” she said quietly.
“’Ow will you know when the right man comes along?” Da asked. “You ain’t getting any younger, petal. Your ma, God rest ’er soul, was seventeen when I married ’er. Amongst our kind, you’re getting long in the tooth.”
What if I don’t want to marry amongst our kind? Guilt followed on the heels of the