Mercy squirmed in her chair, unable to focus on the tiny stitches in the hem she was sewing. After a sleepless night, her eyelids were heavy, her body was achy and restless, and her insides were upside down with turmoil.

She tried not to yawn again and draw frowns from the other women among the sewing circle.

“You’re not making much progress this morning, Mercy,” Mrs. Moresby said as she bent to examine Mercy’s work, the long feathers on her hat tickling Mercy’s neck.

“I’m right sorry, ma’am, that I am.”

“You know I’m just doing my best to teach you skills that might help you find work.” Mrs. Moresby straightened to her full height and pushed up the brim of her hat, the colorful feathers adding another foot to the woman’s already-large stature.

“Aye, and I thank ye.” Mercy brought the linen closer to her face and attempted to focus all her attention on her next stitch. She’d never been taught to sew proper-like and was mighty grateful Mrs. Moresby was instructing her and some of the other poor women how to sew, cook, and clean.

“It’s as clear as daylight something’s bothering you,” Mrs. Moresby persisted as she stooped to examine another woman’s work. “Perhaps if you share what it is, you’ll feel better and be able to concentrate on your work.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I couldn’t share it.” Mercy had spent the night trying not to think about her farewell to Joseph. She’d wrestled her thoughts of him away until both her stomach and head hurt with the effort. Even after the sleepless night of trying to push Joseph from her mind, her thoughts turned to him all too often, especially their last moment together in each other’s arms.

He’d held her as though he still cherished and wanted her. But he hadn’t spoken of his love again. Maybe he’d changed his mind about her. Maybe he hadn’t found her worthy enough after all. The doubts crowded in and clamored for attention, and Mercy couldn’t stop from paying them heed.

Mrs. Moresby moved on to the next woman while glancing over her wide shoulder at Mercy. “It couldn’t possibly have to do with a certain young man leaving on the Tynemouth, could it?”

Mercy bent her face even closer to her stitching, wishing she could slip inside the material along with the thread and disappear. She could count on Mrs. Moresby for speaking her mind. If only the woman wasn’t so outspoken this morn, not when Mercy’s aching heart was still so tender.

“I say it’s never too late to try to make things right,” Mrs. Moresby offered.