A book. By Mr. Dickens. “How did you know—”

“My dear, anyone who copies a book out page by page and pastes it to her frame …”

Lyddie sent Rachel and Brigid down to beg a cup of tea from Mrs. Bedlow. “Diana, I got to ask you. Has Mr. Marsden said anything of me?”

“Well, of course. He missed you at once. You’re his best girl.”

Lyddie felt her face go crimson.

“I told him I’d ask after you. That’s when I learned how ill you were. A lot of the girls have been out with this fever—especially the Irish. There’ve been many deaths in the Acre.”

Lyddie looked away, out the tiny dirty window of the bedroom. Thank you, God. How could I leave my baby girl?

Diana reached over from where she was sitting on the edge of the other bed and put her hand lightly on Lyddie’s arm. “I’m grateful you were spared, Lyddie,” she said softly.

Lyddie pressed her lips together and gave a little nod. “I reckon I’m too ornery to die.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Can you recollect—can you remember just what Mr. Marsden said when he asked about me?”

“He didn’t speak directly to me. He doesn’t like to think that you and I are friends, you know, but I know he was worried. He wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“So I still got a place?”

Diana looked at her as though she were crazy. “Why on earth not?”

“I stomped his foot.”

“You what?”

“I was all a fever, only I didn’t know, ey, and he tried to hold me after the rest had gone. He wouldn’t let me go, so I—I stomped down on his foot.”

Diana threw her head back and laughed out loud.

“It ain’t a joke. He’ll have my place for it.”

“No, no,” she said, trying to recover. “No,” she said, taking out her handkerchief and wiping her eyes. “No, I don’t think so. He’s probably more frightened than you are. Have you ever seen Mrs. Overseer Marsden, Lyddie? If word ever got to that august lady …” She stopped laughing and lowered her voice, her ear cocked toward the open door. “Nonetheless, I wouldn’t make attacking the overseer a regular practice, my dear. Do be more discreet in the future—that is, if you want to stay on at the corporation. The day may come when Mr. Marsden would welcome any excuse to let you go.” She smiled wryly. “It sounds as though I’m advising you not to sign any petitions or consort with any known radicals.”

“But maybe he meant nothing. I was burnt up with the fever. Maybe I mistook kindness for—for—” She grimaced. “You know I’m not the kind of girl men look at that way. I’m plain as plowed sod.”