Mr. Boyd was the proprietor of the new paper in the city, the Journal.

Catherine picked at a curling seam in the wallpaper. It was below the gas light, and the stain there dirtied her fingertips. “What sort of meeting?”

“I don’t know.” Spencer rubbed at the skin between his eyebrows, as if attempting to push back a headache. “I heard some people say Mr. Boyd wants to buy the paper from him—or a share of it. I don’t know,” he said again.

“Right.” She dropped her hand from the wall. “Well, I’m going to bed, then. I doubt I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Catherine, I’m sorry.” He put a hand on the doorknob. She thought, oddly, for an instant, he was going to swing the door shut in her face. Instead, he bit down on his lip and added, “Just… keep away for a while. This will sort itself out, I’m sure.”

A little ways down the hall, she turned back. “Thank you for trying, Spencer.” She held his gaze in the dim. “Don’t think this was your fault.”

In her own room, she closed the door behind her, and across the small space, Bridget didn’t stir from sleep. Catherine’s eyes adjusted to the darkness; she washed up with water from the ewer and slipped on her nightgown. As she got into bed, her foot hit the box beneath it, the letters from her family tucked inside. She’d have to remember to pack those in her trunk. Pulling up the blankets, she turned to face the wall, listening to the muffled sounds of the city beyond the window.

It was a long time before she fell asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CATHERINE STOPPED at the corner before the watchmaker’s shop. It was a gray morning, a fine mist hanging in the air; she wore her coat and bonnet, her grip tight around her battered trunk. From here, she could see the green shopfront. A carriage rolled past, momentarily obscuring her view.

She made a start down the street. As she neared, the kitchen curtain twitched, the window was pushed open, and Guy Nolan leaned out of it.

“Hello, Miss Daly!”

Her heart thrilled, warmed, at the gladness in his voice.

She said, “Good morning, Mr. Nolan.”

He folded his arms over the sill. Tipping his head to the side, he regarded her with a slight smile. The cuffs of his shirt were unfastened, his cravat loose about his neck. Then he appeared to take note of the trunk she carried, and his smile fell away. “My father’s in the shop,” he told her. “I’ll be down in a minute.” He ducked back inside, sliding the window closed.

She walked into the shop to find Henry Nolan behind the counter, cloth in hand, polishing one of the many clocks on the wall. He paused to look in her direction. “Good morning, Miss Daly. It is Miss Daly, isn’t it? I heard Guy upstairs.”