The ball, I found out, was not for some four weeks, giving me sufficient time to get myself prepared. Naturally, all my workmates at the mill were eager to hear who the gentleman in the coach had been.
“Is that your young man?” They asked. “Is that Kenneth Fairweather?”
Anne glowered at me through poisonous eyes. “That wasn’t a seafaring man, not with a coach and horses.”
“That was Mr Baird MacGillivray,” I said. “He’s not a friend, only an acquaintance.”
“He must like you,” Anne said. “And he’s wealthy to have a coach such as that.” She gave what was meant to be a coy smile. “Maybe you should drop your sailor friend and go with him.” Her once-pretty face creased into a frown. “Baird MacGillivray? Is that not the fellow from Mysore House?”
“That’s the man,” I said, wishing that they w
