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new customers will go back to the wharves. If we do save some money, we’ll keep it for a time when business lags.”
I thought Grandfather was right. If we didn’t open a shop or expand the coffeehouse, someone else would; and then it would be too late. Mother always planned for the darkest days. I took a bite of chicken. How much would Watson want for his lot? He spent most of his time in Baltimore. Perhaps Grandfather could inquire discreetly.
Some chicken slid from my fork onto the floor.
“Dash it all,” I said.
“Dash it all, dash it all,” echoed King George. He swooped down for the treat and flew back to
Grandfather’s shoulder.
“Matilda, your language,” Mother started.
Her lecture was interrupted by a knock at the front door.
“We’re not yet open,” shouted Grandfather. “Come back in an hour’s time.”
“A message, Sir,” called a boy.
“I’ll tend to this matter, Ladies,” Grandfather said grandly as he stood. “Don’t bestir yourselves.”
I ate quickly with one eye on King George. Silas walked under the table, his tail still drooping from
his defeat by the squirrel. I tempted him to my lap with his own bite of chicken.
If I could convince Mother to buy an extra urn, it would quickly pay for itself. Then Eliza could cook
real dinners, with turtle soup and joints of beef and mutton. If we could get Mr. Jefferson to take his meals here, more business would follow. Maybe even the president himself, and Mrs. Washington for tea.
“Don’t feed the cat at the table,” said Mother, tugging me back to earth.
“Silas keeps King George away from my plate,” I said.
Mother sighed. “I don’t know which of you is worse.”
Grandfather pulled a coin from his pocket for the messenger. He walked back slowly, rereading the
thick sheet of paper in his hand.
“What is that?” asked Mother.
“Nothing, a useless scrap. Nothing of interest for you.” A sly smile crept across his face.
“If it’s of no importance, then burn it,” Mother said. She stacked the dirty plates. “Why are you
standing there like an addle-pated nitwit?”
Grandfather looked at the paper again.
“Oh, my,” he said with false surprise. “Is that Pernilla Ogilvie’s name I see?”
Mother set the pickle dish back on the table. Grandfather continued.
“Pernilla Ogilvie, isn’t she the mother of that fine lad you pointed out to me in church? What was it
you said—that he’d be a fine match for our Mattie. Yes, that’s what it was. But, if you think I should burn it...”
Mother dove across the room like a hungry hawk.
“Give that to me,” she said, snatching the paper away. She read it hastily. “This is the best news in weeks. Pernilla Ogilvie has invited us to afternoon tea, Matilda.”
She read the invitation again.
“Oh, good heavens. She wants us there today!”
“We can’t go to tea today,” I said. “The shop is too busy. We can’t close up or turn away customers.
Besides, the Ogilvie girls are snobs. Why would they invite us, except to make fun of our dresses? I’m staying here.”
“We would make time for tea at the Ogilvies if they held it at midnight,” said Mother. “Be sensible, Matilda. Think of their young Edward.”
“I was thinking of their young Edward. That’s why I’m not going.”