“I don’t need it,” Callie said. “Three gowns are enough.”

“Nevertheless,” Ethan said calmly.

Callie’s expression darkened, and then she seemed to tire of the conversation. She walked away to examine buckets on the other end of the crowded store.

“If you would please have these things delivered to Miss Wilde’s room at the White Horse right away,” Ethan said. “We have another list.”

They bought split-oak baskets, barrels and spigots, buckets, shovels, rakes of three different sizes, pitchforks, a sturdy shovel, two tin washtubs, a gross of gallon jugs, rope and wire, nails, saws, axes, a turnscrew, mallets and hammers, a ladder, and a great variety of other tools and supplies that had been lost in the flood. Halfway through this process Callie seemed to come awake, and some color came into her cheeks.

Ethan said, “I think a Franklin stove would be a good addition to the cider house.”

She turned to look at him, and there was not a hint of anger or cynicism in her face. “Ethan. You will bankrupt yourself.”

“Hardly. Mr. Turner, will you make sure that the stove comes on the wagon with the rest of the supplies?”

Her mouth pursed, as if she had to resist the urge to argue with him.

Ethan said, “You could go back to the inn, if you like. I have a few more matters to settle, but I will join you for lunch.”

It was still raining, but Callie took her new umbrella and after studying the mechanism for a moment, opened it and went out into the street to make her way back to the White Horse. With a certain girlish pleasure she stepped hard in every puddle she passed.

Herlinde Metzler, employed in the kitchen of Mrs. Louise Kummer’s boardinghouse until that substantial lady was felled by apoplexy, was busy in the scullery at the White Horse when she was called to the front desk. She had joined the staff just two weeks earlier, but the innkeeper and his wife seemed to be satisfied with her work, and thus far she got along well enough with the other servants. A better place than the one she had had with Mrs. Kummer. More than she had dared hope for.

Now the mistress directed her to take hot water and fresh towels to the young lady who had checked in yesterday afternoon. “And whatever else she requires,” said Mrs. Mulroney. “Spare no effort.”

Which was what an innkeeper said when a guest was known to make free with his purse.

A half hour later she knocked lightly at Miss Wilde’s door and was surprised almost beyond speech by the appearance of the young woman who answered. Slightly built and no more than plain, Miss Wilde was wearing a bodice and skirt that should have long ago been cut up for rags. The hem had been dragged through the mud, and brushing had not taken away the stains; there was a hole in her stocking the size of an egg, and the seam where bodice met skirt was gaping. More telling still, her hands were red and rough with work, and her skin sun-darkened.

Herlinde saw all this in a few seconds, and then bowed her head not to give away her thoughts, which were very simple: What was a countrywoman of no means doing in this room in the finest inn in Johnstown?

Instead she said, “Your bathwater, Miss Wilde.”

The young woman stepped aside.

Herlinde went about her work. She stoked the fire and poured hot water into the basin, folded towels and set them out. All the time her gaze kept drifting back to the slight figure standing at the window.

She was about to withdraw when someone scratched at the door. A glance at Miss Wilde made it clear that she had no intention of answering, and so Herlinde went.

Young Matthew Turner held out a package, rain spattered, and danced from foot to foot until she took it from him. Then he dashed away.

“From the dry goods store. Shall I unpack it?”

Strictly speaking this was not something she should offer to do; she was not a lady’s maid or secretary. She was a maid of all work, and nothing more. But it had been such a long time since she had had the pleasure of opening up a parcel, and she was curious about this odd young woman who dressed so poorly and seemed so out of place.

Miss Wilde nodded without turning around. “Please.”

It wasn’t until that point that Herlinde noticed the bed, and the piles of new clothes, some folded, some laid out, that covered its entire surface.

In spite of herself, Herlinde was interested. Most of the things she could see were plain, but all were of very high quality. There was no lace, nor any embroidery or fancy pleats but still, a small fortune spent in carefully made, good quality gowns and the other things a lady needed to consider herself properly attired.

This young woman of no means or style, in this room with all these riches. An odd and intriguing combination of facts.

Herlinde sat down on a stool to open the parcel, carefully setting aside string and paper. Inside she found fine milled soap and talc that smelled of lilacs, and a dozen fine lawn handkerchiefs with lace trim, tied together with a silky blue ribbon.

And finally, a dresser set with carved ivory handles on mirror, hairbrushes, and combs. A very expensive dresser set, as Herlinde knew well because she had been visiting it regularly at the mercantile. She had even reckoned out how long it would take for her to save enough money to buy it, on her meager salary. At least two years, if she put aside every penny she could spare and did without other things she liked.

But here was the beautiful and very valuable dresser set, and Miss Wilde wouldn’t even turn to see it. It was silly to moon over fancy things she did not need and would never have; Herlinde was determined to be sensible and make the best of her situation, which was considerably better today than it had been a month ago.