She nodded gently when he was comfortable enough to be honest for the first time when she'd pointed something out. She said, "You may sit if you like too. And no, I'm not leaving Whitby. I... can't go back there, America, to live. I have to eventually go as hieress to the textile mills... as to what happened to you... are you alright? Physically?" Her eyes were soft as she queried.

She started to rub the silk between her fingers, a lovely, burgundy color with tastefully puffed sleeves and irish lace at her throat. Her fingers had done it before, and it was as if muscle memory had hit her. Deapite her being a girl, her father allowed her to feel the fabric to know quality. She had been groomed to some extent to be able to understand the business from a woman's perspective as to what to buy because women were the demographic they were catering to most of all.