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to take a quick sponge bath, fix my hair, and ..." Her breath came in short, raspy gasps. She clutched at the front of her gray voile blouse. "And change my clothes."
    Bridget rested a thin, veined hand on Charity's arm. "Saints above, Charity, you're white as a ghost. You're not going to throw up, are you? I know what worry does to your stomach. Besides, it's only Mitch. Why are you so nervous?"

    Charity felt the color drain from her cheeks and put a shaky palm to her middle, hoping her lunch would stay put.
    Bridget stepped back. A hand fluttered to her chest. "Oh, no, please tell me you're not setting your cap for Mitch? Mercy me, Charity, the man's old enough to be your father!"
    Charity's jaw ascended the slightest degree. "He wasn't too old for my sister."
    Bridget huffed. "He most certainly was! And if it wasn't for that headstrong mother of yours disregarding my opinion, he would have never gotten through that door." She folded her arms, gumming her lips in annoyance. "Just plain stubbornness," she muttered, "inherited from her father, no doubt." She made the sign of the cross. "Bless his soul."
    Charity swallowed hard to dispel the sour taste on her tongue, suppressing a tiny burp with a hand to her mouth. "Well, it's too late to argue about it now. When is he coming?"
    Bridget glanced at the clock on the parlor mantle. "Six. You've got an hour."
    Charity groaned and ran her fingers over the topknot she'd worn to work. She tossed her shawl on the coatrack and raced for the stairs, scaling them two at a time.
    "I'll need help with the vegetables and the table, you know," Bridget called after her.
    "I will, Grandmother," Charity promised, shooting a smile over her shoulder. "Twenty minutes. I'll be down in twenty minutes-you have my word."
    "Humph," Bridget said on her way to the kitchen, "I'd rather have your help."
    Charity grinned. A giggle bubbled in her chest that rivaled the nausea in her stomach.
    He's coming!
    She hurried to her closet and flung it open. She stared at the arsenal of dresses purchased with her wages and discount from Shaw's Emporium. She had to look perfect. She snatched an armload of clothing from the rack and heaved it onto the bed, then kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of her skirt. Her fingers flew over the buttons of her blouse until it opened, allowing her to strip it off and hurl it across the room. She took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her stomach. Please don't let me throw up. Why did he make her feel this way? No man had ever reduced her to this, not even Collin.

    She plucked a pale green frock from the heap and posed in the mirror, assessing with a critical eye. With a grunt, she launched it across the room to join the blouse. Maybe the pink organdy. No, too dressy, too obvious. Why is this so difficult? A skirt and blouse? Yes! Definitely more "Why hello, Mitch, I didn't know you were here ..." She tunneled through the pile, her breathing erratic. She dragged out a lemon yellow silk blouse that had garnered a number of compliments from male customers at the store. Yes! She draped it across her chemise, pleased at how the color brought out the blue of her eyes. She looked at her alarm clock and bit her lip. Oh, fiddle. No time to take a sponge bath. She dressed in the blouse, fumbling with the buttons, then backtracked to the closet. She honed in on a pale blue hobble skirt, guaranteed to show off her figure. Posing, she smiled into the mirror. The smile died on her lips. Her hair!
    Topknots may be the style, but if she had learned anything from men, it was that they liked a woman's hair free, unfettered, pure seduction in its flow.
    With frantic hands, she ripped the pins from her hair. All at once, she doubled over in pain as her frantic nerves churned the soda bread and kippers she'd had for lunch into pure acid. She shot a hand to her stomach and closed her eyes, biting hard on her lip to stop the wretched contents from rising to her throat. With a groan of defeat,