In the five years since Mr. Bradshaw had met his untimely end, the Bradshaw estate had gained a curious sort of reputation. It did not help that Mrs. Bradshaw had not remarried, or that their estate had a profundity of climbing roses that laced the stone-and-iron walls with thorny vines and sickly-sweet blooms. It did not help that Mrs. Bradshaw’s daughter had remained at home to help her mother maintain the estate, or that Mrs. Bradshaw’s son had been gone a decade without visiting. It did not help that Mrs. Bradshaw was a young widow with hair like polished copper in firelight, or that the young Miss Bradshaw looked like an echo of her mother in deeper hues. Really, there was very little about the Bradshaw estate and the two women who held it that could have prevented the remarkable sorts of ghost stories that sprung up about it on stormy summer nights.<br/><br/>But then, as well, when the sun rose and the mother and daughter traveled into town, the stories had such a knack for changing. There wasn’t a young, hot-blooded man in town that hadn’t stared when the women passed by. Really, who wouldn’t take either of them, given half a chance? Who wouldn’t take both? That they still wore black, like they’d made grieving into a business, only made for a better challenge. Comforting weepy beauties was a simple sort of fantasy. It was easy to cultivate it.<br/><br/>At the seamstress, with her arms spread for old Melda to take measurements, Mrs. Ada Bradshaw was sighing. “What, exactly, is there to be done, Ms. Smith?” she asked, shaking her head. Melda shrugged.<br/><br/>“You could remarry. There are plenty of good men around town who’d take on your family.” The squat woman suggested. “Or send Tillie off to be a bride. A man worth his salt will care for his mother-in-law.” She added. In the corner, Matilda Bradshaw looked up from her book with a sour expression. Her mother caught it, pressing her lips into a thin line of warning.<br/><br/>“Matilda is all I have left, and she’s a great help at home.” Ada said, and it sounded a bit apologetic. Melda clucked disapprovingly, and Tillie thought the seamstress would make a good mother hen.<br/><br/>“You’re going to become a spinster like that. Your mother had already had you and your brother both, by your age.” Melda said, pointing a sewing pin in Matilda’s direction like she was passing judgement. Tillie smiled pleasantly.<br/><br/>“Don’t get on her like that, Melda. It’s unkind. She’s just lost her father.” Ada protested. Melda snorted.<br/><br/>“It’s been years, Ada. It’s more than time you girls stepped out of your black. Really, Mrs. Bradshaw, without a man in the house your family isn’t going to amount to much. And the stories will keep coming. All sorts. Unsavory, honestly.” Melda was muttering, pins between her lips as she pulled a dark brocade tight around Ada’s small waist. Tillie sighed and snapped her book shut.<br/><br/>“My brother will be coming home to take on the estate.” Tillie said, matter-of-factly. Her amber stare was sharp. Melda seemed unfazed, a husky laugh whistling between her pins. Ada pinched her brow.<br/><br/>“Don’t hold your breath, Miss Tillie.” Melda said, pulling the pins from her mouth and securing the fabric. “Your brother’s been dad longer than your father. Or, may as well be. What kind of son doesn’t come home to care for their family after a loss like this? Why’d he leave in the first place?” Melda said, voice rising.<br/><br/>“Ms. Smith.” Ada was quiet, but it dropped the room into silence in an instance. The older woman shifted uncomfortably. “I won’t have you speaking ill of my son. You never knew him.” Ada could be imposing when she wanted. A curious strength in the petite woman. It was something in her steady voice and board-straight posture that set people in line in an instant. Mr. Bradshaw used to say his wife could have ruled the world if she’d been a man, just by the command of her voice. “We’ll be going, I think. Perhaps we’ll finish the fitting another day.” Ada said. Melda unpinned her without protest.<br/><br/>Tillie was smiling back at the seamstress as they left, a cheeky sort of expression that Melda found to be quite disrespectful. “See you, Melda.” Tillie said with a sweet laugh. She trotted after her mother with her book under her arm, humming.<br/><br/>Outside, their carriage was waiting. Abraham, their footman, arched a brow when the two women emerged quite a bit earlier than he’d anticipated. “Please, let’s return home.” Ada said as he helped her up onto the step. Tillie was grinning broadly when she followed.<br/><br/>“Melda was wagging her tongue like a stray dog.” She explained in a hushed whisper that was not nearly quiet enough to keep her mother from hearing. Ada sighed.<br/><br/>“Tillie, please.” Ada said. She folded her hands in her lap as the door was shut. “Mrs. Smith is not entirely wrong. Your brother’s absence is… a difficult truth of this family. I had been hoping he’d come home, particularly after your father passed. Regardless, it’s not something we can expect anyone else to understand. You know very well he had a reputation, even before he left.” She said softly. There was no malice in it. She couldn’t feel badly toward her own child, after all. Her son had simply been strong willed, and she’d been such a young mother at the time. Henley had been away from their home on business during his formative years, too. It was no wonder the two men hadn’t gotten along.<br/><br/>“Doesn’t mean she’s got to be a hag about it.” Tillie muttered. Ada gave her daughter a severe look, which Tillie didn’t seem to notice.<br/><br/>When they reached the estate, the main gate was open and an unfamiliar carriage sat down the long drive in front of the main house. The women heard Abraham shout to Josephina, who was out on the steps. “Mr. Bradshaw? What do you mean, Mr. Bradshaw?”<br/><br/>Tillie sat bolt upright in her seat and gave her mother a bewildered look. Ada looked no more apprised of the situation. When the carriage pulled up beside their unexpected visitor’s, both women nearly tumbled from their seats before Abraham could help them. “Josephina, what’s going on?” Tillie blurted, skirts rustling as she rushed toward the door. Ada was slower to follow, but she was no less in disbelief. Mrs. Bradshaw was, in fact, holding her breath waiting for their blushing maid to give a straight answer.