One minute her heart broke for John, her little brother who’d lost his mother young and whose father could never relate to his more artistic ways. Who, being small for his age as well as sensitive, had suffered taunts from bullies and betrayals by childhood friends. And later had suffered a hope-crushing blow when the manuscript he had worked on so long and arduously had been published as another’s.
The next minute, her anger kindled against him. Yes, John had suffered setbacks and disappointments, but many people had suffered far worse—incurable illnesses, unjust imprisonment, the loss of children, limbs, or sight. And not all of those people felt sorry for themselves, lay in bed all day bemoaning life’s unfairness, numbed pain with drink, and spent the household money on opium. And most certainly, they did not take revenge, kill anyone, and ruin their family’s lives!
Rebecca sighed heavily. It was easy to blame John for her current misery. But she knew she had wrongs of her own toconfess. Sins of omission. Outright lies. They gnawed at her. When she prayed, God seemed silent and forgiveness not forthcoming. Was that perhaps because she had yet to confess to the man she had deceived—a man she deeply admired, yet whose trust she had taken advantage of and broken?
Her chest tightened with a growing realization. Every minute she delayed would only worsen her wrongdoing and widen the breach.
Frederick returned to his room and lay on the bed, planning to rest awhile. He was surprised when someone knocked on his door a short while later. Thomas, he supposed, or perhaps Dr. Fox inviting him to play a game of chess in the library.
He opened the door, but instead of either man, Rebecca Lane stood there, face pale and stricken, a book in her arms.
“Rebecca ... em. Miss Lane. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I am so sorry.”
“About what?” He glanced down the quiet corridor. “I would invite you in, but that would not be the done thing. Perhaps we might talk downstair—”
“No. I must confess all now. In private. And after I tell you what I must, concerns about my reputation will not be uppermost in your mind.”
Frederick stared at her, wanting to hear her out, yet filled with misgiving.
He made a decision. “Very well, come in. But keep your voice down.” He let her into his room and closed the door, though he worried they might be heard through the wall.
“I hate that I have lied to you,” she said. “The guilt has been clawing at my insides.”
“Go on.” Frederick leaned against a bedpost and braced himself, thinking about the man seen entering her room and fearing what she would tell him.
She implored, “Please don’t line up all the chambermaids and ask Mr. George to identify one. And don’t question Mary again. At least, not about the second maid who went into Mr. Oliver’s room.”
“Why not?”
“It was me.”
“You?” Disbelief washed over him, followed by disapproval. “Why on earth would you go into that man’s room, especially alone?”
She winced at his vehement reaction. So much for keeping their voices down.
“For John. He asked me to give his manuscript to Mr. Oliver in hopes he would recommend it to his publisher. But Mr. Oliver almost never left his room alone, that I saw. And Mr. George shooed me away when I tried to approach the author’s room as myself. It was all I could think of.”
Frederick pressed a hand to his forehead. “Rebecca...”
“Nothing happened! I asked him and he said he would consider it.”
“Nothing else?”
“No. Well...”
“Well what? No more lying, if you please.”
“He asked me if I knew Selina Newport. When I said I knew who she was, he told me to ask her to come and see him. Seemed confident she would.”
“For what purpose, if that is not indiscreet to ask?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you relayed Oliver’s request, saying it had come from your chambermaid?”
Miss Lane nodded, looking abashed. “I did. But I have no idea if she went or not.”
