“He hasn’t done that in quite some time,” she insisted weakly. The woman’s knowledge of her family disturbed her. “He’s trying.”
“Work will give him discipline, Miss Becket. A sense of duty. And I’m offering you mercy. I’d think you’d be grateful to maintain a roof over your mother’s head.” She affected a concerned look. “When was the last time she stepped foot out the front door? Must be six months now.”
Olive’s knees shook so badly she was amazed she remained upright. The writing was on the wall—if Olive didn’t comply, they’d be evicted. Her mother, so kind, so fragile, would be forced from her sanctuary. And where would they go? They had no other options. An upset like that would unmake Anna completely. She struggled to think, to find a solution. There weren’t any. Not yet, anyway.
But she could work harder. She could get more students. Give more performances. And there was her father’s watch. She could still sell it. It might take her a week or two to cobble the funds together—three at most—but she could do it. And while she worked, she’d hunt for another place to live. One far from Mrs. Drake’s evil eye. One where her mother could feel safe, where Robbie would be able to attend school again. It could work. She would make it work.
“Only until I can pay the rent,” she said finally, her voice thin.
Mrs. Drake’s expression was triumphant. “My husband will collect the boy in five minutes.”
The door clicked shut, and Olive’s legs gave way. She slid to the floor, the paper crumpled in her hands, and cursed Mrs. Drake for forcing her to choose.
Olive sat beside the turned-down bed, her hands limp in her lap. The blankets were piled high, her mother a small, still statue turned toward the wall. She hadn’t moved in hours. Her face was blank, her eyes distant. Olive had tried everything—gentle coaxing, harsh demands—but nothing had roused her.
Olive’s bargain had broken her mother.
She couldn’t stop replaying the sound of Anna’s low, raw moan upon hearing the news. An awful, piteous sound that wrenched through Olive’s chest like a saw. Since then, not a word. Just that vast and terrible silence.
Unable to sit still another moment, she rose and paced the apartment in restless circles. She grasped at possible solutions, but none appeared. There had been hard days before, even awful ones, but nothing like this. If she went to the Robinsons’ for afternoon lessons, who would watch over her mother? Who would shield Robbie when he came home tired and bewildered? What would seeing Anna like this do to him? No, she would cancel the lessons. There went the desperately needed tuition money, but she would have to earn it later. She nodded to herself, though the movement felt leaden.
Now what? Should she call a doctor? But what if they prescribed medicine she couldn’t afford? Should she use a few precious coins to send a message to Longfellow House? No, no. That wouldn’t work. Her friends were in Olympia, eagerly awaiting the Senate vote results. And even if they weren’t, what could they do? This went far beyond suffrage. It was her life unraveling at the seams. It was too much to ask. She would have to sort it out herself.
Always alone.
She rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles taut and painful. Tea, then. She could make tea. She could hum a lullaby, the one her grandmother taught her. She could hold her mother and pray.
In the tiny kitchenette, she filled the kettle and checked the clock. When would Robbie be home? A few more hours, at most. But what state would he be in? He was only a little boy. What if he’d been injured? What if the other men were cruel? What if?—
There was a knock at the door.
She flinched, the kettle sloshing water onto the counter. She rushed to the door and threw it open. “Robbie?”
But it wasn’t him.
It was Emil.
Emil, looking at her with a hopeful expression.
Emil, the corners of his mouth turning downward when she found she couldn’t speak.
Emil, reaching toward her. Holding her sagging form upright. His grip the one thing tethering her to earth. His voice rumbled low against her ear, not words yet, only sound—steady and strong and real. He was there. Oh God, he was there.
“Olive.” Light hands shook her, compelling her to listen. “Olive, look at me. What’s happened?”
“I had courage,” she croaked. “But it wasn’t enough. Courage was supposed to be enough.”
Then she burst into tears.
He said nothing, just enveloped her in his arms. His hand moved slowly up and down her back. His lips brushed against her hair, again and again. The door slammed shut behind them—his foot must have kicked it closed—but she didn’t care. Let Mrs. Drake complain.
Emil was there now.
He eased her into a chair at the table, then sat beside her, never releasing her hand. His gaze drifted to the silent bed, then back to her. He looked at her with a tenderness that nearly undid her again, but there was something else there, too. A fierce, smoldering resolve.
“Tell me everything.”
She did. Haltingly at first, then in a rush. She told him about the rent, about Mrs. Drake’s threat, about her mother’s silence, about Robbie’s predicament. Every awful detail spilled out between her sobs and pauses. Emil didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions. He simply listened, his lips pinched together and storms flashing through his eyes. When she’d used up all her words, he gave her hand a firm squeeze.
