“Oh, Olive, that isn’t what I mean.” Winnie withdrew a hand from her muff and gripped hers. “I thought I was being kind. You were injured yesterday?—”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And I’m so relieved to hear that. But it’s also…” She glanced away with a grimace, then back again. The hesitation was so unlike her that it set Olive on edge. “Well, I’ll just say it. I was in your apartment yesterday, and I was worried when I saw the state?—”
“It could be better, but we manage,” she interrupted, dropping her gaze to the dirt patch beneath her boot.
The urge to deny the truth was immediate, the need to put on a brave face instinctual. Of all her friends, Winnie would be the most likely to understand. She was no stranger to financial difficulties. But something held her back. Perhaps it was because she’d been pretending for so long that she no longer knew how to unmask. Perhaps it was too frightening. Too shameful. Asking for help, especially financial help, would change the nature of their friendship. She’d already learned the hard way what happened when friendships were on unequal footing, hadn’t she? And if her lack of money meant she wouldn’t be allowed to help find Rhoda, then she would rather go on pretending. She looked up and forced a smile.
“Thank you for your concern, but it isn’t needed.”
“That’s not?—”
“Winnie, please.” The redhead snapped her mouth shut, scowling. “I will take a couple of days to recover,” she added, “but after that, I want to be included in the plans to find Rhoda.”
“Yes. You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
“Thank you.”
Winnie let go of her hand and sank onto a nearby bench. “You’ll have to forgive me. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I could use a rest, as well,” she admitted, sitting on the cold metal with a grimace.
“Well, go on.” Winnie nudged her side. “Tell me everything about Emil Anderson and the Case of the Suffrage Anthem Composer.”
Olive smiled weakly. “I thought you were tired.”
“I have plenty of energy for a sordid tale.”
“It isn’t sordid!”
“Not according to what I heard between you and Emil in the carriage yesterday,” Winnie said smugly.
Olive gaped. “Did you really listen?”
“Of course I did. Oh, that reminds me.” She dug deep into her pocket. “Clem sent along some pamphlets for you to read.”
“But she already gave me all the pamphlets on suffrage.”
“They’re not on suffrage. Trust me. You’ll want to read these.”
Olive took the slim pamphlet and scanned the title curiously: Women’s Health and Sexual Congress. She smushed the pamphlet to her chest, a flush washing up her neck to her ears. Her voice, when she could speak at all, was hoarse. “Why is she giving me this?”
“Because of Emil Anderson, you dolt.”
“Oh God, was it that obvious?”
“You did tell him you were ready to explore intimacy with him.”
Olive sank forward on the bench with a groan, her forehead resting on her knees. “Please tell me he wasn’t horrified,” she mumbled into the coat fabric.
“The complete opposite, I’d say.” Winnie’s laugh rang out. “Sit up, and I’ll recount what I overheard. Then, I’ll answer all your questions about what happens between a man and a woman.”
Olive sat up slowly, keeping a firm grip on the itch to flee. As much as she’d love to escape the mortifying conversation, what she wanted even more was to know. Knowledge was power. If she was going to pursue intimacy—and she very much wanted to—she wanted to do so with a marginal dose of confidence. She drew in a deep breath.
“Tell me everything.”
Emil tapped his pencil against his lower lip, scowling at Leland Wingate’s latest missive spread across the dining room table:
