He didn’t even care about you.
Hussy.
He didn’t belong to you.
Seductress.
How could you betray the princess like that?
Temptress.
Did you use witchcraft on him?
I feel a gentle hand on my arm, one that brings me back to the present. It’s Ember who stands at my side, looking up at me with concern. “Are you all right, Miss Bellefleur?” she asks.
With terror, I realize I’m shaking, eyes unfocused. My gaze snaps back to Imogen, who watches me with a triumphant grin. I can’t let her see me like this. I can’t letanyonesee me like this. For this is how they can hurt me.
With a deep breath, I force the memories to retreat, let my confident mask settle back over me.Don’t be weak,I tell myself.If you can’t escape their judgments, then be who they already think you are.
I brush off Ember’s concern and return to walking ahead. I wait until Imogen catches up to me before I speak again. “Oh yes, thescandal, as father calls it. Or as I like to say,a good time.”
Imogen’s mouth falls open on its hinge. “You can’t act like that here. It may have been acceptable to play the harlot in Bretton, but the people of Vernon will not tolerate such behavior. If you get caught up in something like that again, I won’t be able to be your friend.”
“Pity.”
“Have you no shame? No one wants a ruined woman as a wife. If everyone here were to find out about your…colorfulpast, you’d become a stain on this town and everyone you associate with. It would destroy my reputation.”
I turn my head sharply to the side, letting a hint of rage shine behind my eyes. “Then perhaps it’s best you keep your mouth shut about it.”
Ember masks another laugh behind a fit of contrived coughs, and the rest of our walk passes in glorious silence.
4
When we reach my townhouse, I can hardly contain my joy in bidding farewell to Imogen. I’m even more relieved when I enter the front hall and the maid informs me my father and sister are still out.That means more time alone for me.
“Delightful,” I say, handing her my hat and coat, dripping sheets of icy water from melted snow. “Has the post arrived yet, Susan?”
“No, miss,” she says, “but I will bring it to you when it does.”
I don’t know why I bother being so hopeful. I doubt there will be anything of interest addressed to me in today’s post. Invitations to tea and dinner, I’m sure, but the correspondences I’m awaiting are better than that. They could hold the key to my freedom.
Books cradled in my arms, I make my way upstairs to the parlor. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, drags at my bones. It takes a lot out of me to leave the house, more so when I have to deal with the likes of pretty much anyone in this town. Luckily, with the house nearly empty, I can let my mask slip, let my shoulders fall. Let all pretense wash away as I enjoy this moment alone.
Inside the parlor, the fire still quietly roars in the hearth, which feels like an inferno compared to the bite in the air outside. I pull a chair and small table closer to the fire and settle in, and Susan brings a tray of scones and tea. I flash her a warm smile and gush my thanks before turning my attention to my new books. I organize them in a stack in order from most-excited-to read to still-very-excited-but-less-than-those-above.The Governess and the Earl,of course, sits at the very top. I shift the order of the bottommost books several times, but once I’m content, I lean back with today’s paper and open it straight to the want ads.
Like I do every day, I scan the columns seeking job postings, which are plentiful, since the newness of this town provides a plethora of employment opportunities. But just like every day before, I’m in a rage by the time I’m halfway through my search. Nearly every job posting with even the slightest prestige has the caveat that the applicant be male.Male. Why the hell for? And those that allow women to apply pay far less or are for jobs I’m not desperate enough to take. Factory worker. Maid. Secretary. Governess. I’d be happy as a secretary, I’m sure, but for that pay? It would take decades to secure the financial independence I need to free myself from my father’s clutches and the need for a husband. And as much as I love reading about the governesses in theGoverness in Loveseries, that career is certainly not for me.
Instead, I seek out ads with the wordsaccountant, house steward, management, but all those postings are for men. The very jobs I have experience with are the ones I’m excluded from. It makes no sense! Who better to manage accounts and households than the middle daughter who saved her family from destitution?
The thought quickly turns my mood from anger to sorrow, for it makes me think of Mother. With that comes a tender lump rising in my throat.
It’s been five years since her death, and still it pains me daily. The darkness of the days that followed her demise cling to the shadows of my family’s past, as none of us were ever the same again. Father was changed most of all, not the least bit by the fact that she died in a collapse of one of the mines he owned. The incident killed more than just Mother, though, and resulted in several lawsuits—and even strikes at the other mines—over unsafe work conditions. Our finances crashed, and the mining operations fell to ruin. It was as if Mother’s death heralded an end to life as we knew it.
We soon left our home, our country of Isola, and all our happy memories. Seeking to replenish his wealth, Father moved us to the country of Bretton, settling in its bustling capital city. With Father constantly away chasing business and my eldest sister entering society to find a husband, it was left to me to oversee our accounts. Because of me, we survived. Because of me, no one knew we were poor. I managed our accounts so strategically that only a glimpse at our ledgers could have given our secret away. When visitors came to call, they saw our luxurious parlor, not our bare bedrooms. When we went out on the town, they saw us in fine dresses, not the outfits we’d had artfully repurposed or sold. The facade was so convincing, I eventually caught the eye of a viscount—
Just like that, my rage returns. I fold the newspaper closed, tossing it on my lap, and take a hearty sip of tea, wishing it were wine instead.
Footsteps sound in the hall, startling me and draining my momentary flash of anger. I replace my cup on its saucer and smooth out my skirts as if the motions could brush away my anger too. At the last moment, I stash the newspaper behind me and sit up tall. But when the figure clears the threshold, I’m relieved to see it’s just Nina, my younger sister.
