Still picturing Mr. Beckman’s unflappable demeanor, Ambrosia stripped off her gloves, peeling them delicately from her fingers and wincing at their condition. Then, lifting each foot with care, she tugged off her half boots—one, then the other—trying not to gag as they came free.
Ambrosia imagined the look on Winifred’s face if she could see her now. The thought almost made her laugh.
But then, rolling down one of her poor ruined stockings, she paused. How long had it been since she’d sought no one’s approval?
For the past eighteen months, Ambrosia had lived beneath the suffocating rule of her husband’s brother and his dreadful wife, Milton and Winifred. Before that, she’d endured eight soul-draining years as the wife of Harrison Bloomington.
She had been dutiful. Pious. Unquestioning.
Now, she was standing half-naked in an inn room, one that she’d won by less than respectable tactics, and she was… smiling.
Shaking her head, she unfastened her bodice and then shimmied out of the dress, careful to touch as little as possible as she carefully stepped out of it.
And then, wearing nothing but her stays and chemise, Ambrosia deposited the bundle in the far corner. She wouldn’t be able to clean it completely, but she’d do her best. Everything would need time to dry if she wanted to pack it away for travel the next morning.
But no, she checked her thoughts, noting that her underclothes had remained relatively unscathed. She could leave whenever she wanted. She could sleep until noon if that suited her fancy.
For the first time in her life, Ambrosia was on her own schedule. If Mr. Beckman wished to continue traveling with her, he was simply going to have to wait.
Another satisfying thought.
After scrounging through her valise, Ambrosia crossed to the washbasin, uncorked her little bottle of lemon-lavender oil, and poured a liberal amount into the cool water. The scent was crisp and sweet, a small comfort as she began to scrub herself down, rinsing her calves, her arms, her hands, her neck—until the worst of the grime was gone and she felt almost human again.
Once clean—or clean-ish—Ambrosia slipped into a dark rose walking gown. Not lavender. Not grey.
Only then did she eye her reflection.
“Who… are you?”
The woman in the glass bore little resemblance to the one who’d set out from Rockford Beach just days ago. Her auburn hair was wild around her face, her cheeks flushed, her lips glistening. And her eyes… they sparkled with something unfamiliar.
There was a hint of her usual uncertainty, of fear. But there was also excitement… freedom.
And this was only the beginning of her new life.
She would not just sit in her room all night. She would seek out the innkeeper’s wife and ask about a quiet place where a young woman traveling alone could take a meal. These were the sort of things she needed to get used to now.
Her heart all but skipped a beat when a knock sounded at the door.
"Who is it?" she called out, pausing mid-motion.
"It’s me."
He didn’t bother to say his name—so sure that she’d know exactly who he might be.
He wasn’t wrong.
Still, she didn’t unlatch the door right away, speaking through it instead. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Beckman?"
"You can open the door, Madame Bloomington..." The low drawl of his voice curled right through the wood. He would persist—of that she had no doubt.
She crossed to the door, fingers oddly clumsy at the latch, and pulled it inward just a crack?—
Only for him to push it the rest of the way open and stroll inside like he owned the place.
Ambrosia blinked.
He looked…different.
