“Mama, may I present Mr. Campbell Ripley,” Jane said, her voice trembling a little.
Her mother pivoted back and looked him up and down. “I know that name,” she hissed, eyes narrowing. “Ripley…Ripley…”
Ripley stepped forward. “Perhaps from my days as a fighter, Mrs. Kendall.”
“Yes, the boxer,” she barked out. “And I’m not Kendall. That’s her. My dearly departed husband’s name was Winchester.”
He inclined his head. “My apologies, Mrs. Winchester.”
But she was already glaring at Jane again. “Well, at least you’ve got good taste in your lovers. Does he support you well? Enough that you could spare more money at last?”
Jane’s jaw twitched and her cheeks actually flared with color. “Mama, that’s enough,” she said softly, calmly.
Ripley knew that tone. The one a person used when trying to calm an often-riled beast. He’d heard it from himself many a time when he didn’t want to fight a drunken man who wished to prove himself by taking a swing at a former champion.
To have to use it for one’s own parent? His heart ached for Jane.
“Why don’t you sit?” Jane continued. “I could get you tea. Does Roberts still work for you?”
Her mother flopped into a chair, grabbed for a half-empty drink beside her and snorted. “Roberts left years ago. A woman from the village brings food a couple times a month. She always pesters me to pay her to tidy up, but what can I do when you give so little? Are you offering more?”
Jane’s lips thinned. “I’ll see if I can find…find help for you, Mama.” She drew in a shaky breath and for the first time she looked at Ripley. He saw her pain. All that deep pain she was so careful to hide. The display of it felt like a knife to the gut. He held her stare a moment and then gently nodded, encouraging her.
“Mama, I came to talk to you about Nora. She’s missing.”
Ripley forced himself to look at Mrs. Winchester, to read her just in case Jane was too wrapped up in her own reactions to see little tells that might help their cause. But to his surprise, her face was entirely blank.
“Who?” she asked.
Jane’s mouth dropped open. “Nora, Mama.” Still no recognition dawned. Jane’s voice lifted, anger and hysteria barely contained “Honora. Your youngest daughter.”
“Oh, Nora.” There was the recognition, but still no emotion to go with it. She glanced at Ripley. “Did Jane tell you about her? She stole her, you know. So be careful. If she ever provides you with a bastard, she’ll be certain to take that one, too. Probably use him to bleed you dry.”
Ripley winced at her cruelty. Not only toward Jane, but at her utter disregard for her missing daughter. She was more interested in hurting her eldest to give a damn about her youngest. Mrs. Winchester drew in a breath as if to continue her screed, but Ripley stood.
“Madam, that is enough,” he said, keeping his tone soft but firm. That was for Jane’s sake, not hers.
He glanced down at Jane, wishing he could pour his strength into her. Wishing he could carry her off and make all this disappear. Now that he understood it, he wanted to save her from all of it.
“Where is Honora?” Jane asked, carefully emphasizing each word that came out through clenched teeth.
Mrs. Winchester finished her drink before she said, “I don’t know.”
“Please, this is important. More important than any hatred you’ve developed toward me over the years,” Jane said. “Did she come here? Did she contact you?”
Her mother smirked. “I thought you forbade it.”
Jane’s eyes came shut and her tone was sharper. “Please!”
There was a moment’s pause and Mrs. Winchester rose, crossed to the sideboard and grabbed for a bottle there. She poured more amber liquid into her glass. “I haven’t seen or heard from her. But you’re overreacting, I’m sure. She’s what? Twenty now?”
“Eighteen,” Jane said softly. “Only just.”
“Then she can do as she pleases. She’ll show up.”
Ripley’s stomach turned. This appalling lack of care for either of her daughters made Jane’s reasons for denying her access to Nora very clear. But he also believed that this woman hadn’t seen or heard from her youngest. He didn’t think she’d be able to keep herself from crowing to Jane if she had.
“What about money, Jane?” her mother pressed.
