Rose said nothing. The gloves said it all.
Viola swallowed, her bravado faltering. “I only wanted…something fine. Something of my own. When my aunt turned me out, she allowed me nothing.Nothing! Is that such a crime? Miss M-Macy gave them to me.” There it was—the fear, thinly veiled, fraying the edges of her words. A girl playing at hauteur yet terrified of what would come should Rose carry out her threat.
“Did she truly, Miss Lockhart? Did she tell you how she came into possession of them?”
Viola sat up in the water, hugging her knees to her chest, tears pooling then sliding down her cheeks. “She said they were given to her. She was lying. I know it!”
“I see. It so happens, Miss Lockhart, that she was not lying. I gave them to her myself,” Rose said softly. She hardened her heart. Inez had suffered more harshness than Viola could even imagine. “You will dress in the morning. After a hearty breakfast, you shall depart in the same clothes in which you arrived. Good night, Miss Lockheart. I wish you a pleasant night’s sleep.”
Viola stared at her, eyes luminous in the lamplight, every ounce of her pride in her straight spine. “Lady Stanford, please—”
Rose turned to Jane, who lingered with a towel, her face uncertain. “See that she has what she needs for tonight,” Rose instructed. Then, with a final nod, she quit the chamber.
The corridor felt colder than before. Rose’s hands trembled as she made her way to her own chamber, each step heavy, as though carrying all her failures with her. She rang for another maid to assist her with her dress.
Once alone, she sat at the vanity and pulled the brush through her hair until she could stand it no longer. She rose and paced the room from the hearth to the windows and back. Over and over. Nothing calmed her.
After the tenth, or thirtieth bout, she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
Had she done right? Or had she doomed the girl?
Every attempt to help anyone seemed to collapse beneath her. Gabriella and Rebecca meant Hope House to be a refuge, yet here Rose was, making it a battlefield of pride and mistrust in having brought Viola into its folds. Emerson’s words pressed upon her once more.Try not to toss her back into the streets.I fear your conscience would overcome you quickly, and we would find ourselves right back to where we started.
Blast him for being right.
Blast Viola for her lies.
And blast herself most of all—for never knowing whether she was savior or fool.
Rose tipped her head back against the chair, staring at the plaster ceiling where shadows of the fire trembled and blurred with her own tears that refused to remain at bay. Perhaps this was the tipping point. Perhaps this was the proof that she was not fit for the work she had set her heart upon. Disappointing—worse,jeopardizing—Gabriella and Rebecca’s vision for Hope House would devastate her.
And yet, even in her weariness, a stubborn ember smoldered. She would not yield—not yet. She had to know…was this therightthing to do?
Emerson had looked at her as if she were salvation, not the burden Stanford, or even her family, had assigned her over the years. And she—God help her—shelonged to believe in that hope.
She stood abruptly, stripped off her night rail to don a wool dress of navy, allowing her to blend into the night.
Blast the hour—Emerson would understand. He seemed to understand her more than anyone.
She had to see him.
~~~
“Are you sure this is the wisest course to take?” Ben’s voice reverberated against the carriage walls as they jolted over the wet cobblestones without any care to their unexpected guest’s snoring slumber.
Emerson eyed Stockton, who sprawled inelegantly against the squabs, mouth hanging open. “Of course, not. The man’s an idiot. But”—he let loose a sigh of resignation—“I couldn’t verywell allow that blackguard to take advantage of someone so clearly out of his own depths.”
“But…Stockton?” Again, Ben’s shock had Emerson wincing.
He lifted a shoulder, wondering at his stupidity. “Yes, well.” He’d love to lay his lack of sanity at Ben’s feet, even Rose’s, but he couldn’t. The decision to drag Stockton from Shufflebottom’s clutches was all Emerson’s own.
“Are you really going to pay his vowels?” Ben sounded awestruck through the darkness.
Emerson smiled. He wasn’t a complete nodcock. “Not without a sound repayment strategy—”
A cudgel slammed through the window frame, cutting off Emerson’s words, and glass shattered inward, showering the three of them.
Emerson lunged, catching the man’s wrist before a blow could land. With a violent twist, he wrenched the attacker half into the carriage as it came to an abrupt stop. He drove his boot square into the chap’s chest. The bastard tumbled back, hitting the pavement hard and letting out a string of curses as he fell away.
