Chapter Forty
Rose paced before the fire, staring at the flickering flames, but she couldn’t seem to get warm despite her wool day dress, her mind a mangled mass of dread and longing.
“Do you really wish to marry him?” Rebecca asked her.
Startled, she glanced up, having no notion how long she stood staring into the fire after Emerson and Sebastian’s departure for Canterbury amidst such high tension. Rose hoped one didn’t kill the other. Neither way boded well for her.
“Yes. Yes, I really do,” she said softly. She moved to the settee Rebecca was sitting on and dropped beside her.
“He does appear generous. Donating those bolts of cloth was most magnanimous. And after that waltz last evening, no one can doubt his regard for you. Did you know he pledged nearly ten thousand pounds at last night’s subscription?” Rebecca poured tea into Rose’s empty cup and handed it to her before warming her own cup.
Shock rendered Rose speechless, sending another bout of emotional turmoil through her.
Rebecca smiled. “Whitmore’s was by far the most generous of our donations. I believe we raised nearly fifty thousand.” She poured a cup for herself. “Now, what are your plans for today?”
Swallowing past the turmoil, she struggled to pull her jumbled thoughts together, drawing in a deep breath. “I must find Viola.”
“And just where do you propose to look for her? You said she had money. Is it true you found her in Whitefriars?”
“Yes. Viola said Lady Lockhart sold her to a brothel.”
Rebecca’s mouth dropped, then snapped shut. “What a cruel woman she is. Is it not bad enough women must contend with the arrogance of men and their overbearing treatment of us?”
“She’s awful. I believe Viola is being truthful. But…” She set her cup down without drinking from it. “It’s just that Viola has lied about other things that have me doubting myself. What’s worse is that I see my own self-serving ideals through her.” She straightened her spine, refusing to excuse her own behavior, despite Emerson’s assurances that she could put her behavior down to youthful selfishness. “I was that same spoiled, uncaring girl.”
“Oh, Rose. That’s simply not true.”
“It is true!” she cried. “Look at how horribly I treated you and Gabriella before Stanford’s death. I let myself be influenced by the likes of Estelle Bentick.” Lady Bentick had proven herself utterly deranged. She not only plunged the knife into Stanford’s chest, but she’d abducted Gabriella. Shot her. With a pistol! Rose had nearly lost her youngest sister to a monstrous woman.
Those days had been nothing short of dreadful.
Rebecca’s eyes softened. “You mustn’t blame yourself. No one had any way of realizing how unhinged Lady Bentick was. No one.” She rose from the settee. “Come with me to Hope House—” She held up her palm, exposing the scars on her arm.
The move stopped the argument that sat on the tip of Rose’s lips.
“I know we’ve never been the best of friends, Rose, but believe me when I say, you are failing to see your worth. I see it. Gabby sees it. The girls at Hope House—granted they had their doubts in the beginning—but I’m assured they see your worth too. Besides, what good does it do anyone to sit around moping?”
She was right, and with Emerson out of London, Rose hadn’t the slightest notion on how to locate Viola. “Yes. That is a very good idea.” She smiled at her sister-in-law. “Thank you, Rebecca. Just…thank you.”
Rebecca took Rose’s hand with her scarred one and squeezed. “We couldn’t be more thrilled with your contributions to Hope House, darling. Don’t let your fears rule your head.”
“I suppose I sometimes feel as if I’m just playing at charity and that will only hurt those I wish to help—” She pressed her fingertips to her eyes to keep the tears at bay. “What if I am no better than Stanford, tossing people aside when it suits me?”
Rebecca pulled Rose’s hands from her face and shook her lightly. “Just posing that very question shows exactly how much you care. Come, Rose. Secreting yourself from others will only cause such doubts to fester.”
“How did you become so wise?” Rose allowed Rebecca to call for their bonnets, cloaks, and gloves.
The carriage ride to Hope House was short, but every jolt over the cobbles rattled her resolve. By the time the familiar brick front of Hope House came into view, Rose’s stomach coiled in dread. What if the girls looked at her differently now? What if her failure had soured the fragile trust she had finally begun to build?
The door opened before they emerged from Rose’s comfortable barouche, and Mrs. Kier peered out. “I wondered when you two would finally arrive.” She stepped back, her practical turn of mind a balm over Rose’s battered esteem. “Go on in the drawin’ room, Yer Grace and milady. I’ll bring tea directly.”
Rose divested herself of her hat, gloves, and cloak, and made her way down the hall to the drawing room. Tea would be most welcome.
She entered a room crowded with the girls, the air buzzing with a strange expectancy. And there, at the center, stood Viola Lockhart.
Rose’s breath caught.
Viola’s bared hands twisted at her waist, her expression one of genuine contriteness. Beside her, Inez Macy stood clutching the pair of kid gloves Rose had given her. The very ones Viola had insisted Inez had given to Viola. Her posture stood at the ready, her chin high, no doubt anticipating the worst. “I should never have taken them. I’m truly sorry.”
