He closed the door before she could say anything to sway him, and gave the coachman his orders. Standing on the pavement, a chill breeze nipping the back of his neck, he watched the carriage drive off. There was much for him to sort through.
As he set off at a brisk pace, he asked himself the first pertinent question:
Could he give up on being alone, free from the responsibilities of matrimony, and spend the rest of his life with Gabriella?
10
The young woman savored Sunday mornings when she was able to get away from her place of employment. She returned home on these days to visit her parents and siblings for tea.
The family home, a narrow townhouse on Trinity Lane, had belonged to her paternal grandparents. Papa, being their eldest son, had inherited it, but the funds required to keep such a place had started to dwindle four years ago when tragedy struck.
Since then the house had fallen into disrepair. At this point, the entire façade required painting, the front door changing because of the rot that set in two years ago when the doorstep flooded after an unusually harsh downpour.
Sitting in what had once been a bright and beautifully furnished parlor, she sipped the tea she’d been served by Mama. The porcelain was cracked, she noted, the tea’s flavor weaker than usual. At least it was hot though. She did her best not to shiver, to draw attention to the chill in the room. It seemed there was no longer enough money to build a fire.
Swallowing hard, she wrapped her hands more securely around her teacup and tried to smile, even as the pang of grief and all it had led to consumed her.
“You look well,” Mama remarked while Papa, as usual, said nothing.
He merely sat there, a ghost of the man he’d once been. Before Howard went off to war. Before he’d died.
“I wasn’t convinced when you said you were going to go into service, but it does appear to have been the right choice.” Mama’s voice was too thin, her hands too frail. “You seem happy.”
Happy?
The word was a shock. It wasn’t one she’d considered in years, but rather than argue, she nodded. It was easier that way. For all of them. Especially for the twins.
Carl and Constance were still too young to escape the hellish existence within these walls. The young woman considered the pair, their too-gaunt faces and vacant expressions. It wasn’t right. They didn’t deserve this, none of them did.
The sentiment brought on a fresh bout of rage — the only useful emotion she knew these days. The one that drove her, allowed her to get out of bed each morning and do what had to be done until her revenge was complete.
She returned her cup to its saucer. “Do you mind if I go upstairs for a bit?”
Mama shook her head, the sadness in her eyes a hollowed-out version of the joy that had once filled her gaze. “Of course not. Take as long as you need.”
The young woman sent the twins a loving look and stood.
The runner nailed to the stairs had a lackluster look about it. Dust was piled along the edge of the baseboards and grime marred what had once been pristine white walls. She turned left at the top of the landing and opened the door to what had been Howard’s bedchamber.
Her brother, the messiest person she’d ever known, had never let anyone touch his things. So the clothes he’d pulled from the trunk at the foot of his bed when he’d packed for deployment, but had chosen to leave behind, were as he’d left them. Strewn about in various places, including on the floor. Even his bed remained unmade, which was somehow both a comfort and a source of continuous pain.
If things were to change, however, she would have to be the one to do it. She knew neither Mama nor Papa had entered this room since the funeral. And to clean it would require more energy than she could spare.
Perhaps after she had achieved her goal she’d feel differently?
She stepped over the shoes and books that greeted her every time, and walked to her brother’s bedside table. The fingermarks she’d left on it a few weeks prior were still vaguely visible beneath fresh layers of dust.
As usual, the edge of the drawer snagged against the lip of the table, forcing her to jiggle it slightly to get it open. The cluttered contents brought a mournful smile to her lips, if only because it seemed to bring Howard closer. She shook her head and reached inside, retrieved the wood box he’d given her on her tenth birthday.
Her thumb traced over the floral carvings before she eased the lid open.
A crimson velvet interior came into view.
The ideal hiding place for two additional shillings.
Finn O’Leary pulled his arm back and sent his fist flying directly toward his opponent’s left cheek. His knuckles met bone and Callahan’s head whipped sideways, spit flying toward the rowdy spectators.
Another punch landed in Callahan’s stomach, producing a grunt and sending the poor British bastard stumbling. Finn smirked. He’d not fought like this since his twentieth birthday, when Boyle had tossed him into The Pit and forced him to prove his worth.
