But Arthur had not been sensible since he’d agreed to elope with Miss Ester Croome at the White Horse Cellar Inn. Nothing he felt right now was sensible.
Everything inside said to fight for their union, but he’d do what was best for her. The notion of putting her on a coach back to London ripped his heart in two.
…
Ester waited for the footman to give her the fresh water for the kitchen. She took an easier breath now that she was out of Bex’s room. Joy had filled her soul that he’d awakened and was in his right mind and didn’t have the amnesia the boy said.
But danger was still awaiting them. Her father could catch them now, five days gone, if he hadn’t given up looking. And if she and Bex wed, a Peterloo attack spurred by his rallies was a true and present danger. Eloping was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. This harrowing trip had been foolhardy. Tears threatened as the servant gave her the bucket. Ester didn’t know whether to curtsy or run. She offered a mumbled, “Thank you,” and took the water.
She shook herself as she headed for the stairs. No more fretting, no more pacing between chores, no more wondering how she’d care for an ailing Bex. He was awake, and she was about to have a bath.
The water steamed. The heavy bucket sloshed each step, so she slowed and took it tread by tread. None of the precious water for her bath could spill; she’d not get more, and this was the first moment the innkeeper had allowed her access to the bathing chamber.
Finally, at the door to the room housing the copper tub she set her bucket down and wiped her eyes. Her hands were rough on her face. Bex had clasped her palm. Could he not tell her fingers were raw? Of course he couldn’t. He hadn’t seen the list of tasks the innkeeper had given her, the awful things she’d scrubbed, just to stay in a horrid cold room on the floor.
No dawdling, Ester. She chided herself. She needed to bathe before someone of perceived higher rank arrived and took her turn.
A warm bath, soaking in heavenly water with the lilac soap in her pocket would make the world good again. Then she’d remember the greatest actor in London was alive and still wanted to marry her.
She popped open the door with her elbow and powered inside. Ester set the bucket down and locked the door behind her. Then she tore off her apron and started to undo the front of her gown in anticipation.
Then she turned, intending to stare at the copper tub as if it were an old lost friend.
But it wasn’t.
It was strange and awful, and it felt like a horse had kicked her in her middle.
Strands of red hair curled over the hammered wall of the tub.
She grasped her stomach.That could be wiped away.
Of course, the tub wasn’t ready for her as Mrs. Fitterwall would have had it at Nineteen Fournier. She came closer, ready to use her apron to give the tub a cleaning, and stopped.
Scum floated at the surface.
Heavy stains ringed the walls.
And more strands of other colored hair bobbed in the murky water.
Nausea flooded her throat as Ester’s heart crumbled, shattering to bits.
The tears started.
From her eyes, past her nose—plop, plop into the tub.
Every salty drop she’d hidden in her bosom was wrung out of her soul. How could she dip in the dirt of every person who’d bathed today, every person of higher class than a Blackamoor maid?
She couldn’t.
The hot water she’d lugged from downstairs would have to be used to clean the tub, not for a bath.
Ester sobbed harder.
She cried for Bex and the injuries this elopement had caused him.
She cried for Mama and Papa, who must think her dead or debased, five days gone.
She cried for herself, her stinging pink fingers, and for not valuing what she had. Why was it so easy to discount her family’s love, their care, as pride?
