At Nineteen Fournier she was second. The tub and room had always been pristine when she stepped inside, and she could always ask Mrs. Fitterwall for fresh hot water.
And the housekeeper never seemed to mind, for at Nineteen Fournier, Ester was worthy.
Ester was worthy, a daughter sheltered by love.
She’d forgotten how special her life had been and how valuable the freedom she’d possessed truly was. Could her parents ever forgive her?
She needed to be back home, not here. The prodigal daughter needed to beg for entry at Nineteen Fournier. If only they would take her in, shamed and all.
And if Mama could forgive her, forgive every traitorous thought Ester had ever held inside, then maybe Ester could forgive herself.
A knock on the door made her startle. “Yes.”
“Papa said there’s a guest who needs to use the tub. He says it needs to be cleaned.”
Done with everything—the pretenses, her own stubbornness—Ester dried her eyes and stood up. She was Josiah Croome’s daughter. She had been birthed from a line of strong women, as her mother had claimed.
And it was time to go home.
She took her shawl down, exposed her curls, pinned up her dress, then opened the door.
Timothy was there with his ruddy eager face.
“Young man.” She reached in the pocket of her gown. “Here is a farthing to clean the tub. Then tell your papa Bex’s maid has quit and is going home.”
The boy’s gaze rose to hers then lowered to her shiny coin. “Yes, Bex’s maid. No problem.”
“Thank you.” She moved to the door. “When you are done, have your father rent me a coach back to London. I have enough money to be its only passenger.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The boy jumped inside, picked up a rag, and started cleaning the swill.
As fast as she could, Ester ran to the attic room and collected her bag. She didn’t speak to the other women up there. She couldn’t. They didn’t have parents to run home to and be saved from this life. Knowing this was right, she yanked out her carriage dress, the one she’d cleaned and pressed after taking care of Bex’s coat. This dress would suit travel better than the thin one she’d worn to be a maid. That one, and all these memories, would need to be burned.
Once changed, she pushed her sketchbook and her simple gown into her bag and clasped the handle. Lifting her chin, she left the servant quarters and headed to Bex. She’d release him from their engagement and say her goodbyes. It was only right.
Her steps slowed, and Ester let her mind dream once more of loving Bex and him loving her. Then she let that notion drown in that tub of murky water. Heart aching, she kept her slippers moving all the way to his door. She cared for Bex the man deeply, but this life of being last wasn’t for her. She knew that now. She deserved more, and she wanted more.
Before her strength abandoned her, she knocked on his door. Another quick pound led to a husky, “Enter.”
Bex sat on the edge of the bed. He’d exchanged his night shirt for breeches and his shirt with a collar. The one bad arm was tucked inside, but not in the sleeve. The bulk of the bandage could be seen through the white material. “Ester, I am glad you have come back. I was coming to look for you.”
She put down her bag, but picked it back up, holding it like a shield against her heart. “I have something to say to you.” Her words were rushed, but she had to tell him this elopement was over before his voice or the way he smiled at her made her go silent.
“Me, too,” he said, “but you first.”
She thought about sitting across from him in the chair the boy had used to keep watch over him as they directed her away, but that would only remind her of the fear she had of Bex dying, of how much him living meant to her. Sucking in a breath, concentrating her strength, she put the bag down again. “I’m taking the next coach back to London. I’ll tell my parents that I started to elope and changed my mind.”
“I see.”
Folding her arms across her bosom, she felt her pulse beat faster as his frown ripped into her chest. “I think our worlds are too far apart, Bex. You don’t want me to pretend I’m a servant to be accepted where we go. And I can’t have you pushing yourself to exhaustion to prove a point. This won’t work.”
He crossed the room and stood near her. The mustard ointment on his forehead around the big purple bruise in his chestnut hair overpowered the laundered smell of his shirt, the shirt she’d washed with her two hands. “You are worth the extra mile, Ester. But it’s not just you rethinking this. There are things about my past, about being a loner, that disqualify me from being a good husband to you.”
Taking her hand in his, he held it against his chest. “My haste has left you unprotected. That’s wrong, Ester. For all you’ve done for me, I have to be a person you can count upon to do the right thing. Letting you go is the right thing.”
He spewed nonsense, probably just words to make her feel better. That was sweet, for he had to know this hurt, cut like glass, slicing up her silly dream of a happily-ever-after with him.
“Arthur Bex is a famous actor, probably the best in the theater. I spent what feels like a lifetime loving your stage presence. With this trip, as harrowing as it has been, I’ve come to know you. This feels like another lifetime. You are a wonderful man, but we aren’t good together. I guess we are saying the same thing.” She reached up, tugged his collar forward to kiss his cheek. “It was a fun adventure, Bex. I’ll remember it always.”
