Mrs. Daly clicked her tongue. “Seems odd for the magistrate and coroner to call it a suicide when the man was found beaten as he was.”
My pulse raced.
In a blink, I watched Adam be struck. I blinked three times, saying to myself,be calm, don’t lose your wits. I couldn’t miss this meeting.
I put down my needles and wet my drying tongue with a swallow of tea. “Beaten to death? That’s tragic.”
Mrs. Carter snorted. Her cup runneth over with malice. “My husband tells me his gambling caught up to him.Whack,whackover a jack.” Her thick island accent gave a smooth rhythm to her hateful words.
“Ladies, let me go check on our cake. My guests need scrumptious cake.”
No, no, no.
The door shut. My eyes closed and I counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Is this appointment with a new doctor, Ruthy?” Mrs. Carter asked. “Or has our girly been doing somet’ing with that would-be-fiancé that requires doctoring?”
I gulped air and waited for the rest of the twisted counseling to begin anew.
Shaped like a squash, small on top, big on the bottom, Mrs. Carter leaned near. The peppermint scent of her hand lotion could smother a cow. “You’ve been naughty again, Ruthy, haven’t you? We told you to save your desires for the wedding night. Be frigid.”
Frigid wouldn’t be a problem.
The barrister and I had had a delicate conversation when he’d mentioned the topic of marriage. Very delicate to talk about taking time and separate bedchambers. “Thank you, ma’am, but shouldn’t you save your advice for your girls?”
Mrs. Carter’s nose wrinkled. Her own daughters hadn’t wed yet. They had the sense to be picky and the ideals to know they deserved to be treasured. But harpies like their own mother would call them spinsters.
The nasty woman tugged at her lacy cuffs. “Do the barrister a favor. Make the man think you enjoy him like it was a first time.”
Why would Mrs. Carter offer such advice to me, a widow with a child? I knew what desire was, what it felt like to be sought after by a man. I knew too much of it and didn’t want any part of desire now.
Lips clamped shut, I tried to sculpt a proper ladylike response but failed.
Nothing but improper comments centered on my tongue:Hell no, huns. Go away, goosecaps. Shut your lips, sauceboxes.
Adam used to tell me those low-class insults and mix up his own. The young man had been from a well-to-do background but had spent far too much time at the docks rather than the ballrooms, because his family was in finance for shipping and such.
I pressed on my temples. Adam had been in my mind since exchanging letters with the barrister. Even more since my trunk had arrived. That lost thing, four years gone, had shown up two weeks ago.
“What say you, Ruthy? Your Mama’s not here to quiet you. Tell me you’re respectable, girly. Lie to me.”
No baiting. No loss of my dignity. “Mrs. Carter, I will speak my mind. I’m a respectable widow. Please remember that.”
Mrs. Carter batted her eyes as if she’d heard my voice.
Maybe I’d forgotten how to use it.
No more.“My time with my husband was short,” I said, controlling my tone, smothering my anger. “But Mr. Wilky had my firsts—a first kiss, a first confession of love, a first surrender in his bed. The barrister, or whomever I marry, will gain an older, wiser woman, one that knows what true love is.”
Though I couldn’t see their expressions, the silence told me all I needed. They’d heard me and could not discount my truth. I desired to live for me and my son. If I chose, I’d have an honorable marriage of convenience. I’d keep the gentleman’s house, keep his name in esteem, and keep his trust.
Then maybe we’d find something more, but I would be grateful for a clean, safe house that was mine to manage, and a good man for my son to model. In time, he would be grateful for me—a good woman, a woman to be an asset, maybe even his queen.
