Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil beamed. “Men and their work. My husband is working on his latest play, and his brother, Lord Hartwell, is helping him keep track of all the children.”
“He’s so happy with lots of children.” Lady Hartwell held a plate of sweets, a pile of chocolate-dipped biscuits. “Mrs. Wilky, I saw Mr. Marks leave. He’s been paying you a lot of attention. Will you be our fourth successful bride by newspaper advertisements?”
I shrugged. “It’s still early in our courting.”
“It’s been since November,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil said.
Lady Hartwell wiped her mouth of bonbon crumbs. “She’s taking her time. More time for your mother to help with my situation.” She patted her tummy. “The Fitzwilliam family will probably have her move in with us the month of my lying-in. Someone will have to keep my husband calm.”
Clancy offered a sparkling tray of lemonade to the ladies. I abstained but tried to pay attention to these kind women. Their friendships with my sister were long and deep, their lives perfect and settled. I just wanted to go back to the house.
The wind rustled in the distant bushes, louder than their easy chatter. I was alone, even with these women. Sometimes it felt as if I were on Gracechurch Street looking through the shop glass, knowing Croome fabric was sold inside but I wasn’t welcome.
Stop it, Ruth. Let’s turn over a table. Launch into a drinking song, one Adam and I had heard at the docks.Wild, unpredictable me had been silenced too long. “Ladies, I’m grateful my sister has such good friends, and you each make things better for others. Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil and the flower-shop girls. Lady Hartwell with her women’s hospital.”
They clinked their glasses.
“Ester, will you return to reading Shakespeare at Lady Hartwell’s charity in the summer?”
“Yes, Sis.”Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle.They tapped their goblets again.
Air went in and out of my empty chest more easily. I felt my confidence rise, sans a drunkard’s tune. “Lady Hartwell, if a young mulatto woman was on the streets, would she be welcome at your charity?”
“She could be, if there’s an opening at Magdalen House.” Lady Hartwell stepped closer. “Mrs. Wilky, is there someone you’re looking for?”
“Yes, my late husband’s sister is missing.”
A brow raised on the pretty woman’s face. Doubt shadowed her hazel eyes. “A sister missing? How could that be?”
Confused at the response, I squinted at her, even tweaked my spectacles. “My late husband’s sister, she’s a young mulatto girl. She’s missing.”
Ester elbowed Lady Hartwell.
Then I realized that this council of friends was the same as Mama’s. They’d been told the lies. All the things I’d endured, all the things I’d suffered, were fiction to them. These women needed actual proof, too.
This was worse than staring through heavy shop glass.
My sister had betrayed me.
These were nice women, but nice women believed I was a liar.
My chest felt hollow, more than empty. I searched for the house. I didn’t even have it in me to fake a smile and beg off properly.
Ester stepped into my path. “Ruth, these are my friends. We share everything. I told them what Mama said.”
I took off my spectacles, burying them in my palm. I couldn’t look at her. “I surrender to your truth. I’m going to shut up and take what you think I deserve.”
Lady Hartwell put a hand on my shoulder, and I startled.
“Mrs. Wilky,” she said, “what does this missing girl look like? Please tell me. I’ll look for her.”
“I knew what she looked like four years ago—light-colored skin, about my height, thin, thin like Adam, but she may have changed. It’s hard to shake, tapeworm thin, but don’t do me any favors.”
I tried to move away, but Lady Hartwell held my shoulder. “What’s her name, Mrs. Wilky, so if I see her, I can let you know.”
“Cicely Wilkinson,” I said the name low, like a secret.
“I’ll search for her,” Lady Hartwell said. “The streets are dangerous for a lost girl.”
