Fourteen
N ight descended quicker than I was expecting.
I had left immediately from the luncheon, never returning inside, and found my way home amidst the bustle of the city streets, weaving my way through pedestrians and cars jam-packed into snaking lines down the avenues.
My tears had dried as soon as I saw his face—but surely I only saw him because I wanted to see him; like my spirit knew better, and summoned the image of him to calm the ache in my chest, the anger spitting through me.
But it only left me more confused.
Promise me .
Whatever he wanted, I feared he may be too late. Lucas was ready to ship me off to another country. Then what?
I hugged myself as I wandered the streets, and when I returned to our house, the butler was surprised to see me walk up without Mother or Lucas behind me. They must have still been at the hotel, because the car was absent.
“Miss?” our butler said, eyes wide when I opened the door myself.
I ignored him and trudged up the stairs to my room. Freezing tendrils wrapped around my limbs, like it was midwinter, yet the cool-but-warming air outside harkened the return of spring. Something was cooking in the kitchen, our cook already preparing dinner. It was nearly that time—and the two members of my family were still out, enjoying themselves. A few servants milled about, and paused, stunned, when they saw me.
I wanted to shout, to snap and turn ugly. It was my house; I could appear as I wanted to.
I just wanted to curl up in my room. Perhaps bore a hole into the floor and disappear.
Yet, when I opened the door, my handmaid was within, standing at my vanity and inspecting herself in the mirror, a pair of earrings dangling in her fingers, held up to her ears.
She gasped when I entered and dropped the jewelry, whirling around like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar.
“Take them,” I mumbled miserably and made straight for my bed. They were a pair gifted to me by Mother, some time after everything had happened, before my debut into society.
“You’re home early!” she exclaimed. She returned the jewelry to the box upon the vanity. “I swear, I—”
“ Take them,” I insisted. “I have no use for them.”
Her jaw snapped shut.
Was it strange to see your employer so out of sorts? Or was it common to see the family you served under less stellar countenances? Our maids were probably the only people who saw beneath the masks, who saw our true faces, who saw us when we no longer cared to keep up appearances. Perhaps she was the only one, besides Flora, closest to me.
She cleared her throat and seemed to reset herself, clasping her hands before her. Her curly black hair was tucked neatly under a cap, only a few loose strands tucked behind her ear. “Can I ask what ails you?”
“You would not understand,” I mumbled into my pillow.
She stepped forward hesitantly. “Perhaps I can help.”
I sighed and shook my head. “No. Can you—just please get my robe.”
I could tell she wanted to press further, but it was not her place. And why should she care, anyway? She bowed her head and retreated to the wardrobe. I did not speak to her as she helped me out of my day dress, slipping the stockings down my legs, hiding my shoes away into the wardrobe. Undoing the jeweled clips in my hair, letting the waves fall around my ears. We were silent as she held the silk robe open for me and I slipped my arms through the watery fabric.
I had to bite my lip, so hard I thought the skin was about to break, to hold everything in. When I was finished dressing down for the day, I waved my hand to dismiss her. At the gesture, I saw displeasure flash in her eyes, but she left without a word.
Even if she told Mother about my pathetic return to my bed, what would she do? I could dismiss her so easily—all it would take is one accusation of theft and she’d be gone.
But then I’d be alone, and the next maid that was hired would likely be an extra set of eyes for my mother, to report just what her daughter got up to. At least until I was married off. To the baron-heir.
The urge to scream into my pillow was overwhelming.
I wouldn’t do it. Not to some baron who couldn’t care less about me, who was probably in Lucas’ pockets and advised to raise a hand against me should I even speak. I had no doubt it was how Lucas would handle an insolent wife, even if it would never cross Lucy’s mind to talk back.
Their marriage was the example Mother wanted me to follow: Lucas, after taking Father’s place as head of the company and settling into his new role, decided he was ready to marry, because of course, it was the next logical step. Sometimes I wondered if he wanted a wife and child at all, or if he only did it to keep up appearances, but the match had been arranged years before, when Father was still alive. Lucille Barrow was all too willing; a shy, young girl from a budding family, who was enamored by the first young man to give her any attention. In this case, a young man who agreed to marry her because she was pretty and quiet enough. There was no doubt they courted by the book, following all the strict rules the Victorians would have followed, much to Mother’s approval. And not long after the wedding, she announced she was with child.
The first time I met her, I pitied her. She averted her eyes when Lucas turned her way, did nearly the same with Mother and me, until I was able to corner her and insist that we were sisters—not strangers. The timid smile she gave me broke my heart, but I could see the young woman underneath, who was only trying to do what was right. I met her not too long before the wedding, and it did not take me long to notice that Lucas hardly ever looked her way. She was invisible, spoke only when spoken to, except when I could steal her away and break that shell just a little bit.
If Lucas expected me to comply like Lucy did, he was sorely mistaken.
But he knew that, no doubt.
Bile rose in my throat again. Was this just a way for him to impose his fist on me, under Mother’s guiding hand?
If I stayed in the house one more second, I’d suffocate.
Running my hands over my face, I left my room, half tiptoeing, half unworried if anyone saw me. My feet were bare as I stepped down the stairs, and down the hall, past the kitchen and the various other drawing rooms and parlors, and through the heavy door to the gardens.
The moment my foot touched the rough stone path, I felt a weight leave my shoulders. Our garden wasn’t terribly large, but it was a bit of sanctuary in the city, tall ferns and trees planted along the exterior and hiding the street. The cook had her own section near the door, growing herbs and garlic and some vegetables she used in our dishes, but the majority of the garden was flowers, things that couldn’t be eaten, but only seen.
It became a place I could step away after Father died. He used to let me into his study, to examine his books, to pester him while sitting on his knee as a child. But as I grew older, it became apparent that what went on in the study was none of my business, and after he died, everything important was transferred to Lucas’ own study, the rest of the books and furniture left to the moths.
I walked down the curving path, rounding the stone fountain with the cherub raising its plump hand to the heavens. The water sat stagnant, a green film ringing the basin of the fountain, leaves and other detritus coating the bottom. A vine wrapped around the cherub, and my mind flashed to that first evening, to the nude woman and her writhing above the crowd.
How intriguing that evening had been. If only I had known then who was staring at me from the balcony. My time before, with Marcel Brancato, seemed laughable. What kind of a chance would Brancato have now?
I trailed my fingers along the fountain and shivered when the frigid stone sent a zing up my arm. The air cooled, the late afternoon slowly turning to evening, and I had not realized how long I had stayed out, wandering the city. Stepping off the path, the dirt was damp beneath my feet, grass reaching up and tickling my ankles. There were benches placed around, moss growing up the sturdy legs. In the far corner was a sycamore tree, which I made my way toward. It was planted so far from the house, with the hope it would be able to grow large, without consideration for the surrounding lots, and one day, it’d have to be cut down and used for wood, before it could really begin its centuries-old life. What things this tree could see, if not for human folly.
I sat beneath it, my back against the rough trunk, and let my weight sink into the ground. If anyone came looking, I’d be hidden away, unless they came off the path to search for me. Just as I wanted it.
I could still hear the traffic, the buzz of the street, but my eyes told me a different story, and it was easy to block out the noise.
And though I sat there for upwards of an hour, as the sun began to set and the sky turned to crimson, then violet, it wasn’t until I brushed the grass next to me that I realized a single rose had been set curiously upon the ground—a deep maroon, stained black at the petal-edges, its long stem tucked into the roots of the sycamore. As though someone had left it. Though who would’ve known of this spot?
Suddenly came the memory of Adam with the flower, waiting for me outside the house, while I foolishly believed I could save him from my brother. The same flower, bringing forth all the feelings of my past for the umpteenth time this day. And a small part of me hoped it was Adam—not Vince, whoever he was now—who left it for me to find.
When I reached for the stem, I pulled away quickly, pricking myself on its thorns, and bringing my finger to my lips, sucking away the blood it had drawn so easily.