Chapter 18
Eighteen
The next morning, Rose descended the stairs to find Winston waiting in the entryway, holding a parcel wrapped in brown paper, secured with twine. “A delivery, my lady.”
“Oh, thank you, Winston. I don’t recall ordering anything,” she said, frowning. “What is it?”
“I’ve no notion, my lady. There is a note as well. From Whitmore’s Wholesale Ware—”
She cut him off. “Whitmore’s…” Shock reeled through her.
“The merchant, ma’am. His man brought it personally. Very polite. Wouldn’t wait.”
Her stomach twisted, but she did her best to remain composed. “Take it to the drawing room, Winston.”
Once Winston withdrew, Rose took up the note on cheap foolscap. The wax seal cracked beneath her thumbnail.
Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse
Ratcliff Cross, London
Lady Stanford—
One bolt stood apart. Not for its extravagance, but for how very precisely it recalled a certain gleam of hair beneath an improbable frilly hat.
You spoke of boldness, of beginnings, of choosing something no one would expect. I believe this may suit. Not because it blends in—but because of the very fact of its refusal to do so.
Use it as you like. Or not at all. It is yours with my compliments.
— E. Whitmore
Rose stared at the strong scrawled signature.
No apology. No excuses. Just statements right on point.
In his opinion. No one considered her…bold.
Did they? Stanford had referred to her as shrewish.
She preferred adventurous. The old Rose would never have traveled in a coach that appeared as a hackney and allowed a merchant to drive her to the docks. The docks!
She’d obviously lost her wits. But…it was…adventurous… Bold.
Warmth blossomed in her chest. Slowly, she set the note aside and, with shaking fingers, untied the twine from the parcel and pulled back the brown paper. Her breath caught.
The bronze silk.
Not just any silk—the silk. The one she’d admired at his warehouse. One he’d said was too fine for the Hope House young ladies.
She lifted a portion by its edge. The silk spilled through her fingers like melted sunlight. Rich, shimmering, warm.
Intimate.
A single, sharp pang pierced her chest that stole her breath. He hadn’t sent this parcel as a merchant. He’d sent it as a man who remembered her very reaction.
This was more than a beautiful swath of material. This was a gift.
A most personal gift, the likes of which she’d never received before.
Slowly, she refolded the fabric to the bolt and laid it beside the letter.
“I hate him,” she whispered aloud. She hated how he set her heart pounding. She had no desire in becoming involved with a man such as he.
Yet the color gleamed in the morning light beaming through sheer curtains.
Oh, but how tempting to turn this gift into the most beautiful ball gown the ton had ever seen.
She stared for a long moment at the bronze, unable to tear her gaze away.
Her own reaction startled and dismayed her.
Dropping her face in her palms, she groaned.
“I absolutely hate you,” she whispered, not certain to whom she was referring.
Disgusted with herself, she rang for Jane, who appeared almost immediately. “Yes, my lady?” Her gaze went straight to the silk, and she gasped.
Rose moved away from that lethal bolt of material, refusing to touch it again, though how it beckoned. She waved her hand in its direction. “Do something with it. I don’t give a fig what.” Without looking back, she strode from the room and demanded her carriage, heart pounding, breath constricted.
~~~
Rose entered Hope House to find the young women busy in the converted scullery—now a modest workroom—where bolts of fabric from Mr. Whitmore’s delivery lay open and stacked near sheets of muslin marked in chalk ready for cutting.
Gilly knelt nearby, pinning a hem on Kadida, who stood patiently on a short riser with one hand on the small of her lower back. Rose turned from her quickly, blinking back a sting of tears at the poor girl’s plight.
Most times, she was able to keep from dwelling on how Kadida been treated—treated? No. She’d been abused—abused so abysmally, and at only fourteen, her life ahead would be a difficult one. “Good morning,” Rose said, her gaze already moving away and surveying the bits of silk and wool.
“Lady Stanford. Good morning,” Vella returned, with a mouth full of pins. “We’ve just finished fittings for Miss Botha and Miss Clark. Miss Macy is next.”
Kadida stepped from the riser with Gilly’s assistance, both hands now pressed to her lower back. Rose had a singular thought that perhaps Kadida should refrain from attending the tea. Vella snapped her fingers, and the thought fled.
“Right. Come along, Miss Macy. Your turn.”
Inez stood by the door, half shielded by a hanging linen sheet. Her eyes darted to Rose, begging, before shifting to the others, then back down to her feet.
“I’m not…” She swallowed. “I’ve never worn anything like that.”
Gilly, still crouched with a pincushion strapped to her wrist, looked up. “That’s the point, innit?”
Vella patted the riser. “Come now, Miss Macy. It’s just a frock, not a curse.”
Inez appeared frozen.
Rose went to her and took her chapped hand and moved her slowly forward, leading her like a tethered horse—one she wasn’t certain wouldn’t bolt. The muslin was already waiting, seams basted, sleeves pinned.
“You’ll want to remove your outer gown, dear,” Rose said gently. “One of the housemaids can assist.”
But Inez surprised her. With trembling fingers, she unfastened the faded bodice of her own dress, pulled it over her head in one practiced motion, and dropped it on the floor next to Gilly without a word.
Her chemise was clean, but threadbare. The bruises across her shoulders were fading from the harsh violet to yellow, though the memory of them remained stark in her eyes.
Rose’s heart twisted. No debut ball, no Season in Town, no Paris dressmaker had ever earned the reverence with which Inez looked at that simple muslin.
“It’s just pins and seams for now,” Vella said, her voice gruff, but careful. “We’ll cut the real stuff once I see where you breathe.”
Inez stepped up, back straight, chin lifted a touch too high. As if daring anyone to say she didn’t belong.
Bravo! Rose wanted to shout.
A warm, almost unbearable press of emotion swelled in her chest. Not because she pitied Inez—but because in that moment, the girl didn’t look broken.
She looked brave.
Rose cleared her throat. “We shall meet in the second parlor for lessons on conversations.” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “Will fifteen minutes suffice, Vella?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Fifteen minutes later, Rose entered the smaller sitting room armed with a stack of notecards and something dangerously close to confidence.
The young women had already gathered—all but Gilly and Vella—lounging in various states of disinterest and skepticism, and a little of Rose’s confidence faltered.
But she lifted her chin and forged ahead.
“Today,” she began, smoothing her skirts as she settled into the high-backed chair, “we shall practice dinner conversation.”
That earned her a blink from Kadida, and something that might’ve been a snort from Lena Sharifi. Inez, of course, remained mute, looking somewhat confused.
“But we’re going to tea,” Kadida pointed out. “Not supper.”
“Yes, well—” Rose cleared her throat. “The topics are largely the same. Polite society values consistency.”
Mabel Clark raised her hand, solemn as a bishop. “Will there be cutlery involved?”
Rose frowned. “Pardon?”
“Because if this is the kind of ‘polite society’ where they change out forks between courses, I’d rather starve.”
Giggles erupted around. Rose couldn’t resist the touch of a smile and drew a card from the top of her stack. “Let’s begin with a common topic: weather. I’ll start.” She straightened in her seat. “‘This damp is dreadfully persistent, don’t you think? I’m afraid the roses will never recover.’”
Lena raised a brow. “You have roses here?”
“It’s hypothetical,” Rose said, her smile turning strained. “Miss Botha, would you care to respond?”
Kadida propped her chin on her hand. “‘Suppose it’s better than snow. Snow keeps the bodies frozen longer.’”
Rose dropped her next card.
More laughter erupted, but she plowed ahead. “Local events. A perfectly inoffensive prompt. For instance, ‘Did you attend Lady So-and-So’s musicale last Thursday? I thought the soprano strained a bit in the Italian.’”
Inez looked genuinely worried. “Do we need to speak Italian?”
“Certainly not.” Rose tried to keep her tone light. “Miss Clark, your response?”
Mabel didn’t miss a beat. “‘I found her pitch ideal, given she was bound and gagged.’”
The room howled. Rose pressed an ungloved hand to her brow.
“Ladies,” she said finally, “the purpose of this exercise is to help you feel prepared. Antonia’s dinner—er, tea—may not include gagged sopranos, but there will be conversation.”
“But we already know how to talk, my lady,” Lena said, leaning forward. “Just not the sort of talk that pretends we’ve always belonged.”
That stilled the others.
Rose swallowed. “Oh.” They were right. The notecards weighed heavily in her lap.
She glanced out the windows for a long moment then turned back.
“And what if the point is…that you do belong?” she asked softly, forcing herself to meet each of their gazes.
“Not because you know the difference between salad forks or can speak French or Italian, but because you are women worthy of a table.”
A hush settled over the room.
Kadida’s voice was softer now. “Then maybe start with how to sit without shrinking.”
Rose gave her a long look. “What an excellent suggestion, Miss Botha.”
The door creaked open.
Gabriella’s voice sailed in first. “Are we discussing posture, revolution, or body disposal?”
Mabel coughed to disguise a laugh. Kadida didn’t even try.
“Dinner conversation,” Rose murmured. “It’s meant to be civil.”
Gabriella stepped fully into view, hands on her hips, eyes dancing. “Rose, darling, you’ve brought the house down. I may cry.”
Behind her, the Duchess of Ryleigh entered with less volume but twice the scrutiny. She took in the flushed faces, the still-lingering grins, the abandoned notecards—and Rose, squarely in the middle.
Rebecca’s gaze flicked to the girls, her eyes twinkling, then back to Rose. “What precisely are you attempting?”
Rose straightened, hands clenching within her skirts, unsure how to answer without sounding condescending, touch of resentment notwithstanding.
“We’re learning how to behave at tea.” Mabel spoke with all the acting ability she possessed that had drawn a crowd’s attention when she’d tread the boards. Believably, sincerely, and intoned with grace and elegance.
Rebecca raised one dark brow. “And you all responded with homicide and satire?”
Lena coughed. “To be fair, it was quite educational.”
Kadida added, nodding with a fair amount of exuberance, “We learned not to mention snow, scones, or sopranos.”
Gabriella gave a slow clap.
But Rebecca…Rebecca stepped closer, meeting Rose’s eyes fully.
“They listened,” she said softly. “They laughed. They spoke freely.” A pause. “You made room for that.”
Rose stared at her, resentment melting away like snow on a summer day. “I thought I made a mess.”
“Mess,” Rebecca replied, “is often the first step toward change. Shall I show you all my scars?”
“Your scars?”
Gabriella leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “She means you did well.”
“Yes,” Rebecca said. “It also means I’ve made numerous mistakes in my life and expect to make many more, though my husband may lock me in my chamber if I obtain more. There’s hardly room on my body as it is.”
Rose’s gaze fell to Rebecca’s arm, where her sleeve nearly covered one horrific scar, then glanced up between both women—her irreverent sister and her impossible sister-in-law—and felt something inside her settle. Not finished. But steadier.
Kadida broke the moment, lifting her teacup in salute with a large grin. “To Lady Stanford.”
The others followed, among a ripple of clinks and murmured agreements.
Rose flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, do stop.” Something in her chest pulled tight and…
sweet. For all her efforts to become “useful,” she hadn’t expected to feel…
this. Whole? Yes. Fulfilled and whole. Not with chalk dust on the floor and girls in borrowed shoes toasting her like a duchess.
But perhaps that was the point. Not gowns.
Not glances from dark-eyed merchants or invitations to titled arms.
Here, in this odd little house that smelled of starch and lemon and second chances, Rose had done something that mattered. And for a moment, she didn’t feel like a woman left behind. She felt like a woman becoming someone entirely her own.
But even as the warmth of their laughter wrapped around her, Mr. Whitmore’s absence hurt. She hadn’t needed a man to feel whole. She knew that now. Still, to vanish without a word? He wasn’t a duke or an earl or a marquis. He wasn’t even a baron.
Sadly, it appeared she couldn’t even attract a simple merchant.