Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
Since Emerson and his brother’s departure, Stanford House seemed much too quiet. Not the peaceful sort of quiet, but a hollow one that settled into Rose’s marrow, and magnified every creak of timber, every gust that rattled the shutters.
She poured herself another measure of brandy—two fingers…more than was wise—and carried it before the fire. She stood close enough for the heat to nip at her bronze skirts, yet the cold night pressed in just the same, seeping into her bones as though no blaze could warm her.
What in heaven’s name was she to do with Viola?
Emerson’s words lingered, maddeningly calm. Try not to toss her back into the streets. I fear your conscience would overcome you quickly, and we would find ourselves right back to where we started.
Blast him. Was he right? Rose pressed the rim of the glass to her lips but found her throat rebelling. She drank, swallowed hard, forcing the liquor down as though it were medicine.
Viola Lockhart’s airs and graces were more than any mortal woman should have to bear.
The girl sowed discord with every toss of her hair.
Kadida had bristled under her sly remarks.
Obviously, the other young women had bitten their tongues until they near bled, putting the fragile balance of Hope House—so hard-won, so precarious—wobbling like china perched on the edge of a table that rocked on uneven legs. And Inez…
The practical choice, the wise choice was to remove Viola before she did more harm.
And yet…
Rose dropped heavily into the nearest chair, the brandy sloshing over her hand.
The image of Lady Lockhart—cold, patrician, pitiless—painted a vivid image in her mind.
Any relative who would as soon as consign her family member to a brothel than bear the inconvenience of her sent nausea roiling through Rose.
The thought of Viola, or any young woman alone and defenseless, having the fine armor of breeding stripped from her in a single brutal night was a powerful deterrent.
Viola was a fighter. She’d escaped that fate, though barely.
God above.
So no, in good conscience, Rose could not cast the girl to the rookeries.
But she could—and must—remind Viola just how narrow her escape had been.
And that setting herself against women who had learned survival at such terrible costs as the others had weathered, was not merely unwise, but dangerous.
Rose might regret this resolve. Indeed, she almost counted on it, but having her authority undermined, blatant untruths spewed in her own house? That was unacceptable.
With a sharp breath, she thrust her empty glass onto the spirits table and strode from the drawing room. Her steps clipped against the marble, echoing as though the house itself registered her anger.
Once up the stairs, she followed the sound of muffled voices. At the end of the corridor, she paused outside the nearest guest suite and rapped once, then entered.
The air was thick, humid, and perfumed with a faint, steamy cloud of lavender.
Viola reclined in the copper tub, her head tilted back, her hand skimming the surface of the water.
Her hair, damp and curling, clung to her temples.
Her eyes, however, were not closed but fixed upon the high-back chair across the room.
Rose’s stomach tightened.
Inez’s gloves lay over the chair arm. The very pair Rose herself had given to her to warm her cold, horribly chapped hands. A gift to celebrate her bravery in escaping that beastly Billy Buster cutthroat. Now here they rested in Viola’s possession, silent as any accusation.
“The water is wonderful,” Viola murmured, voice as soft as the rising steam.
Rose did not immediately answer, letting the silence stretch while watching Viola closely. “Tell me, Miss Lockhart,” she said finally, “do you still have the coins I gave you earlier today?”
The girl’s hand froze mid-circle. Her eyes darted upward, wide and startled, before dropping again. “Yes, Lady Stanford,” she whispered. “Except for the amount I used for the hackney to come to your home.”
“Good.” Rose kept her voice cordial, deliberate. “You are welcome for the night. Tomorrow you will locate another place to stay.”
For a single, stunned heartbeat, Viola said nothing.
A second later, her chin wavered, trembling like a child’s. She pressed her lips together, as though words fought to escape, then burst out, “You would cast me out? Into the streets?”
Rose’s throat tightened. She forced her gaze toward the chair. To the gloves. “I will not have deceit under my roof.”
Viola’s cheeks drained of color, though she rallied quickly. “But those gloves are mine. I’ve had them for months.” Her voice rang with a haughty edge, but beneath it, Rose heard the quaver of desperation. “You mistake me.”
Rose said nothing. The gloves said it all.
Viola swallowed, her bravado faltering. “I only wanted…something fine. Something of my own. When my aunt turned me out, she allowed me nothing. Nothing! Is that such a crime? Miss M-Macy gave them to me.” There it was—the fear, thinly veiled, fraying the edges of her words.
A girl playing at hauteur yet terrified of what would come should Rose carry out her threat.
“Did she truly, Miss Lockhart? Did she tell you how she came into possession of them?”
Viola sat up in the water, hugging her knees to her chest, tears pooling then sliding down her cheeks. “She said they were given to her. She was lying. I know it!”
“I see. It so happens, Miss Lockhart, that she was not lying. I gave them to her myself,” Rose said softly.
She hardened her heart. Inez had suffered more harshness than Viola could even imagine.
“You will dress in the morning. After a hearty breakfast, you shall depart in the same clothes in which you arrived. Good night, Miss Lockheart. I wish you a pleasant night’s sleep. ”
Viola stared at her, eyes luminous in the lamplight, every ounce of her pride in her straight spine. “Lady Stanford, please—”
Rose turned to Jane, who lingered with a towel, her face uncertain. “See that she has what she needs for tonight,” Rose instructed. Then, with a final nod, she quit the chamber.
The corridor felt colder than before. Rose’s hands trembled as she made her way to her own chamber, each step heavy, as though carrying all her failures with her. She rang for another maid to assist her with her dress.
Once alone, she sat at the vanity and pulled the brush through her hair until she could stand it no longer. She rose and paced the room from the hearth to the windows and back. Over and over. Nothing calmed her.
After the tenth, or thirtieth bout, she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
Had she done right? Or had she doomed the girl?
Every attempt to help anyone seemed to collapse beneath her.
Gabriella and Rebecca meant Hope House to be a refuge, yet here Rose was, making it a battlefield of pride and mistrust in having brought Viola into its folds.
Emerson’s words pressed upon her once more.
Try not to toss her back into the streets.
I fear your conscience would overcome you quickly, and we would find ourselves right back to where we started.
Blast him for being right.
Blast Viola for her lies.
And blast herself most of all—for never knowing whether she was savior or fool.
Rose tipped her head back against the chair, staring at the plaster ceiling where shadows of the fire trembled and blurred with her own tears that refused to remain at bay.
Perhaps this was the tipping point. Perhaps this was the proof that she was not fit for the work she had set her heart upon.
Disappointing—worse, jeopardizing—Gabriella and Rebecca’s vision for Hope House would devastate her.
And yet, even in her weariness, a stubborn ember smoldered. She would not yield—not yet. She had to know…was this the right thing to do?
Emerson had looked at her as if she were salvation, not the burden Stanford, or even her family, had assigned her over the years. And she—God help her—she longed to believe in that hope.
She stood abruptly, stripped off her night rail to don a wool dress of navy, allowing her to blend into the night.
Blast the hour—Emerson would understand. He seemed to understand her more than anyone.
She had to see him.
~~~
“Are you sure this is the wisest course to take?” Ben’s voice reverberated against the carriage walls as they jolted over the wet cobblestones without any care to their unexpected guest’s snoring slumber.
Emerson eyed Stockton, who sprawled inelegantly against the squabs, mouth hanging open. “Of course, not. The man’s an idiot. But”—he let loose a sigh of resignation—“I couldn’t very well allow that blackguard to take advantage of someone so clearly out of his own depths.”
“But…Stockton?” Again, Ben’s shock had Emerson wincing.
He lifted a shoulder, wondering at his stupidity. “Yes, well.” He’d love to lay his lack of sanity at Ben’s feet, even Rose’s, but he couldn’t. The decision to drag Stockton from Shufflebottom’s clutches was all Emerson’s own.
“Are you really going to pay his vowels?” Ben sounded awestruck through the darkness.
Emerson smiled. He wasn’t a complete nodcock. “Not without a sound repayment strategy—”
A cudgel slammed through the window frame, cutting off Emerson’s words, and glass shattered inward, showering the three of them.
Emerson lunged, catching the man’s wrist before a blow could land.
With a violent twist, he wrenched the attacker half into the carriage as it came to an abrupt stop.
He drove his boot square into the chap’s chest. The bastard tumbled back, hitting the pavement hard and letting out a string of curses as he fell away.
Emerson kicked the door open and lunged out just as his attacker—