Chapter Ten
Bella St. John felt as if she would explode. Oppressed by her own misery as well as by her mother’s and Anthony’s, she found the relentless stream of condolence visits unbearable without the sustaining presence of her betrothed.
But Han had remained frustratingly absent all day, while Bella and her mother drank endless cups of tea with people she regarded as mere acquaintances, most of them come for purposes of curiosity and gossip.
She wanted to scream at them all to get out, but she had been too well brought up to allow herself to do more than grit her teeth and wait for it to stop.
When the vicar finally left after his third call of the week—at least Mama seemed pleased to see him—she hoped the afternoon was finally over. But no, the maid who came to show the vicar out had two more visitors in tow, and it was too late to deny them.
Bella only just stifled a groan. It was the pair from the crescent that she always thought of as the sour-faced spinsters, though in fact Mrs. Willow was a widow.
She and her sister, Miss Morton, haunted the square, exuding smug judgment.
Or so Bella and Anthony imagined, although they had only exchanged civil words with them, and that on just two occasions.
She gritted her teeth once more and affixed a suitably sad smile to her lips. She resented that smile, which was for their sake, not hers. She was sad, so why was it considered not necessary that she look it?
She rose and curtseyed to the ladies then listened with lowered eyes to their platitudes of sympathy. She was probably being unkind. Mrs. Willow had lost a husband, so she probably understood.
Oh, Han, why don’t you come? It’s so much more bearable when you are here…
“So kind of you to call on us,” Mama said, as she had so often in the last couple of days.
“How could we not?” said Miss Morton. “Such a terrible thing to happen. We do feel for you so. Of course, my sister suffered the same kind of loss—”
“Not quite, dear,” Mrs. Willow interrupted. “Poor Mr. Willow died of natural causes. I can’t begin to imagine what you are going through, Mrs. St. John, you and your family. So very terrible.”
From the little Bella knew of Mrs. Willow, it was not like to her to allow that anyone, ever, had suffered more than she. Mama looked suitably impressed by the kindness and inclined her head.
“Mr. Willow died at home, of course,” his widow continued. “I had that comfort. And we did not have to deal with the annoyance of the police, or such scandal…”
“There is no scandal,” Mama said with sudden sharpness. “My husband was taken ill suddenly while he was out. I daresay he had no time to seat himself more respectably at a front door!”
“Oh, my dear, the front door would have been worse!” Miss Morton exclaimed.
“I don’t see why,” Bella said, stung. “My father would be no less dead.”
“But everyone would have seen him there,” Mrs. Willow explained, lowering her voice as though it were a secret. “At that house.”
Anthony, looking suddenly alarmed, opened his mouth, but Mama had already spoken.
“What house?”
And that was their moment, Bella realized. This was why they had come.
Mrs. Willow put up a hand to her mouth, as though shielding her words from Bella. “Why, the house of immorality that respectable people should not even have to know about. I cannot begin to imagine how you feel.”
The house of immorality. A whisper among neighbors and servants, a salacious chortle among Anthony’s friends… Bella had very little idea what went on there, but she understood spite when she heard it.
“How is it, Mrs. Willow, that you are so well acquainted with this house?” she demanded, much to Anthony’s clear horror, and her mother’s violent shake of her head. “We could not even tell you where it was.”
There was an appalled silence. Miss Morton fidgeted uncomfortably, gazing hard at her gloved hands clasped in her lap. Mrs. Willow’s face grew mottled with ugly red patches.
“Why, because I had cause, only this afternoon, to throw one of the creatures out of my kitchen. Such underhand insolence to get herself invited in by my gullible servants, who were merely being kind, with no idea who she was!”
That might have been true, but it wasn’t the reason Mrs. Willow knew where the house was. She had looked for it.
Perhaps she saw the knowledge in Bella’s face, for her eye twitched at one corner and she delivered her final blow.
“And if you want to know where it is, you need only ask Mr. Cordell. Come, Marguerite. Let us leave this poor family in peace to grieve and reflect.”
Bella barely noticed them depart, though she must have said and done the right things. She came to only with Anthony gripping her shoulder.
“They’re malicious old cats,” he said urgently. “Han would never go to a place like that, and neither would Papa.”
“Anthony is right,” Mama said distantly. “But there was no need to antagonize them, Bella. Now they could tell everyone.”
Bella straightened, staring at her mother’s back as she walked to the door. “Is that really all you care about? That people might know?”
“Men have feet of clay, Bella,” Mama said wearily. “It’s as well you know now. Just remember never to notice.”
The door closed behind her.
“I won’t need to, will I?” Bella said. Her voice did not sound real either. “I will never see him again.”
“Oh, don’t be an ass,” Anthony said impatiently.
“Don’t condemn a man on the word of those two!
Papa may have died on that doorstep for reasons none of us can fathom, but I’m dashed sure he never stepped over the threshold of the house, as they implied.
Which means there’s every chance Han did not either.
There’s nothing worse in this world than supposedly godly scandal-mongers. ”
She needed time and peace to absorb all of that, the accusations and Anthony’s surprisingly sensible reasoning. She could not think in this state.
But of course, now was when Han deigned to call.
As a frequent visitor and her future husband, he was not even announced, simply walked into the drawing room and came toward her, both hands held out.
She backed away from him, unable to bring herself to touch him.
A frown of incomprehension tugged at his brow. His hands dropped slowly to his sides.
“What is it?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Anthony said hastily. “But Bella? Don’t do—or say—anything you’ll regret.”
“Come, sit down,” Han said gently as the door clicked shut. “Tell me what has upset you so.”
“I can’t sit,” she said, her voice oddly stifled, while her emotions ran riot. “Did you go that house, Han? That house of immorality? Did my father?”
He understood. A flash of enlightenment, even annoyance, showed in his eyes. Eyes she had trusted.
“I very much doubt your father went there,” he said quietly. “I should be very surprised. But it was that back doorstep he was found upon.”
“And you?” she challenged.
A rueful little smile just touched his mouth, and her world truly fell apart. “I did go there once. Last night, for the first time.”
The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin cold. “I want you to go.”
“I won’t,” Han said with unexpected firmness. “Not until you’ve heard why I went there, what I did, and what I learned.”
*
Constance, Solomon, Janey, and Hat all squashed into the carriage to return to the establishment. It was to be a mere drop in and out, just to make sure there was no more trouble and that the girls and their protectors were in good spirits.
In fact, there was outrage in the crowded kitchen. All the occupants of the house had gathered there, staring down at a large sheet of paper.
“What is it?” Constance asked with foreboding.
Sarah picked it up and handed it to her. Solomon peered over her shoulder. It was written on in bold black ink, all in capital letters.
WHORES, BEGONE.
THERE IS NO PLACE FOR YOU AMONG DECENT PEOPLE. GO BACK TO YOUR GUTTERS FOR ASSUREDLY YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HELL, ESPECIALLY THE WHORE OF BABYLON HERSELF.
LEAVE THIS HOUSE NOW BEFORE WORSE HAPPENS.
Constance had heard it all—and much worse—many times before, and yet it took all her strength to make herself laugh.
“I really don’t think so,” she drawled, still smiling. “If this is meant to frighten us, it was not written by anyone who’s faced what we have. Where did you find it?”
“Nailed to the back gate,” Jeremy said. “When we came in for our supper.”
“I’ll bet you anything you like it came from that bloody old witch Willow,” Janey said with contempt. “Here, Jeremy, why don’t you and me take a shovelful to her door?”
“No,” Constance said sharply. “No retaliation. No one will arrest them for this kind of thing, but you are more vulnerable. We shall remain the perfect neighbors.”
“Did you see either of these women or their servants in the mews?” Solomon asked. “In the later part of the afternoon?”
But of course, no one had.
Constance made light of it, while urging everyone to be vigilant, to observe without fighting back.
“Our continued existence here might depend on that,” she said seriously, and was relieved to see the reluctant nods.
These people were fighters because they’d had to be, and showing weakness did not come naturally.
“In this case, it’s showing strength,” Solomon added. “And frankly, such nonsense harms none of us.”
Us. Once, she had fought against her feelings for Solomon because she did not want him associated with the sordid side of her business and knew that he did not wish to be. And yet now, he identified with it, and his words as well as his support soothed her.
She left the household much calmer and happier than she had found it, but once alone in the carriage with Solomon, she said restlessly, “Perhaps I should go back this evening, just in case there is more trouble.”
Away from the others, Solomon was looking uncharacteristically grim. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like that this harrying has started now.”