Chapter Twelve #2
“A whip,” Violet said, her voice barely audible. “Or a riding crop.”
“Violet,” Arabella asked, “how do you know such things?”
“My father,” Violet whispered. “He has a terrible temper. My brother Robert bears the worst of it.” She touched her ribs gingerly. “I know what such marks look like.”
The revelation made Rose’s stomach drop.
Arabella stopped walking entirely, her face darkening with fury. “Your father beats you?”
“Not physically, although words can hurt,” Violet said quickly. “But Robert. My brother. He has been beaten more times than I can count. One time Father broke his arm.” She shuddered. “It is why I want to marry, to escape my father.”
“Oh, Violet,” Rose said, taking the younger woman’s hands. “I had no idea.”
“There are too many bad men in this world,” Violet said. “But there’s not much we can do about it.”
They walked in heavy silence. Rose’s mind kept returning to Sebastian’s scars, to the resignation in his eyes when he’d seen her looking. How many others carried such hidden wounds? How many suffered in silence behind closed doors?
As they crested a small hill, Rose’s mother’s voice suddenly echoed in her mind, clear as if she were standing beside her.
You and your partner could hang for this. And then what happens to Rose?
Rose stumbled, her breath catching. The voice was so vivid, so real, that she looked around expecting to see her mother standing there.
“Rose?” Daphne caught her arm. “Are you quite all right?”
“I…” Rose pressed her hand to her temple. “I’m fine. Just overheated, I think.”
But she wasn’t fine. The voice had been different this time—not just a fragment, but a complete sentence. And it suggested her mother had known about the smuggling, had confronted her father about it.
And then what happens to Rose?
Her mother had been afraid. Not just of the legal consequences, but of what would happen to her daughter if her father were caught. Her earlier suspicions were growing too strong to ignore.
“Let’s return to the house,” Rose said shakily. “I could use something cool to drink.”
The ladies agreed, but Rose could feel their concerned gazes upon her. She was falling apart, piece by piece, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold herself together.
As they walked back toward the manor, Rose found herself thinking about her father and his secrets. How many more was he hiding? Could it be a murder? That of his own wife? Was it possible?
*
That evening, Rose stood in front of the mirror while Prudence helped her dress.
They’d chosen a dark blue silk, with delicate silver embroidery along the neckline.
Prudence had fixed her hair in an elegant updo, with tendrils framing her face.
At any other time, Rose might have admired the soft sheen of the fabric that draped to the floor with a slight train.
But tonight, her reflection looked like a stranger. Pale, hollow-eyed, fragile.
“My lady, is something amiss? You’ve barely said a word,” Prudence said, adjusting the drape of Rose’s sleeves.
Rose stared at herself in the mirror, seeing echoes of her mother in the shape of her eyes, the curve of her mouth. How many times had her mother stood in this very spot, preparing for an evening she dreaded? How many nights had she smiled and played her role while fear gnawed at her heart?
“I’ve been having those dreams again. The ones where my mother’s trying to tell me something.” Rose turned from the mirror to face her maid directly. “And lately, I’ve been hearing her voice when I’m awake. Clear as if she were standing beside me.”
Prudence’s face went carefully blank, the expression she wore when trying to hide something. “Dreams can feel very real when we’re grieving or troubled.”
“This isn’t grief, Prudence. This is memory.” Rose studied her maid’s face. “What do you remember from the night she was killed?”
“My lady, I don’t think—”
“Please.” Rose caught Prudence’s hands. “I need to know. I feel like I’m going mad, hearing fragments of conversations, seeing pieces of things I can’t quite grasp. Help me understand.”
Prudence closed her eyes briefly, as if steeling herself. When she opened them, her expression was resigned. “What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about Lizzie.”
Prudence sank into the chair beside Rose’s dressing table, suddenly looking much older than her years.
“Lizzie was your mother’s lady’s maid. Had been since Lady Eleanor was first married. They were…” Prudence paused, choosing her words carefully. “They were more like sisters than mistress and servant. Your mother trusted her completely.”
“And she died just days after my mother.”
“A riding accident, they said. Her horse spooked and threw her.” Prudence’s voice was bitter. “But Lizzie was the finest rider among all the staff. She could handle any horse in the stable.”
Rose felt a chill run down her spine. “You don’t think it was an accident.”
“None of us did. Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Blythe, and I—we all knew something was wrong. But when we tried to speak to the constable…” Prudence shook her head. “He wouldn’t hear a word against his lordship.”
“His lordship?” Rose’s voice came out as a whisper.
Prudence looked stricken, as if she’d said too much. “Lady Rose, perhaps we shouldn’t speak of this.”
“Tell me.” Rose’s voice was stronger now, edged with determination. “Tell me what you suspected.”
For a long moment, Prudence said nothing. Then, as if a dam had burst, the words came tumbling out.
“The night your mother died, the three of us sat with Lizzie in the kitchen afterward. She was beside herself with grief, couldn’t stop weeping.
And then she said something terrible.” Prudence’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
“She said that earlier that evening, Lady Eleanor had pulled her aside and told her, ‘If anything should happen to me, tell the constable to look closely at my husband.’ And Lady Rose, we know there were other times when he was aggressive with her. Lizzie used to tend to her bruises.”
Rose hugged her middle, stumbling backward. Her legs gave out as she sank onto the edge of her bed. The room seemed to tilt around her, black dots dancing before her eyes.
“No. No, that can’t be right.”
But even as she said it, fragments of memory began surfacing. Her mother’s voice, urgent and frightened: You and your partner could hang for this. And then what happens to Rose? Another voice, deeper, male, angry in response.
“Lady Rose?” Prudence was beside her in an instant, steadying her with gentle hands. “Should I fetch some water?”
Rose couldn’t speak. Her throat felt closed, her chest tight. Her mother had known. Had suspected her own husband might hurt her. Had tried to protect herself, to leave some trail for justice to follow.
And then Lizzie, who had carried that message, had died just days later.
“The constable,” Rose managed to say. “Did you tell him what Lizzie said?”
Prudence’s face darkened. “We tried. But he was already bought and paid for, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t even speak to us properly. Said the word of servants wasn’t worth the breath it took to speak it.”
“So Lizzie died for nothing.” Rose’s voice was hollow.
“Not for nothing. She tried to honor your mother’s wishes.
We all did, in our way.” Prudence knelt beside the bed, taking Rose’s cold hands in her warm ones.
“But we were powerless, my lady. Just servants in a house where terrible things happened and no one with authority cared to see justice done.”
Rose closed her eyes, trying to make sense of it all. Her father—the man who had raised her, who had scolded her for her failed Season, who was now trying to force her into marriage—had he really killed her mother? And then murdered an innocent young woman to cover his tracks?
“There’s something else,” Prudence said hesitantly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you, but… I think Mary knows more than she’s ever said.”
“Mary?” Rose’s eyes snapped open. “Our Mary?”
“She was just a scullery maid then, barely thirteen. Quiet little thing, always in the shadows.” Prudence worried at her lower lip.
“But the morning after it happened, I found her in the pantry, shaking like a leaf. When I asked what was wrong, she just kept saying ‘I didn’t see nothing, I didn’t hear nothing’ over and over.
But the way she said it made me think differently. ”
“Like someone had told her to say it.”
“Exactly.” Prudence’s voice was grim. “I’ve always wondered what she might have witnessed. But she’s never breathed a word, not in all these years.”
Rose felt something cold and hard settle in her chest. Fear, yes, but also anger. How many people had suffered for her father’s secrets? How many had been silenced or killed to protect his crimes?
“Lady Rose,” Prudence said urgently, “you must promise me you won’t do anything rash. If what we suspect is true, then you’re in terrible danger. Especially now, asking questions. You’re bound to anger him.”
“I have to know the truth. I can’t live like this anymore, hearing fragments, seeing pieces. I feel like I’m drowning in lies.”
“Then we must be very, very careful about how we proceed.” Prudence stood, smoothing her skirts with shaking hands. “Perhaps we could speak to Mary together, when his lordship is away from the house. And we must tell no one else of our suspicions.”
Rose nodded, though her mind was already racing ahead.
Tonight at dinner, she would have to sit across from her father and smile.
She would have to pretend she didn’t suspect him of murdering her mother and an innocent young woman.
She would have to act as if her world hadn’t just crumbled to pieces.
“How do I face him?” she asked, her voice breaking. “How do I sit at that table and pretend everything is normal?”
“I don’t know,” Prudence said. “But I do know that you’re strong and smart. Somehow, you will triumph. I just know you will.”
Rose looked at herself in the mirror again. The frightened girl was still there, but something else was emerging too. Something harder, more determined. Her mother had tried to leave a trail, tried to ensure the truth would come out.
Rose would honor that. Whatever the cost.
“Please help me with my jewelry,” she said, her voice steadier now. “If I’m going to perform tonight, I might as well look the part.”
But as Prudence fastened her necklace, Rose caught sight of her own eyes in the mirror. They looked different now—older, sadder, but also resolute.
Tonight, she would begin asking the right questions. And this time, she wouldn’t stop until she had answers.