Chapter Five
I finally understood the need for two tubs when I sat down in the first and the water turned the same shade of fermented brown
as the River Temese.
As ridiculous as I’d felt standing back and watching the poor footmen bring up can after steaming can of hot water, even I
could admit that a quick sponging off or rinse in a hip bath simply wouldn’t cut through the crust of dirt and other unmentionable
substances on my skin.
“There. That’s a bit better, isn’t it?” came Felicity’s soothing voice. “Tilt your head back for me, Miss Lockwood—oh, marvelous,
not a flea to be seen!”
Marvelous, indeed. With a sigh, I closed my eyes, and the maid used a cup of water from the clean tub to rinse my heavy curtain
of hair.
“You can call me Viola,” I said for the fourth time.
“Of course, Miss Lockwood,” came her sweet reply.
Felicity was an unusually tall young woman, with a bright eagerness that radiated from her like a midday sun. I felt warmed
just being in her presence, letting her happy chatter wash over me like orange blossom toilette water. Even better, it meant
that I’d barely had to say a word.
A smattering of pale freckles dusted over Felicity’s nose and cheeks, and she had lovely jade-green eyes that twinkled, as
the fairy stories liked to claim. I didn’t have to guess to pin an age on her; she gladly told me she was four months shy
of eighteen during a story. The overall effect of her was like a ginger note in a perfume: bright and invigorating to take
in.
In fact, the only moment that disposition had slipped was when Felicity had helped me out of my ruined dress and corset. I’d
stiffened, mortified, as the fabric had all but crumbled in her hands, but her sharp inhalation was worse, and her sweet attempt
to disguise it with a cough all the more humiliating.
Somehow, I’d let myself relax enough under her careful ministrations that I’d forgotten the sorry state of my back, bruised like an apple and crisscrossed with old and new scars.
My hands curled and flexed again beneath the opaque surface of the water, remembering the gritty feel of the cell’s bars as
I’d held on to them, bearing each strike of the truncheon with only a whimper.
“Shall we move to the other tub?” Felicity asked. “I’ve some lovely oils and cakes of soap for you to choose from—lavender,
rose, honey?”
“Yes . . . all right,” I managed.
I’d recognized the scent of the House of Rosebourne’s offerings the moment I’d stepped into the bedroom. I was used to catching
the ghosts of Rosebourne scents chasing me throughout Linden. It was said that at least one Rosebourne product, whether it
was a comb or perfumed gloves, was found in every home from the Brickbats to Summerland Palace.
But to see the milled soap and gold-capped flacons laid out on a silver tray like the delicacies they were . . . it filled
me with a painful swell of emotion. Merely looking at them felt like a betrayal to Mama, but I wasn’t about to send Felicity
away to retrieve something else to wash with. I wasn’t nearly so ridiculous.
“Lavender, please,” I said hoarsely. It would be the strongest of the scents, and I would give my eyeteeth to drown out the
remnants of Fairgate that clung to me.
Felicity came into view again. One strand of her brown hair had escaped her frilly white cap with the effort it had taken
to gently comb the snarls and knots from my hair. She offered both hands to me, helping me step from the tub onto a towel
laid out on the carpet and then into the tub beside it.
I had the distant thought I should be embarrassed, or at least abashed, to be completely nude in front of a stranger, but
years of frequenting the public baths had dulled me to it, and I was simply too tired to care.
I bit my lip to keep from crying out as the hot water turned the welt around my ankle to pure, flaming agony again. Tears
pricked my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall, wouldn’t upset Felicity with the sight of them. Drawing in a deep breath, I
let the lavender-scented steam rising from the water fill my chest, holding it there until I was forced to release it.
“I’ve always been partial to this one,” Felicity said, handing me a bar of soap and a fresh towel.
Her gaze grew distant, as if her mind had left the room ahead of her.
“It smells of strolling through a garden in the late afternoon and stopping beside lavender to watch the many busy bees fluttering about it.”
I paused mid-lather on my arms, looking up at her in astonishment.
“Oh, bosh, I’m sorry, I get carried away at times,” Felicity said, tapping her temple. “I’ve been dreaming up stories since
I was a girl, and the others have encouraged me to start writing them. Can I tell you a secret, Miss Lockwood?”
I hesitated. Nothing good would come of this. Felicity had a way of making you lower your guard without realizing it. With
anyone else, I would have been wary of it being an act, a careful manipulation, but there was no guile at all in her bright
gaze.
And that was the danger of it. We were not friends. She worked for—and was loyal only to—the man who had made himself my jailer.
“I am writing a novel, you see,” Felicity began, sitting down on the stool beside the tub. “I’m not very far into the story,
of course. I can’t seem to stop rewriting what I’ve already written, which is a very silly way to never finish it, I know,
but . . .”
The rest of the thought either escaped her or she’d become lost in it. Her expression was so dreamy, it made me regret that
I couldn’t peer into her mind to see it, too.
I carefully worked a cloth over my hands. The scabs on my knuckles looked angrier against the pale skin I revealed. I scrubbed
at my arms until I realized the dark splotches there weren’t dirt but handprint-shaped bruises. The world turned indistinct
around me.
“Miss Lockwood?” Felicity began, a note of worry in her voice.
“I—yes, you’re . . .” I searched for something to say, wondering at my instinct to ease her. “You’re right about the scent.
It’s a soliflore.”
“A vase?” she asked, confused.
“Yes,” I said. “But in perfumery, there’s another meaning—it’s a scent that captures the perfumer’s interpretation of a single
flower. It does tell a story. All perfume does. I think you’re right that this is meant to be sun-warmed lavender, rather
than, say, lavender after rain, or lavender at dawn . . .”
Mama had said to me once that essences were like soliflore scents, capturing a glimpse of a single life in the way a soliflore was meant to mark a moment in time. I wondered who had created this particular scent—had it been William Rosebourne himself or one of the perfumers he trained and employed?
“That is marvelous,” Felicity said, propping her chin up on her hand with a dreamy sigh. “Imagine a scent of an iris given to a secret lover,
or a carpet of bluebells in an ancient forest . . .”
I could, all of them. The notes were arranging themselves in my mind, layering in the way a painter added depth and light
and texture with each new stroke.
Felicity’s smile was encouraging. “What a lovely gift you have.”
My gaze fell back onto my bruised knees. There was that word again. Gift. Another needling reminder that no one in this house knew me, and never would.
“Is something the matter?” Felicity asked.
I looked up sharply—not at her soft question, but, rather, with sudden realization. My eyes narrowed in a way that made hers
flare in alarm.
“Whatever is it?” Felicity asked with a nervous laugh. “Goodness, your expression.”
I drew closer to her, not caring how strange it must have seemed. Yes—I was right.
Felicity smelled of warm skin and sunshine, of the lye used to clean garments, and of the House of Rosebourne’s honey soap.
Lavender oil stained her fingers. But beneath that, there was no essence. No hint of her emotion. Her presence had brought
to mind ginger and citrus zest, but it hadn’t brought the actual scents to my nose.
I stared at her, water dripping down the cooling skin of my back. With Foxcourt, there had been no scent at all—not even the
scent of his skin. This was different, and yet . . .
The scent of blood filled the bedchamber, announcing the arrival of Mrs. Keyes in the doorway. I closed one eye, trying to
peer through a gap in the silk screen that had been placed between the tubs and the rest of the room. Another shadow moved
beside hers, and there was a murmur of voices.
“—must you—”
“—necessary—”
The second voice was a low rumble, but I recognized Foxcourt’s tenor all the same. My hands curled into fists beneath the
water again.
“I’ll just be a moment,” Felicity said, rising. She quickly replaced the screen after her, leaving me staring at the dancing fairies lavishly embroidered onto the silk panels.
I strained my ears, trying to hear what Felicity was whispering so fiercely. The floorboards squeaked as she made her way
back over, muttering beneath her breath. She took a moment to gather herself and fix a smile on her face before she appeared
at the screen again.
“Willie and Tommy will be up in a moment to begin removing the tubs, if that’s all right?” Felicity asked gently. “And Mrs.
Keyes would like to come in, unless you wish to be alone.”
She lingered at the end of the tub, her once clean apron splotched with dirty water. Waiting. It was a long moment before
I realized she had given me a choice and was expecting an answer. I looked down at the tub again and sighed. I’d never have
another bath as fine as this one, and I was reluctant to step out of the warm water.
“Yes,” I said, “that would be fine. Is there a shift or wrapper I could borrow . . . ?”
She fetched both, leaving me bundled in a pristine white shift that made me nervous to look at it. The thought of ruining
it in some way, of being made to replace it, made my heart sick.
The feeling was only deepened by the realization that lawn fabric could be as soft as this one was—that, at least for some ladies, this was the only sort of intimate fabric that brushed their skin.