Chapter Twenty-Six #3
“It’s more that what I’ve discovered is rather unhelpful,” Oliver said. “The suppliers have been contacted by a man named Dobbin seeking similar oils over the years, but they couldn’t give me a full name or even an address. They only said he was a collector.”
Dobbin. That name again.
“My goodness, your face,” Oliver said. “Does that name mean something to you?”
“It’s not the first time it’s come up in this search,” I said. “I thought I remembered it from my mother’s journal, but it
was stolen from my boarding room and given to the newspaper. Now it seems to have disappeared from their offices.”
“Were . . .” Oliver lifted his hat again, smoothing his tawny hair back once more. “Were your other possessions stolen?”
My heart crimped. “Yes.”
He nodded, patting at his jacket pocket. “I thought that might be the case. I went to the pawnbroker on Church Street to inquire
about the oils and nearly fell over when I saw this in the window. I couldn’t tell if it was yours, but on the chance it was . . .”
The still room shrank around me, as if all the light had narrowed to a halo around the small pearl flower pendant dangling
from its worn gold chain. I stared in disbelief, too overcome to speak.
“I had to haggle for it. Uncle”—Oliver made an ironic face as he used the common name for one of the brokers—“said it was
new to the shop and that the man who pawned it was likely to come back for it at the week’s end.”
I held out my hand, and Oliver lowered Mama’s necklace into it. I clasped it to my chest, my heart throbbing. I was embarrassed
by my tears, but just then, gratitude overwhelmed me. “Thank you—thank you, Oliver.”
Unwilling to risk losing it again, I lifted the chain, fumbling with the clasp. Oliver’s eyes strayed to the quizzing glass
around my neck a moment before he came back to himself. “May I?”
I turned around, a blush painting my cheeks as I felt his gloved hands brush my neck. A week ago, I would have thought nothing
of it, but after everything . . . it felt almost too intimate now.
“I hope you know I would do nearly anything for you,” Oliver said softly. “Just tell me . . . is there still a chance? Is
this a real marriage, in . . . every way?”
As quickly as it had come on, the spell of happiness faded around me. He seemed to take my silence as answer enough, but I wanted to tell him—I wanted to explain.
“There will be an annulment once I’m no longer in danger of being arrested,” I told him. “But after, I have no intention of
wedding anyone.”
“I see,” he said, fighting to keep his smile. “I guessed that might be the case.”
“Anyone would be lucky to have you as a partner,” I told him. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.”
“It will bring me no greater happiness to remain your loyal friend,” he said, executing a polite bow. “I’ll see if I can’t
find any other information about this Dobbin. Until then, please—take care, won’t you?”
“Oliver,” I said as he reached the door. He glanced back, and the hope in his face nearly broke my heart. “Thank you again.
For everything.”
When the door to the back garden had shut behind him, and only his fading essence lingered, I sagged against the worktable
and shut my eyes. A long, deep breath shuddered out of me as I toyed with the small pendant, relishing the cool curve of the
pearls.
When Mama had left Briarwood Palace, she’d had only two dresses, a bit of pin money, and this necklace. The blunt had gone
to food and then to a doctor when it came time for my arrival, and she’d sold both dresses in favor of simple woolen frocks.
She had kept only this necklace.
She had kept it for me. She had started her journal of formulations for me. That was the only inheritance she’d been able to leave.
I opened my eyes, surveying the array of supplies. The chassis of tallow, useless for weeks yet.
There is perfectly good jasmine oil at Briarwood Palace, a little voice reminded me. In Rosebourne’s study.
I needed the jasmine oil to complete Immortal Rose as much as I needed the nectar. I could go—not for this supposed bequest,
but for the oil. To search the archive again and to see if Rosebourne had some record of this Dobbin character, too.
The King’s final days were upon us, his body failing with every hour that passed. If there was a shortcut to be had, I needed
to take it.
But the crowds . . .
“What of them?” I whispered. What could they do to me now that hadn’t already been done by the newspaper? Let them throw rocks and rotten food in defense of a king most of them despised. Let them shout rude insults and abuse. I would survive it, as I had survived everything else.
Mrs. Keyes’s words rose in me, defiant. You must take back your story. You must fight for what you desire.
My hand closed over Mama’s necklace. No one would take this from me. This inheritance was mine by right, and I would use it
to remake my world. I would use it to help others—women like Mama, set adrift by society; children who lived with the terrors
hiding in the shadows of the streets.
There is power to notoriety. In time, you may find you like it.
Well. There was no time like the present.