Somehow she managed to get the kitchen door latched behind her, managed to stifle the first sob with a hand over her mouth. Not yet, she couldn’t let it loose yet. Not so close to where he was, where he could hear. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t know how she ached, or he would try to soothe her.
The second sob rose in the garden, and this one wouldn’t be repressed. She tried, and it choked her, made her stumble over one of the stones of the path. The tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her nose felt pinched, and then the heaving cries came in waves.
She barely made it to the cottage, all but falling through the door, and she didn’t care. She sank to the floor and curled up into a ball and let the tears come.
It was dark. With her eyes closed and the crying surrounding her and with this gaping hole inside. It was so dark. It had always been dark, but she’d never known it fully. Because she’d never seen that light shining just out of reach.
Now she did. She saw it. It was partly Peter, with all his goodness. His nobility and his quiet strength and his silly quirks and his utter niceness. It was partly Peter, shining there. But it was mostly what shone through him.
She’d seen bits of it before—in Pauly, who took in a bunch of street rats as best he could. In the motley assortment of desperate children who had declared themselves her brothers, her sisters. A little splinter of light here and there, reflecting back slivers of love.
But this—this was the sun. And it made her feel small and dark and cold in comparison. Because she was nothing. Worthless. Rubbish. A thief. A rat scurrying along the world’s underbelly. Just someone who took, who took and destroyed and laughed about it.
It hurt. It hurt so much she felt sure she would break open, and it would all come spilling out, all those gallons of darkness filling her up. And it would consume her, and there’d be nothing left but an empty shell.
“There now.” The words intruded, soft and gentle. A small, soft hand smoothed hair away from her face. “It can’t be as bad as all that. Come here. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Grammy? She couldn’t open her eyes to see—and the kindness only made it worse. Made the tears clog her throat so that she thought she’d never be able to breathe past them. She couldn’t fight as those soft hands urged her head into a soft lap. She could only cry.
She’d been light once. Light with innocence. She’d cried in her mother’s lap over foolish things she couldn’t even name now, and she’d known, as she did, that she could. Because Mumma was there, was always there, and Daddy would be home soon too. He’d swing her up and tickle her and declare her his little rose, and she would laugh and forget why she’d been crying.
Then they’d gone. Died. And . . . how had it happened? When? When had that darkness she so feared crept inside her and taken hold?
“All right, then.” The words were like Mumma’s humming, soft and gentle and meaningless. “Let it out. Just let it out.” The hand rubbed a circle on her back. “How long’s it been since you had a good cry, hmm? Too long, I’m betting.”
Ages. Decades. A century, perhaps. Because tears like this were weak, were for the weak, and she couldn’t be that. That was death or starvation or worse. That was letting the bullies win. That was admitting that life had gotten the best of you.
But she was weak. And she was starved, not for food but for something deeper. Something that whispered, Rise and sin no more.
But she couldn’t. She was too heavy. She was too dark. It hurt too much.
She ran out of tears though. And the sobs just turned into gasping. Shaking.
Those small, soft hands kept up their soothing circles. That familiar voice kept up its crooning.
It was Mrs. Teague, not Grammy. As she caught half a breath, Rosemary recognized the voice. And was too spent to care. She closed her eyes. And waited for the gasps to calm enough to say, “You were right. Not about the why. But I’m—no good.”
“Shh.” The circles didn’t halt. Didn’t even falter. “We’re all no good, Rosemary, at the core of it. Every one of us.”
She shook her head against Mrs. Teague’s soft lap, and the gasps quickened again. “No. Not him. He’s—he’s perfect.”
A soft chuckle, warm as tea. “No, child. Master Peter’s no better than the rest of us. Not on his own.”
But he was. He was everything, and she was nothing. And she couldn’t make any words come out, just a high keening and a nod of her head.
“No.” The hand left her back and took to smoothing her hair away instead. Soft, gentle strokes over the curls, luring them away from her tear-encrusted cheeks back where they belonged. “You know it too. He’s been writing to you, so he’ll have explained it. He can’t write without explaining it—that it isn’t him. The faults, the absentmindedness—those are him. The goodness . . . that’s the love of Christ.”
Jesus—that name Peter always penned so carefully. Lord—the title he used most often for Him. His Savior, as he called Him, who would remake her into a new garment, if only she’d let Him. Who would send her His Spirit to guide her, if only she’d listen.
But she wasn’t one of Jenny’s dresses, old but still whole. She was rags. Filthy, threadbare rags. There wasn’t anything left to remake. “I’m not—I’m not worth—saving.”
“Oh, now.” Mrs. Teague shifted, urged her to move, to roll, until her head was facing the opposite way. Until she was staring at that crisp white apron. And then, when she nudged her chin, those condemning eyes.
But they weren’t condemning. They were shining with tears of her own. “You listen to me, Rosemary Gresham. If Jesus could save tax collectors and harlots, thieves and hypocrites, who are you to say you’re too far gone, hmm? Our God is bigger than our sins. And if there’s something saying otherwise into your ear, know it’s a lie straight from the devil.”
She closed her eyes. Thieves. He’d forgiven them before. “But—how?”
Mrs. Teague pulled a few more strands of hair free from her cheek and smoothed them back. “You believe, child. That’s all. You look to Him. And you ask Him to help you. You tell Him you know where you’ve done wrong and ask Him to forgive it. He does, every time. That’s why He gave himself up on that cross. And it’s why He rose again—to show us we can too. Always, from anything. To Him.”
The gasps eased. She ran her tongue over her salty lips and let the words sink in, rooting their way through the fog of tears and the exhaustion of life.
“Do you believe that, child?”
Did she? She wasn’t sure. She had to look inside for the answer, look at where the darkness had long ago extinguished hope for anything but what her own hands could take.
But it didn’t look so dark. It looked . . . it looked a bit like Peter—shining. And mostly like whatever it was that shone through him.
Light. The light of Christ.
She sniffed. “I do.”
“Well then. Welcome to the family. And forgive me, if you can, for treating you as I’ve done—it was fear, you see. Fear you’d hurt that precious boy.”
“I will hurt him.” She dragged in a breath and didn’t dare look up again. “I don’t want to. But I will. I can’t . . . I can’t undo things. Even if—if God forgives me for them.”
“Then we’ll get through it.” Mrs. Teague patted her cheek and then moved her legs. “Time to get up now, Rosemary. I’ll draw you a bath.”
She let herself be helped up and winced at the way her head pounded when she rose. “Shouldn’t I feel—different? Good?” Or at least stop gasping?
Mrs. Teague chuckled. “When you come in out of the cold and sidle up next to a fire, you don’t feel warm all at once, do you? Your hands thaw, and then your nose. Your toes. It’ll come. In bits and pieces, or in a flood, but it’ll come if you seek it. If you stay there by the fire. And then one day you’ll realize you’re warm all over, and have been for ages.”
Rosemary sighed and rubbed at her crusted face. She must look a sight.
Mrs. Teague shooed her out of the
kitchen, toward her bedroom. “To the bath. You’ll feel better after a bath. And what did you do to your finger?”
“Oh.” The bandage was coming undone—Peter hadn’t done much to secure it, just tucked in the end. Then kissed it. Her cheeks felt hot under the grime. “I punched Pomeroy.”
Mrs. Teague barked a laugh. “Did you really? I would have liked to see that. What did he do?”
“Made fun of Peter.” She frowned as she moved into her room and looked over her shoulder at the housekeeper. “Was that wrong of me? Should I have turned the other cheek or something?”
Mrs. Teague was still smiling—an expression Rosemary hadn’t seen on her face much these last few months, unless she entered a room unnoticed. “You’ll have to learn to listen to the Lord’s guidance on that—when to turn away and when to take up your sword. Though when it’s in defense of another, I tend to say ‘let him have it.’” She paused, her smile going self-deprecating. “Even when I oughtn’t to do. I still need to learn to listen too.”
Perhaps it shouldn’t make her feel better. But it did. And she felt better still as Mrs. Teague hummed her way into the bathroom and turned on the tap—for her. As she poured in something that smelled divine that Rosemary hadn’t even known was in the cabinet, then patted her cheek on the way out and said she’d have a cup of tea waiting for her when she was done.
She took a bath. She had a cup of tea. She let the housekeeper, still fluttering about, urge her into bed as the sun went down.
She looked out her window into the new night. Tomorrow would be a bad day—it was bound to be. And yet . . . it didn’t look so dark.
Twenty-Six
Peter peered out the window toward the cottage, knowing well he was driving both Grammy and Mrs. Teague to madness but not quite able to help it. “Are you . . . are you sure she is all right?”
The first time he’d asked it this morning, Mrs. Teague had been full of assurances. The second time, she’d been amused. From there, it had been a slippery slope down to the exasperated sigh she gave him this time. “Do you think if she weren’t, she’d be made the better by your standing there and staring at her window? She’s fine, Mr. Holstein. I told you that. And told it to you again. And again. And again.”
Grammy, hands full of vegetables, cleared her throat.
Peter backed up to let her pass. But couldn’t tear himself away from the window with the best view of the cottage. He’d made it as far as the garden last night when he’d heard her sobbing, would have gone after her then and there—but Teague had intercepted him and assured him that the missus would see to her. He’d brooked no argument. Had threatened, even, to carry him bodily back into the house if he didn’t “give the girl some room to cry freely.”
Perhaps he’d been hovering right here the whole time Mrs. Teague was in there—which was half an eternity—and perhaps he’d pounced on her the moment she’d come back in to demand what the matter had been.
But he’d been appeased at the soft light in her eyes. At the soft smile on her lips. At the soft whisper that Rosemary Gresham was now a child of God.
But blast it all, he needed to see her for himself. So why wouldn’t she come out of her cottage and see him?
He turned to pace the path that he’d already—so said Grammy—worn down across her kitchen. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she’d fallen apart like that right after he’d kissed her. And while he couldn’t possibly be happier about that spark of new faith inside her, he hadn’t meant to drive her to it in quite such a way. Inspire her, perhaps. He’d been praying, of course. Night and day. But she’d literally fallen into her house in tears.
What did that mean? That she loved him and feared it couldn’t work? That she hated him and wished he hadn’t kissed her? That she wanted only to be his friend, and he’d ruined it, and now she had to figure out how to get away?
He reached the far wall and pivoted.
Sweet-tempered Grammy set down her knife with a clatter. “Will you just go and check on her again, Millie? Before I’m forced to make him into soup just to get a little peace in my kitchen?”
Part of him wanted to smile. And part of him wanted to dog Mrs. Teague’s heels as she spun for the door with an I give up! lift of her hands. She wouldn’t let him if he tried it though—she hadn’t last time, saying Rosemary wasn’t dressed to receive callers.
He pulled out a chair at the table and sat. “Drog yw genev.”
Grammy took the knife to the vegetables. “I don’t need your apology, Mr. Holstein. I just need my kitchen.”
“I’ll get . . . get out of your way. I p-promise. Just as soon as . . . as Mrs. Teague returns.”
Grammy shook her head. “I haven’t seen you like this since your mother lay on her deathbed, God rest her soul. You care for her that much, do you?”
He put his elbows on the table. His head in his hands. He wasn’t very well going to confess his heart to Grammy. It was Rosemary who had a right to hear it first.
He should have written her a letter. Something long and sweet and full of the words of love he had absolutely no experience with.
But he couldn’t. Baring his heart, for him, meant giving promises. And he couldn’t give her promises. Not then, not last night. Promises couldn’t coexist with secrets.
So he’d sat up in his bedroom reading his manuscript most of the night. Then he’d wrapped it up and bound it with a few rubber bands. He’d give her that first. The truth of who he was. Show her his secrets.
Then . . . if she accepted it, and if she would reveal hers to him . . .
He’d ask her, if he must. Ask her why she kept a lock pick in her handbag. Why she didn’t know how to pronounce words she should have. Could fight the village bully without breaking a sweat. He’d ask her, if she wouldn’t volunteer it, and he’d pray she would trust him with the answers. Pray that, having them, they could move on. Forward.
Mrs. Teague bustled back inside. “Alive and well, as I promised. Reading one of the Bibles you’ve left in there, is all. And deciding, she says.”
“Deciding?” Grammy turned from her vegetables to frown at him. “What did you do, propose?”
“No.” He pushed up from the table. And then frowned right back. “Do you . . . do you think I sh . . . should have?”
The sisters exchanged one of those looks they’d been exchanging over him all his life. The one that was half Isn’t he precious? and half What are we going to do with that boy?
“It’ll all work out,” Mrs. Teague predicted in her omniscient voice. “So long as Grammy doesn’t turn you into dinner. Get out of the house for a while, Master Peter. Walk to the Penroses, or to the village.”
It would give him time to pray, he supposed. And perhaps spare his life. With a nod—and the relieved sigh of his cook—he left the kitchen.
He couldn’t help but step into the library on his way by. Too neat, too tidy, too organized. Too loud a claim that she’d done her job and had no reason left to stay. Unless he could give her one.
For now, he settled on grabbing his hat and heading outside. Toward Gryff’s, even though he would be at his office in town, it being Friday. Because it would take him by the cottage.
He glanced down at his watch as he gained the out-of-doors. Two o’clock. Surely by the time he walked there, said hello to Elowyn and Jenny, and came back, she’d be out and about. And ready to see him.
Surely.
Rosemary watched him stride past, careful to stay cloaked behind the heavy curtains. Wise, on her part, as Peter kept looking toward the cottage. His face, the longing look upon it, made an ache thrum to life in her chest.
She pressed a hand to it. She couldn’t face him. Not today—which meant not ever. But she could help him. She could refuse to turn over any evidence to Mr. V. Refuse to give him anything to use against Peter—even the truth.
She chafed her hands over her wrists. Mr. V would likely grab her right then and not let her go. She’d be in jail within hours—perhaps in the cel
l next to Tim’s, or perhaps he’d ship her straightaway back to London.
Imprisoned . . . but freer, on the inside, than she’d ever felt in her life.
Once Peter had vanished into the wood and she’d counted to three hundred to be sure he wasn’t coming right back again, Rosemary turned to shrug out of the dressing gown she’d had on over her evergreen dress. She checked her room again to make sure everything was packed, put her valise by the door—if she did get away from Mr. V, she’d have to make a quick escape. And then she grabbed the letter from the desk. The one that told him she loved him and she’d done all she could to protect him. She’d had to say it.
The one that begged him to send a wire to Barclay posthaste, warning him to go into hiding. He couldn’t be arrested. The rest of the family needed him far too much. She would take the blame, she alone. One last gift to her brothers and sisters.
She slid outside through the back door, the one they wouldn’t see from the manor’s kitchen. Sneaking to the house itself would be hard, given the open expanses of lawn and garden between them. But no one looked her way as she darted to the front of the house and went in that way. No one was in the hall as she slipped into the library.
It took her only a minute to stride to that middle bookcase, move the books aside, and then move the false back to the shelf. She took the small silver key from its place and had the safe open in minutes. She drew out the documents from the government verifying that the Holsteins belonged in England. And the deed to the manor in which she stood even now.
She traced its edge with a finger. A lifetime ago, with anyone but Peter, she might have been tempted to destroy the first and steal the second. Deliver that deed to Barclay and declare herself the best thief in London.
Today she felt only a bone-deep sorrow that she had to say good-bye.
And hadn’t time to waste on such sentiment. Shaking herself, she replaced the shelf’s back and the books in front of it and hurried into his study.
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