by Lavinia Kent
How had it come to this? He had not meant for it to end in such a fashion.
They should have had more time, should have had a chance for proper goodbyes.
But could any goodbye be better than this?
He didn’t know. He ran his fingers through his hair. God, he just didn’t know.
He mounted the stairs to the room he had been given for the night, but stopped no longer than it took to gather his coat before exiting, heading down to the hall, and then out to the street.
It was over.
She was over.
They were over.
—
Ruby felt the tears begin to flow, streaming down her cheeks and onto the pillow. She made not a sound, but could not stop the slow cascade.
It hurt. It hurt so much more than it should.
She’d known from the beginning that he was not for her, but still his departure shook her.
Would it have been better if she had not known that he went to another? She curled into a tight ball.
Anne was her name. Why did she have to know that? It stung to put a name to her, this woman his family wanted for him.
And him? Did she believe that he did not care?
It did not matter.
She rubbed her face on the pillow, trying to rub the pain away along with the tears.
She was a strong woman. Feeling like this was unacceptable. She’d never needed a man to be complete. Only now she felt as if a piece of her had been ripped away.
And tomorrow was Sunday.
The tears became a torrent.
Her grandfather would demand an answer. And whatever she said, it would be another piece of herself lost. Could she give up what little family she had, the normalcy she had? It was hard to imagine having no life but that of Madame Rouge, to spend her whole life within the house. She could keep the apartment she used to change in, but that would quickly feel pathetic. The dingy rooms were not a destination, merely a transition.
But how could she give up Madame Rouge and become simply Emma? Emma didn’t truly exist anymore; she was as much a creature of fantasy as Afya. Emma did not know the ways of men, did not understand how cruel life could be. Emma still believed in love and foolery. No, Emma could not exist for long alone.
Perhaps her grandfather was bluffing. He had no other descendants. She hesitated to call herself his heir. If he cast her out, as he had her mother, what would he have left?
But he had cast out her mother. Ruby had never been sure why she’d been welcomed.
Perhaps her grandfather had been desperate. And if he’d been desperate then, when he’d welcomed the bastard baby into his arms, why should that have changed?
But her grandfather didn’t bluff. She’d watched him often enough with merchants and traders, never backing down from the conditions and prices that he set. He might bargain a little, but once he’d reached his limit it was fixed. There was no more negotiation.
So give up Madame Rouge or give up Emma.
It was so unfair. She’d given up Derek. How could life demand more?
But life always demanded more.
Pulling a pillow over her head, she blocked out the remaining light. There was nothing to do but wait for morning. Tomorrow would take care of itself soon enough.
—
One hundred and eighty-six brass buttons. One hundred and eighty-seven brass buttons. Ruby dropped them into the box one after another. One hundred and eighty-eight buttons. The easy monotony of the task soothed her troubled mind. Soon it would be time to talk to her grandfather, but not yet.
Now she could do nothing but count buttons. Two hundred.
She closed the box and pulled another one toward her.
One button. Two buttons. Three buttons.
So far the count had been honest. Her grandfather had received every single button he’d paid for.
Perhaps that would put him in a pleasant mood. Probably not.
Nothing would put him in a good mood except for her agreeing to his demands. And there was no way she could do that. Only how could she not?
She closed her eyes, let her fingers still.
At least her grandfather didn’t seem any more eager than she for this conversation. She’d been afraid he would demand to talk the moment she’d walked in, but instead, barely looking at her, he’d set her to counting buttons.
It was far more mindless than looking over the account books, but perhaps that was not a bad thing. It was unlikely that she could have concentrated today.
Did her grandfather regret his ultimatum? He’d never expressed affection as her grandmother did, but she’d always sensed he’d cared for her. So did he regret it?
Perhaps, but on a deeper level she knew it did not matter. He had said the words and would not back down. She could remember seeing him glance wistfully at her mother as she stood across the street, waving goodbye. But never once had he motioned for her to cross the street or even gifted her with a smile.
No, if the old man said the words, he would stick to them.
So what did she do?
Was she prepared to walk away from the little family she had?
No. It really was that simple.
But could she give up being Madame Rouge, having more independence than any other woman she knew in London?
No. She could never go back to being sheltered and cared for and—and commanded. She was not that girl any longer.
Her mind was moving in circles, had been moving in circles since the moment Derek left late last night.
Bloody fuck.
Although she knew every curse word in the book Ruby rarely indulged, but now it felt good to think the foulest words she knew.
There must be a way out. There always was. Plans began to flit through her mind. What if she married Wyeth and made her grandfather happy? Could she then demand that the company be signed over to her? No, if she were married it would be Wyeth’s company. And from what she knew of him he would never let her have control.
“Are you done with those buttons? You seem to have paused.” As if summoned by her thoughts Wyeth appeared over her shoulder.
“I was merely indulging in a moment of private thought.”
“This is not the time for that.”
She blinked at him. If she had been one of her father’s employees she might have understood his tone, but she was here because she wished to help. Surely that did not deserve reprimand. The temptation to give him a curt reply was great. He certainly did not know how to court a bride, assuming he did wish to wed her. She had only her grandfather’s word that he did.
“Do you need the buttons quickly? Is somebody waiting to acquire them?” she asked once she’d reined in her emotions.
“No, but idle hands lead to the devil’s work.”
“I can assure you that my hands are rarely idle. I was only trying to think of the answer to a question my grandfather had asked.”
“I hope it was not about the accounting. I believe that numbers may tire the female brain.”
And yet he wanted her to count buttons? She stared at the pile of shiny buttons, losing all pleasure in the simple task. “I enjoy balancing the books. It soothes me.”
“That would be most unusual.”
At least he didn’t accuse her of lying. Turning, she looked up at him. Was she reading too much into his words because of her own foul mood? It was hard to be sure, but then it was hard to be sure of anything at this moment. “Was there something else that you wished, Mr. Wyeth?”
“Only to tell you that Mr. Scanton wishes to speak with you once you are finished with the buttons. He is up in his office.” He patted her arm with his hand and turned and stalked away.
Yes, she probably was being unfair. He had not spoken meanly and had only said what most men thought. Even her grandfather did not truly approve of her looking over the accounts. He was just too thrifty to pay somebody else when she was competent. He might wish she wasn’t, but he would still take advantage.
&
nbsp; And now she was unfairly judging him. He’d never made her feel unworthy—only that was not true. She constantly felt that she had to earn his affection, to prove that, despite everything, she knew how to behave. This idea of marriage was not really new—it was merely the latest piece in a long chain.
God, she wished she were somewhere else, anywhere else. Normally she loved the warehouse, but now it seemed one more prison.
Twenty-five buttons. Twenty-six buttons.
Forcing herself to continue the count, she dropped button after button into the box.
Where would she be if she could?
An image of Derek appeared in her mind, laughing as the sea spray rained down upon him. She’d never seen him at such a time, but she knew the image was right—and more than that, she knew she wanted to see him, laughing as the waves pounded all about.
If she dreamed of tangled sheets and silken robes, of the steamy shower bath or even of the settee, she would have understood, could have pretended it was all about passion and desire. That is was merely a physical thing.
It was harder to keep up that pretense, even within her mind, when all she wanted was to see him laughing and happy.
Although, silken sheets and hot, steaming water had seemed to make him very happy.
A desperate sense of self-preservation made her push the image away.
He was not hers. He could never be hers.
It might feel as if her soul were ripping in two, as if a piece of her had been taken, never to be returned, but she would survive. She always survived.
Women did not die of heartbreak.
She dropped another button into the box. Blast, she’d lost the count. She could fake it. All the boxes had been correct so far and this one seemed no different. But that was not her way, and never had been.
Emptying the box, she began again. At least it would provide a few more moments before she must answer her grandfather.
One. Two. Three. Four…
Unfortunately even that task could only take so long. And if she was too honest to not properly count a box, she was also too honest to needlessly count one twice. Lining up the boxes, she called over a worker to return them to the shelf, then, standing, she brushed off her skirts and stared up at her grandfather’s office, almost suspended over the work floor.
It was time. She still didn’t know what words she would say, but there was no more room for delay.
Gathering her belongings, she straightened her back and headed to the steep stairs. Whatever came of these next minutes, she would not let her grandfather see her fear, see her despair.
When she reached the top, she rapped once upon the door.
“Come in,” her grandfather called.
She opened the door and stepped in.
“You look pretty today,” he said.
“Grandmother missed you at services,” she replied. “You know she does not like it when we work on the Sabbath morning.”
“But she does like the fripperies I buy her. The work must be done when the work must be done.”
It was an argument that they’d had before and would have again—assuming they still spoke after this meeting. “You are right that she likes her ribbons and pins, but I think she would like even more if you appeared more often for Sunday dinner.”
“The woman sees enough of me,” he replied, but with a softening of his tone.
Ruby had to admit that was true. Grandfather might work long hours, but every minute he was home he spent with his wife.
“Was the button count accurate? I am sure they’ve been shorting the loads.”
“This one was correct down to the last button. I can’t speak to anything else.”
“Hmm, I may need to take more care at this end then. I’ve had several reports of short orders and if they’re coming in correct and leaving wrong…”
“You can never watch too closely,” Ruby replied, echoing the words she’d heard many times.
“That’s true.” And then he was quiet. His eyes dropping to the account books spread before him.
“Do you need any help with those?” she asked, nodding at the books.
“No, for once everything is adding up.” Then quiet again.
She stared down at her own hands, then forced her eyes up to stare about the office, the piles of old account books, the corners stuffed with samples of fabrics and notions, the layer of dust because Grandfather refused to allow anyone in to clean. There was a reason her grandmother never came to the warehouse.
Just looking at the room hurt at this moment when her heart felt so raw. How much more was she supposed to give up? Sometimes it felt as though her whole life had been spent learning to care just to have things ripped from her.
That was why she’d become Madame Rouge in the first place. Madame Rouge was strong; no one took from her anything that she did not wish.
Only, now Madame Rouge herself was threatened.
“Well, girl, have you come to a decision?”
She could feel the walls closing in. “What decision?”
“You know what I mean, girl. I’ve been waiting to hear what you’ve decided, to see if you’ve found your own man, perhaps someone who knows the woman you work for—or if Wyeth is your choice. Now, do you have an answer?”
And she did. This was the moment, now or never. “I am prepared to negotiate.”
“What?” Honest surprise rang in his voice, but also a hint of something else, something she did not understand.
“I will never marry Mr. Wyeth. If that is your only offer I have nothing to say. I might as well gather my belongings and leave.”
“No need to be hasty. I only suggested him as a possibility. I’ve already mentioned that you could suggest your own choice. You must meet men sometimes, perhaps someone you’ve met in the last months?”
What was he talking about? It didn’t matter. “And I will need six months, not a week.” The first had been an easy win, this would not be.
“No.”
Now was the moment that would decide much. “I have obligations. I cannot simply leave my position with no notice. How long would it take you to close down this place, to make sure all was in order?”
“It is not the same. It is simply not the same.”
And she knew he believed that. She had worked so hard to make him believe that. “Nonetheless, I need time before I can leave.”
“Perhaps, but not so much time.”
She cut him off. “I will not be thought irresponsible.”
“I—I—Six months is too long. I am an old man.”
“And yet you suggest Mr. Wyeth, a man even older than you.”
“He is three years younger.”
“Now, that is surprising. He certainly does not look it. And six months seems short rather than long to me. I will be making a commitment for life.”
“Three months.”
Ahh, she had him. She’d known he didn’t truly wish to lose her.
Before warmth could fill her, however, he continued, “But that is to finish with everything, not just to find a husband. I do not want you to find another excuse. Ask for more time and that will be the end.”
“That is acceptable.” It broke her heart to think about, but it could be managed.
“Swear to me now that you will marry and marry soon. There must be somebody that you know who would be acceptable, perhaps somebody with connections and experience we could use. If you have not named your husband within a fortnight, I will choose someone and you will not argue. It will not be Wyeth, but you will do as I say.”
A fortnight. How could she find a man she’d willingly wed within a fortnight? She’d hoped to have enough time to convince her grandfather that she didn’t need a husband to be his heir—and if he’d proved unrelenting she’d meant to find herself a milksop of a man, someone very willing to do as she said in return for the possible monetary rewards.
And what of Derek? He certainly had connections and experience her grandfather could use.
/>
Even as the thought entered her mind, she felt a sharp twinge of pain. He had nothing to do with this, nothing to do with her. He was over.
He would never be the husband for her; he was far too strong and independent himself. No, he was not the husband she would choose, only…
And more important he would never choose her. What man wanted a madam for a wife?
Certainly not him; he was going with his family’s choice, Anne. She was probably young and sweet and virginal—and assuredly of good family herself.
She looked at her grandfather as he glared at her, his bargaining face still firmly in place. What if Derek knew the full truth, knew all that she offered? Every time she’d heard him discuss his family’s plans she’d wondered at the irony of how closely the businesses were tied. Her grandfather certainly had bolts of his family’s textiles somewhere in the warehouse. If his family were looking to expand, there were worse things they could do than deal with the second biggest fabric importer in London. Her businesswoman’s mind spun with possibilities.
And then stopped. None of that mattered. What mattered was that she was not a sweet, young thing. It didn’t matter that Derek had probably had more lovers than she by a factor of ten. He was a man. Such things were acceptable for him—but not for her.
He might’ve enjoyed his time in her bed, but he’d never indicated he wanted more.
And why should he? They’d had seven nights together; lives were not changed after seven nights.
“What has you looking like the cat just dropped a mouse in your shoe?” her grandfather asked, disturbing her thoughts.
“I was just thinking about husbands.”
“Do you have someone in mind? I would have thought that…” He trailed off, his features suddenly closed.
What had he been about to say? “No, I am afraid that I will have to look more closely about the church next Sunday—or perhaps you have some suggestions, men who are not older than my father.”
She should not have said that. Her grandfather always soured at the mention of the duke. His face soured. “I think you think more of age than character. You need a good, solid man, one who will keep you in place and support you.”