by Anne Barton
“No, thank you.” Mama was self-conscious even without an impossibly handsome man at her bedside. “Would you give us an hour? That should be plenty of time.” And yet Rose already knew it would not be nearly enough.
“As you wish.” He glanced around, confirmed no one was looking, and stole a brief but searing kiss on the lips. “Courage, love.”
She smiled and sighed as he left. If that was courage, she wanted more.
Feeling lighter, she walked into the large room and made her way toward Mama’s bed, only—
She wasn’t in it.
Her mouth suddenly dry, Rose picked up her skirts and ran to the nearest nurse. “Where is the duchess?”
“Who?” The young woman looked both bewildered and exhausted.
“My… my mother. The patient who was in that bed, right there.” Rose pointed at the bed, chillingly empty and stripped of all its linens. “She was there yesterday.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Ah, Mrs. Sherbourne. She had a rough night last night, and we moved her to the corner back here so we could keep a closer watch over her.”
The nurse motioned for Rose to follow and led the way to a darker, quieter section of the floor. In a whisper, she said, “There she is, resting peacefully. We gave her laudanum a few hours ago. She’ll likely sleep for a while.”
Rose rushed to Mama’s side, looking for the subtle rise and fall of her chest and listening for the raspy sound of her breathing. A faint wheeze came from her throat. Thank God. Relief washed over her like a torrent of rain, then quickly fled.
As the nurse turned to go, Rose placed a hand on her arm. “Wait. How long will the effects of the medicine last? I must speak with her.”
“I don’t think so,” the nurse replied, not unkindly, but firmly. “She needs to rest. Tomorrow perhaps.”
“That’s just it. I can’t… I won’t be able to come back.”
“You’re her daughter?” Heretofore, Rose had been careful to keep their relationship a secret. Given that she and Charles were running from the law, the fewer people who knew her identity, the better. But none of the nurses here addressed Mama as “Your Grace” or even “Madam.” Perhaps Mama hadn’t revealed that she was a duchess. Or maybe she had and the nurses assumed she’d begun a descent into madness. Or maybe they believed her, but just didn’t give a fig.
“I am her daughter. And I’m leaving London tomorrow. I haven’t had a chance to tell her—”
“Rose.” Mama called out from her bed, her head tossing on her pillow. “You’re leaving?”
“It would appear you’re in luck,” the nurse said. “But your mother’s likely to be groggy. Try to keep your visit short.”
“Thank you.” As the nurse strode off, Rose reached for the glass of water on the table beside Mama’s bed, lifted her shoulders, and pressed the rim of the glass to her mother’s lips. “Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear you’ve been feeling worse.”
Mama swallowed a sip and let her head drop to her pillow. “It’s to be expected. Where are you going?”
Though Rose doubted she’d remember much of the conversation, she answered honestly. “To America, with Charles. I’m afraid we won’t be coming back.”
“That’s good. A fresh start.” Mama coughed into her blood-stained handkerchief, a raspy, heartbreaking sound. “No one there will know of my misdeeds or the ensuing scandal.”
Rose’s heart broke for her. “That’s not the reason I’m going, you know.”
“Why then?” Mama’s eyelids fluttered as though she were struggling to keep them open.
“It’s complicated, but a woman”—Rose thought it best not to mention Lady Yardley by name—“accused Charles of a heinous crime—a crime he did not commit. He cannot stay here, and since I love him, neither can I.” Now that she’d spoken the words aloud, it didn’t seem so complicated after all.
“That’s awful,” Mama said.
“Yes. Awful and unfair.”
“Charles is a good and decent man. Why, Diana even hired him as—” She paused and strained to lift her head. “Wait. Is Diana the one who accused him?”
Rose blinked. Mama was far more lucid than the nurse had given her credit for. “Yes, Lady Yardley.”
“I once considered her a friend, but she proved to be… disloyal.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Has Charles denied her accusations?”
“Yes, of course. But what magistrate would take his word over Lady Yardley’s?”
“Make her drop the charges,” Mama urged.
“Lady Bonneville tried to convince her, but she would not be swayed.”
“I could sway her.”
“What?” A chill skittered down Rose’s spine. “How?”
“I know things—things she’s done. She would not want them to be revealed.”
“No, Mama. I dislike the idea of blackmail, even if Lady Yardley is a horrid person.”
“Neither Charles’s future nor yours should be determined by the likes of her. His name should not be blackened because of her pride and vindictiveness.”
“True. But the damage has already been done, I’m afraid.”
“She could retract her statement, and she would—to prevent her own name from being sullied.”
Perhaps Mama was right. But it was too late. They would be on the ship tomorrow.
“Please,” Mama pleaded. “Let me do this for you. I cannot give you much else, but I would give you this—a bit of hope.”
Hope. The one thing left in Pandora’s box.
Rose swallowed. “Very well. Tell me, and I will pray that your words don’t haunt me for the rest of my days.”
Mama smiled affectionately. “That’s my Rose. Too good for this world, by half. If you would prefer not to know of Diana’s wicked deeds, there is another way.” Mama licked her cracked lips and continued. “Bring me a paper, an envelope, and a pen.”
Rose nodded. “I’ll return in just a moment.”
“Hurry, my dear girl,” she said weakly. “I haven’t much time.”
On their way home from the hospital that evening, Rose soaked up the chilly night, grateful for the relative freedom that the cover of darkness granted them.
Charles kept looking at her, as though trying to read her emotions—emotions she was still trying to sort through. “How did your mother take the news that you’re leaving?”
Rose blinked away tears. “With unexpected grace. She truly wants us to be happy. Oh, and she gave me a present, too. Look.” She paused on the sidewalk, reached for the simple chain around her neck, and held the silver locket out for Charles to see. “Inside there are two tiny portraits, sketched long ago. One of Owen and Papa, the other of me and Olivia.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
She squeezed the silver locket in her fist. “I shouldn’t have accepted it, but knowing I’d never see Olivia and Owen again… I simply couldn’t refuse. Just wearing it makes me feel closer to them—and to her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“That you have to leave behind all the people you love.”
“Not all the people I love.” She smiled, but sadness clung to her, casting a pall over the night. They continued walking, her hand in the crook of his arm.
“What will become of her?”
“I’m not certain, but I know that no one should live out their last days all alone. I encouraged her to contact Olivia and Owen after we’re gone. Given the chance, I know that they would forgive her, and then maybe she’d be able to forgive herself. However, she was adamant about not wanting to intrude in their lives.”
“Your visits brought her a measure of peace,” Charles said. “Probably more than you know.”
“I hope so. She gave me more than she took.” And Rose wasn’t just talking about the locket or the answers she’d once sought. Mama had given her a choice.
She’d used every ounce of strength she possessed to prepare
the letter that Rose now carried deep in the pocket of her cloak. Across the front of the envelope she’d written three lines:
Information regarding Lady Diana Yardley.
To be opened at the sole discretion of my daughter, Lady Rose Sherbourne.
Signed, Lily Sherbourne, Dowager Duchess of Huntford.”
Rose didn’t know precisely what was inside, but Mama had assured her that a glimpse of her handwriting on the envelope and the mere threat of dissemination of the deeds recounted therein would be sufficient to make Lady Yardley drop the charges against Charles.
And if the charges were dropped, his name and Rose’s would be cleared, and they wouldn’t have to leave England—at least not immediately. She could spend a little time with her family and collect some mementos to take with her on the journey.
She felt empowered, knowing that she had a choice in the matter and that she didn’t have to run if she didn’t want to.
Why, then, hadn’t she told Charles about the envelope? He deserved to know about it, for it impacted him most directly. She wanted to share the news with him… but something held her back.
Going to America was his dream, and if he knew Rose had the option not to go, he might try to sacrifice that dream for her sake. Or he might decree that she was better off staying here while he left to pursue a new life.
And she simply couldn’t take that chance.
He wanted to be in America, and she wanted to be with him.
“I’m going out again early tomorrow morning, just for a few hours,” he said, jolting her from her thoughts.
“To work?”
“Yes. But I promise I’ll be back in time for us to gather our things, say good-bye to Patrick, and board the ship.”
Rose nodded thoughtfully. She’d never known anyone who worked as hard as he. And though she selfishly would have liked to claim more of his time herself, she respected his dedication.
If he’d seemed distant or a bit preoccupied this week, she supposed she couldn’t blame him. After all, he was trying to keep her safe and to prepare for their voyage. They’d spent a part of the afternoon yesterday shopping for a few essentials for her. Undergarments, stockings, and a serviceable dress. And he’d insisted on purchasing a smart new hat that she’d been admiring.
He was unfailingly thoughtful, spoiling her with little treats from the bakery, wrapping her in blankets when she was cold, and borrowing books for her to read. But what she really wanted was for him to take her in his arms and kiss her until she was dizzy with desire, to love her until they were completely lost in each other.
But Charles had been hesitant. He assured her it wasn’t for lack of wanting her, but he didn’t want to risk getting her with child before the voyage, which he said would be difficult enough without morning sickness.
So at night they’d held each other and kissed without surrendering to passion. Somehow, she’d resisted the temptation to strip off his clothes and run her hands down his chest, abdomen, and lower. She’d resisted the urge to writhe against him and feel the smooth warmth of his skin next to hers.
“I wonder if Boston has streets like this.” Charles interrupted her wanton thoughts, making her flush.
“I doubt it. I don’t think there’s any place in the world quite like London,” she said wistfully.
The pawnshop was only a block away. They walked on the opposite side of the street this time, quickly approaching Sophia’s bookshop.
Rose had never passed so close to it, and she knew she should keep her head down, her hood drawn forward.
But she couldn’t resist a quick peek inside.
It was dark, after all, and quite late. Chances were, Sophia had long since locked the door and retired for the evening.
So as they passed, Rose looked inside the large bay window past the colorful display of books. There, in the dimly lit shop, in front of a wall of shelves overflowing with books, a woman stood perched on the first rung of a ladder, her back toward them, running her fingers along a row of spines.
Sophia.
Rose stumbled a little, and Charles paused momentarily to steady her.
“How clumsy of me,” she said. “I tripped over my own foot.”
“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Not a ghost. Just her sister. “I’m fine.”
“You must be tired,” Charles said. “We’re almost there. Come, let’s cross the street.”
She took his hand to follow, but, unable to resist one last glimpse of Sophia, looked over her shoulder toward the bookshop.
Her sister, still on the ladder, had turned toward the street. She frowned slightly, then gazed directly into Rose’s eyes.
Dear Jesus. Gasping, Rose looked away, huddled toward Charles, and scurried across the street toward the pawnshop.
Sophia couldn’t possibly have recognized her. Even with the lanterns hanging outside the shops, it was too dark. Besides, it had been only the briefest of glances. There was nothing to fear.
And yet, as Rose and Charles hurried into the front door of their hideout, she had the distinct and chilling sensation that she was being watched.
Worse, the tingling feeling in her shoulder blades told her Sophia wasn’t the only one watching them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Flank: (1) The side of a horse. (2) To occupy a position at the side, as in The viscountess entered the drawing room flanked by her maid and a frisky, gray cat.
At last the day of their departure arrived. Sleet tapped against the window of the room above the pawnshop, blurring Rose’s view of the street below. She’d woken at dawn, dismayed to find the mattress beside her already cold and empty.
She had managed to busy herself for a while, dressing in her new, serviceable gown, twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head, and packing up her belongings.
Those tasks had taken her all of a quarter of an hour, which meant she’d had the rest of the morning to fret.
She glanced at an old clock on the mantel. Where was Charles? He’d said he’d be working, but a few more coins in his pocket wouldn’t be much consolation if the ship sailed without them.
She fingered the locket around her neck and checked that the clasp was secure. The envelope from Mama was tucked carefully in her pocket. They would have no need for it once they arrived in America, but Rose was not quite ready to destroy it. Mama had been rather adamant about providing it, after all, and it had been her gift to Rose. She would keep it safe, if only for that reason.
Patrick had delivered some warm rolls earlier that morning, but Rose was far too anxious to eat, so she’d wrapped them and put them in her bag as well. She and Charles could share them later, after they’d sailed out of the harbor, as they watched the London skyline fade into the clouds and sea.
A pounding on the steps outside their room brought Rose to her feet, and she held her breath as she waited to see who might be approaching. Ever since last night, she’d had the eerie feeling that someone was following her and Charles, close on their heels.
The door burst open and Charles stood in the doorway, smiling and slightly breathless. “Are you ready?”
Heavens. She exhaled slowly, willing her pulse to stop racing. “Yes.”
She was ready. Eager to be on her way so that she could stop hiding… and begin her life with Charles.
He helped her into her cloak and picked up their bags. “Let’s go.”
Downstairs, in the pawnshop, Rose gave Patrick a quick, fierce hug. “Thank you,” she said. “For being a friend to both Charles and me.”
“Come.” Charles tugged on her hand. “We haven’t time for prolonged good-byes.”
“Don’t mind him.” Patrick’s eyes twinkled. “He’s jealous, and cranky from waking so early.” Turning more somber, he added, “But I know he’ll take excellent care of you. And vice-versa.”
Too overcome to speak, Rose nodded and waved as they exited the shop… and officially began their journey.
Charles felt the small lump in his pocket. Patrick had insisted he take the elegant ring box, inlaid with ivory. He’d said it was his gift to Rose. If he’d had more time, Charles might have argued, but he didn’t. Besides, he knew Rose would like it.
He couldn’t wait to see her face when he gave her the ring. And he was eager to marry her too, even if she did deserve a hell of a lot better than him.
Outside, icy pellets assaulted them, and Rose shielded her cheeks.
“I’ll hire a hackney,” he offered.
“Don’t bother on my account,” she said. “It’s probably just as quick to walk.”
“If you’re sure.” He knew that Rose wasn’t nearly as delicate as she looked, but she was accustomed to fancy carriages with plush interiors. She usually traveled with a coachman and footman and a warm brick beneath her feet.
He’d give her those same sorts of luxuries again. One day.
Today, however, the weather served their purposes perfectly, as few people were inclined to stroll in the freezing drizzle. Those who had braved the elements walked briskly, protecting their faces with hats and scarves.
When at last they approached the docks, Charles tapped Rose’s arm and nodded his head toward the packet ship. “There it is.”
“It looks like a seaworthy vessel,” Rose said. “Though that may simply be wishful thinking on my part.”
“Maybe by the time we get settled in our cabin, the sleet will have stopped and we can take a quick stroll around the deck.”
“That sounds nice,” she said, with forced cheerfulness.
“There’s nothing wrong with being sad, you know. I am, too.”
“You are? Why?”
He sighed. “I’m sad that I had to say good-bye to Patrick and that I didn’t have the chance to see my father one last time. I’m sad that I didn’t leave London on my own terms and that my name was blackened by Lady Yardley.” I’m sad that you’re sad.
She glanced away and frowned, as though there were something she wanted to say but couldn’t.