“Come Emmaline,” Mary urged, clutching her dress and reaching for Emmaline’s hand. Emmaline took it and followed obediently. She couldn’t look away from the grizzly scene, however, as they removed a metal plate and the inner workings of Harper’s shoulder were exposed. Dozens of tiny pistons pumped irregularly, tangling up with one another as they fired. Harper gave another shudder and a thick rusty liquid squelched from its core and spilled on the floor.
Emmaline turned away, unable to watch any more. In the next room, her mother handed her off to Anne.
“Take her upstairs,” her mother commanded.
“Yes, ma’am,” Anne stumbled. “Hurry now, miss. Let’s get you to your room.”
She clasped Emmaline’s hand and the two of them climbed the stairs quickly. All the while, the sounds of Harper’s agonizing cries haunted after them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hesitations
THE CARRIAGE JOSTLED OVER THE cobbled streets, swaying as it carried Margarete and Charlotte through the Spire’s residential district. Margarete sat silent in her own thoughts throughout the ride, clutching the letters in her lap while her thumb traced the smooth ribbon across the paper. Charlotte sat across from her, occupying herself with a book.
They were on their way to Worthington’s estate. Just over a week had passed since that jarring night Margarete had last seen him and the thought of confronting him again was nearly enough to cause her to order the carriage to turn around.
When she’d conceived her plan, she’d felt animated and optimistic about the prospect. The courage to follow through, however, was significantly more difficult to muster.
She breathed a silent prayer of gratitude for Charlotte. She’d made no effort to hide her skepticism of Margarete’s intentions ever since Margarete had first voiced them, but when the time arrived to confront Worthington she’d insisted she come along. Margarete took it as a sign she wasn’t altogether disapproving of her decision.
Regardless of her skepticism, it was comforting for Margarete to know she wasn’t alone.
As they had all week, Margarete’s thoughts lingered on the risks she was about to undertake. She’d faced challenging things before, but always it had been a reactionary thing. This was the first time she’d sought it out.
Hounded by her fears, she wished she might talk through them with Charlotte. Perhaps inspire a few words of encouragement before they arrived. The silence was doing nothing for her nerves. Charlotte remained absorbed in her book, however, forcing Margarete to grapple with her thoughts on her own.
She tried to focus on her end goal, on the feelings she would have the moment she found herself far away from the city and all of this ordeal was behind her. But as the carriage carried her closer and closer to her destination, she couldn’t crowd out the reality that before she could enjoy that moment she still had to face Worthington.
What was she going to say? She’d run the scenario a hundred times in her mind, rehearsing the words she might say to him while she went about her chores and for hours in her bed each night while the house slept. Yet her words had somehow sprouted wings, scattering from her mind and leaving her to gawk as the terrible ordeal drew near.
She still wasn’t sure how to respond to Worthington’s declaration of love. There were many times as a girl when she’d dreamed of the moment she’d be singled out by a wealthy gentleman. Their affections kindled, he would take her aside and confess that he intended more for her than all of this. With gentle words he’d profess his love, and in a moment of honesty he’d take her into his home where they would grow old together.
It was the dream every girl like her lived for.
However, Worthington’s words had only confounded her, hurling her into a prison of mixed emotions and self-loathing. What should have solidified their relationship had only stripped away what illusions were holding it together. Worthington had already declared his love when he’d proposed to marry, and Margarete had not been present that day.
Worthington wasn’t free to love another.
But that hadn’t stopped him from seeking her out in his loneliness. She’d entertained him then out of expectation. Who was she to refuse the generosity of a gentleman? But what begun with a simple gesture had grown to be much more. Something neither of them quite understood.
Margarete felt a measure of sympathy for Worthington and the predicament he’d gotten himself into, but it was his own predicament. Not hers. It was wrong of him to thrust such an obligation on her shoulders.
She gripped the letters, then placed them in her bag.
“Nearly there?” Charlotte asked, noting the change of buildings. Margarete nodded, and Charlotte closed her book. “Not that it will change your mind, but I’m still uncertain this is the best course to take.”
“It’s better than the alternative,” Margarete said.
“Is it?” Charlotte asked. “You seem awfully confident this will take you someplace better, but you realize that there is just as much chance things may take a turn for the worse if you insist on stirring up trouble? Worthington is a proud man. He won’t allow you to back him into a corner. He’s resourceful.”
“I know the kind of man he is,” Margarete said. “He’ll understand the situation he’s put me in.”
“And what if he doesn’t agree to your terms?” Charlotte asked. “You’ll be ruining the man’s life, and the lives of those who rely on him. Are you sure you can hurt him like this?”
Margarete turned away, tightening her clasped hands. Charlotte had the frustrating habit of voicing the parts of her plan she didn’t want to hear.
She hoped Worthington would let her go, but he was a difficult man to anticipate. It was almost as though he were two different people simultaneously.
Was that so unusual? It was difficult at times to even remember who she was herself. Sometimes she was the girl who liked wearing beautiful dresses and drinking expensive wines under the glares of the other women in the room. It was a darkly cruel side of her, fed by the vices of her high living.
And then there was the girl reflected back to her in the mirror. The one that she painted over each morning. The one she kept hidden from the rest of the world. From herself, even. It was that girl who found what she was doing so difficult. Who’d peeled back the masks they’d been wearing and seen the man as he truly was.
As he wished to be.
“It won’t come to that,” Margarete insisted, looking away from Charlotte’s insistent eyes. “He would never let it come to that. Worthington is a proud man, but he’s not heartless. He has his reputation to uphold. I have a feeling he’ll let me go. It’s the best for both of us.”
“And what is it you hope to find once you’re free?” Charlotte asked. “What lies outside of the city?”
“I suppose I want to know if there is anything else the world has to offer me.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then at least I’ll know,” Margarete sighed. “And I can finally stop dreaming.”
The carriage turned a choppy corner, and the carriage lurched sideways. Charlotte steadied herself with a hand and Margarete fixed her hat.
“And that will be worth all the trouble you’ll go through?” Charlotte asked. “The trouble you’ll cause me and the girls once you’re gone?”
“You’ll get along fine without me,” Margarete assured her. “Faye is more than willing to help out with the house. And new girls come through all the time; you’ll find a replacement for me in no time.”
Charlotte gave her a disbelieving look. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Then why are you helping me?” Margarete said. “Why come with me at all?”
Charlotte looked long and hard at Margarete, her expression denoting a depth to her thoughts.
“I never told you this,” she said, “but I once had a chance to escape the brothel myself when I was your age. That’s quite some time ago now, clearly. I’d met a man. Not a wealthy man from the Spire mind you, but a simple fisherman.
He was a sight out there on the waves in his boat. I met him while he was working on the pier, buying fish. I had never met a man with such… unadorned charm.”
Her eyes were wistful as the memory swept her up. It was different to see this glimpse of Charlotte Margarete had not seen before. From the way she spoke, Margarete realized this was not a place Charlotte allowed her mind to wander often.
“What happened?” Margarete asked.
“Well, like all youth, we ignored everything but each other and fell in love. For a while everything seemed right in the world. There was not a day that went by when I didn’t find myself at the pier, fawning over that charming fisherman while he worked to scrape together savings enough for the two of us to begin a life together. Nothing could have come between us, no matter how hard it tried.
“But then,” she frowned, “not all those who are star-crossed get to have their happy endings.”
“What happened?” Margarete asked. “What separated you?”
“We did,” Charlotte said, matter-of-factly. “Neither of us was honest with one another, and, when we had enough to begin our new life, we revealed our true natures. I wanted to stay in the city, to find a home and begin a family. He wanted a boat and the open sea.”
She looked forlornly at Margarete. “Neither of us were willing to compromise.”
“He left you?”
“And I left him,” Charlotte nodded. “I saw him only one time after we separated, standing on the hull of the ship he’d bought as he set out to sea. I never saw him again after that.”
“The scoundrel,” Margarete frowned.
“Well,” Charlotte began. “Perhaps it would make the memory easier to bear now if I could villainize him for going, but he’s no more guilty of abandoning what we had than I was. All men think they love the woman they’re with, but it’s a rare thing to understand someone deep enough to truly love them. We may love a part of them—or who we think they are—and try our best to ignore the rest. But we can’t blame them entirely. After all, how many of us know who we are? Let alone allow others to see that intimately into our hearts?”
“I can’t believe you never told me,” Margarete said.
“You see?” Charlotte pointed out. “We all have secrets we keep close to the heart.”
Margarete sat thinking about Charlotte’s story and how it compared to her dilemma with Worthington. They’d both worn masks to hide their true selves long before their first meeting. They’d acknowledged their deception from the start. But that’s what surprised her about the man. The longer they’d been together the more those masks had fallen away, until she was certain she was the only women in the world to know the real Worthington.
But, had she been as honest? Did he know her as she knew him?
Margarete gazed out of the carriage just as it turned down a small hedged lane. She’d know the answer soon enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Mistress
EMMALINE PACED THROUGH THE ESTATE, wandering between rooms as she waited for her father to come down. It was here, the moment she’d prepared for since first receiving news her father was sending for her. She’d hardly slept the night before, and there was nothing else she could focus on that day.
Tonight she would be formally recognized as a woman of high society.
She was in another dress her father had purchased for her. This one was significantly fancier, its skirt bustling out over a cage frame she wore underneath. It was a bold, light blue, the fabric possessing a sheen she’d never quite seen before. Light cascaded down its folds as she walked, like water over a fall. She’d spent the better part of the afternoon mesmerized by it as she walked.
It was the kind of dress meant to garner attention.
She’d convinced Anne to help her into it almost two whole hours early. Anne had agreed reluctantly, warning her vigorously against wrinkling her dress. To ease her worries, Emmaline had promised not to sit until the ball. However, as the hours passed her legs began to ache as she grew tired of standing.
It was making her all the more impatient.
The chairs situated around the house taunted her as she wandered, beckoning to her sore feet. She removed her shoes to relieve them a little, but she kept her promise to Anne. She’d already disappointed her father once, and she’d been extra attentive the whole week owing to her fiasco at the dinner party.
Fortunate for her, the episode with Harper’s malfunctioning arm had all but driven the memory of her little outburst from her parents’ minds. Nonetheless, she vowed a hundred times she wouldn’t let another incident like that mar her coming out into society. Not if hell and high water conspired against her.
Many thoughts played through her mind. She wondered how many people would be there and if she’d fit in among them. Whether her dress would be as beautiful as the other girls’ dresses, or if it was in fashion as Anne had assured her many times.
Most of all, she worried what to say when she was introduced.
All morning she’d practiced a variety of responses she thought appropriate for the greetings she might receive. If anyone asked her about the weather, she could talk about how fair the winds had been on their journey from Sorrento—as the sky-sailors had repeated to her many times during their voyage. If conversations turned to her dress, she could mention the ribbons she’d picked out herself to match. And if anyone asked about her necklace, she could tell them all about the small wharf tucked along the riverbed near their old home where she’d found the shells.
Nestled in the rocky sand she’d seen the pink, ribbed fan of the center shell poking up through the mud. She’d scooped it up, thrilled to discover after she’d rinsed away the mud that it was near flawless—apart from a subtle twist in its fan which she thought gave it all the more appeal. For something so beautiful and perfect to have come so far undamaged was nothing short of a miracle in her eyes. She’d polished it that night and Miss Alice had helped her turn it into a necklace the next morning.
She’d worn it every day since.
Emmaline fingered the smooth shell. Again she’d insisted on wearing it despite Anne’s earnest pleadings. Anne had put up a good fight this time, but Emmaline was determined. It was her pride and joy.
Stepping in front of a painting which hung on one of the walls she practiced her greetings once more to the figure of a cherub, this time adding a little curtsy when she showed off her necklace. It seemed a bit much, so she decided to nod politely instead.
Taking yet another turn around the house she continued to inspect the rooms. She’d had all week to explore and still there were things left undiscovered. She particularly liked the details in the moldings and banisters. Everywhere the forgotten craftsmen had left behind an inexhaustible wealth of tiny details—like clues.
Emmaline so desperately wanted to know who it was. In her eyes, they were genius.
Along with the carvings, Emmaline was drawn to the many paintings which lined the walls. They were filled with rich natural settings, mostly of places one might enjoy a picnic Emmaline thought. But the artists’ style left the scenes stale and unmoving. There was no life in those paintings. The figures in each had such serious expressions that they had more in common with the dolls she’d grown up with than actual people. They reminded her of the men and women she’d seen from their carriage as they’d rode to purchase her new dresses.
Perfect people walking perfectly.
She moved from one picture frame to the next, studying the scenes and mimicking the way the figures held themselves. It was considerably easier without her shoes, and her bare feet pattered across the cool floor.
The light from the west side of the house shone through the windows and brightened them a bit more. As it splashed against the paint, Emmaline found herself drawn in by the moving lights as it awakened the colors hidden in the canvas. As the light intensified, she found she liked the paintings even more.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Emmaline’s heart leap
t in her chest as she spun on her toes to find a woman sitting in a chair along the wall. She was sitting between two windows, her features difficult to make out as the sun shone through. Emmaline hadn’t realized she was there and hadn’t realized she herself had wandered into one of the parlors.
Realizing she was still barefoot, she tucked her shoes behind her back in an effort to hide them and flattened her feet so that her dress might cover them. She felt suddenly very foolish for allowing herself to lose her senses.
“Have you been to the Sanctuaire de Pierre?” the woman asked.
“No,” Emmaline said, stepping away from the painting with an effort to appear unfazed. Who was this woman? she wondered. And why was she here?
Geoffrey must have shown her in and told to wait here. Perhaps she’d come to keep her mother company while she and her father were away at the ball? Emmaline had been disappointed when she learned it wasn’t customary for a mother to attend her daughter’s first introduction. Something about stepping out from under her wing, or so Anne had tried to explain.
“It’s a beautiful place.”
Emmaline nodded, looking deeper into the paintings and the abstract shapes of the boulders displayed throughout the garden scene. They stood in stark contrast to the foliage, but somehow felt appropriate amidst it all. They complimented the setting with their contrast.
“You must be Worthington’s daughter,” the woman said.
Emmaline nodded.
“Your father has spoken highly of you.”
Emmaline smiled as she realized her father had said good things about her despite her mishap.
“My name’s Margarete,” the woman said. “What’s yours?”
“Emmaline,” she said.
“That’s a pretty name.”
Emmaline walked a slow circle along the wall as though she were still intent to see each picture in the room. But she was now more interested in the stranger. “Are you here to visit with my mother,” she asked.
Margarete shifted in her seat, glancing toward the door. “No,” she said. “I’m actually here to see your father.”
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