by Martha Keyes
Philip couldn’t stand to be in his lodgings for another minute. Restlessness and discontent were seeping into everything he did. Not even a meeting with his steward kept his mind from things for long.
It didn’t matter which room he chose to be in—invariably, he found Ruth there, even in rooms she had never ventured into. His father’s quizzing glass in the study brought to mind hideous horn-rimmed spectacles, and a quick and uncustomary escape into the kitchens brought his eyes to a basket of lemons. She was everywhere, and nowhere more present than in his mind, where her teasing smile would strike with no notice at all.
Nash helped him into his coat, and Philip hurried down the stairs and outside, directing the coachman to Brooks’.
More than anything, Aunt Dorothea’s words had been haunting him. The fact that both she and Finmore—two people with little in common besides their disregard for Society’s opinion—had called him a fool was not something he could simply ignore. He had no doubt that Ruth regretted what she had done. He had seen it in her eyes, and as he had run through the events of the masquerade, he had come to suspect that she had been on the verge of telling him the truth before he had insisted on removing her mask—and then he had been too eager to kiss her to think of anything else.
He frowned and brushed at his lips with a thumb, trying to recapture the brief moment in time when he had felt his future falling into place—when nothing had mattered but the woman in his arms. He had already made the decision then that Aunt Dorothea had spoken of—had decided that to love Ruth was more important to him than grasping for some impossible ideal that had made neither of his parents happy. He wanted to marry for love.
The revelation of her dishonesty had catapulted him backward, though, making him doubt everything and feel that perhaps he had been right about love after all—it was messy, hard, and unforgiving. It was never equally reciprocated, and it could never be relied upon.
And now that his anger was expiring, he felt rudderless. Confused. Lonely. And the minute he allowed himself to explore those feeling, a panda-shaped hole gaped back at him.
The rumbling carriage ride to his neglected club provided little distraction from the fact he was finding it harder and harder to ignore: he missed Ruth. Fiercely. He worried for her and wondered about her. He regretted speaking to her so harshly—regretted not allowing her to explain herself. He had felt justified in his anger—that he had every right to be angry—but the more he considered Ruth’s situation, the less his anger had sustained him and the less clear things had become.
He had hired the Swan to help him marry Miss Devenish, and one of the first things he had explained was that he cared little for a love match. It was practical. So why was he so angry that Ruth had kept from him what she knew about Miss Devenish being in love with her brother? Had she not asked him whether he was bothered by the rumors of Miss Devenish’s secret lover, and had he not dismissed them as irrelevant?
He stepped down from the carriage and into Brooks’, handing his hat to the doorman. He felt a stirring of nerves as he made his way toward the large drawing room. He had been humiliated at the Walthams’. How would it feel to face the people and their opinion of him now?
As expected, when he entered the main room, all eyes turned toward him, a few whispers breaking the sudden silence. He clenched his teeth and ignored the gawking, searching the room for Finmore. But Finmore wasn’t there.
Munroe approached him, his leering smile bringing pulsing blood into Philip’s neck.
“Didn’t think to see you venturing out in public so soon, Oxley.”
“If I had known it would mean seeing you, I assure you I would not have done so.”
“Oho!” Munroe said, laughing and turning toward the rest of the gentlemen in the room. “That is hardly the way to thank the man who saved you from the clutches of a scheming wench, is it?”
Philip reared back his right arm and sent his fist flying into Munroe’s face. The man tumbled back and landed flat on his back, unconscious. “It is becoming a dead bore having to plant you a facer every time I see you, Munroe.”
The room vibrated with stunned silence, and Philip gazed around at all the faces staring at him. There was nothing for him here. The faces were all familiar, but he found he couldn’t care less what they thought of him. If any of them raised their voices against Ruth, he would have no compunction in sending them to the same fate as Munroe.
He was done deciding his future based on what they might think. He didn’t need anyone else to tell him what he wanted. Or whom he wanted.
Chapter Forty-Two
Ruth kneaded the dough with her fists, brushing away a hair on her cheek, only to realize she must have imagined the hair. All that was there was flour—and now a sticky piece of dough. That was one benefit of short hair—it didn’t get in the way of cooking and baking.
Mr. Jolley at The Marsbrooke Weekly had been disappointed when Topher had informed him that the Swan would no longer be providing content for the newspaper. He had offered them fifty percent more to continue the column, and Topher had tried to convince Ruth to accept the offer—for the sake of the family—but she hadn’t yielded. She would find another way to contribute to the family’s income—one that didn’t elicit so many painful memories or require her to tell so many lies.
Topher came down the stairs, setting his hat atop his head. “I am off to the barrister’s. Hopefully Mr. Linas will see fit to give me some honest work. He likes me well enough.”
Ruth nodded with a sigh. She knew Topher preferred the adventure of smuggling to what he was seeking now, but like her, he had learned from his time in Town. The last thing their family needed was for Topher to be apprehended by one of the excisemen.
The door opened, and Ellen appeared, arms full of vegetables and potatoes from her trip to the market. Both Ruth and Topher rushed over to relieve her of her burden.
“Thank you,” Ellen said. She set her hands on her hips and caught her breath. “Whose grand carriage is that outside?”
Ruth and Topher shared a confused glance as they set the food on the table.
“It was coming to a stop just as I walked in—I thought perhaps one of you was expecting one of your friends from Town.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Ruth’s heart thumped. No matter how she tried to tame it, it would insist upon hoping.
Ellen bustled to the door and opened it, while Ruth and Topher stared at one another.
“Yes, good day,” said an older male voice. “Is Mr. Hawthorn at home?”
“Just a moment, if you please sir, while I see.”
Topher strode over. “Never mind that, Ellen.”
She moved, allowing Topher to take her place in the doorway, which he did, suddenly going still. “Mr. Devenish. Rebecca.”
Ruth’s eyes widened.
“C-c-come in,” Topher sputtered, opening the door wider.
Mr. Devenish and his daughter stepped into the house, and Ruth was annoyed to feel the heat rising in their cheeks. It was one thing for all of London to know that she and Topher had no money—it was another thing entirely for people to see it with their own eyes.
But the Devenishes’ gazes didn’t rove about the room, they merely traveled to Ruth, and Miss Devenish smiled.
“Miss Hawthorn,” she said, dipping into a small curtsy as her father bowed.
Ruth curtsied in return, aware of how foolish she looked, doing so in a flour-covered apron.
Topher led them into the parlor, and Ruth stared as their backs disappeared and the door shut behind them. A little pang shot through her heart, and she turned back to her dough, aware that Ellen was watching her.
“I am almost finished with this,” Ruth said.
“Leave it to me, miss.” Ellen came over, but Ruth stayed in place.
“No. I want to finish it. I like the work.” There was something satisfying about working the dough. Ruth had offered to do it every day since their return, finding that she felt a little bit more i
n control of herself afterward. For a while, at least.
“Very well, miss.” Ellen set to cutting vegetables, and Ruth tried not to be curious about the muffled conversation happening in the other room.
It was fifteen minutes before the door to the parlor opened again. Ruth was standing before the fire, where the bread cooked, filling the room with its scent. She turned to see Topher emerge, Miss Devenish trailing behind him. They were holding hands.
Topher’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, and he led Miss Devenish over toward Ruth. “Well, sister. Will you wish me joy?” He looked down at Miss Devenish beside him, and she smiled warmly up at him.
Ruth’s mouth opened as she looked back and forth between them, and Mr. Devenish emerged into the kitchen, a smile on his face, as well.
“We hope to marry as soon as the banns can be read,” Topher said, gaze still trained on Miss Devenish in a way that twisted Ruth’s heart with envy. He finally looked back at Ruth.
“Truly?” she asked, seeking confirmation from Miss Devenish, who nodded and moved closer to Topher.
“Yes. We can marry here in your parish if you wish,” Miss Devenish said to him.
“I will marry you anywhere you choose,” he responded.
Ruth embraced them both—apologizing for her state—and said everything appropriate, until the Devenishes and Topher disappeared outside, arranging details and plans for the next few weeks.
Ruth swallowed as the sound of their joyful voices became muffled and then drowned in the noise of the street. Tears burned in her eyes, and she hurried to turn back to the oven, removing the loaves of bread and sliding them onto the table.
“Miss?” Ellen’s steady chopping slowed.
Ruth wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands and forced a laugh. “Bah! Those onions you are cutting! If you will excuse me…” She avoided Ellen’s eye as she hurried up the stairs and into her room.
She was able to make herself decent by the time Topher called to her through the door to her bedchamber.
“Come in,” she said, straightening a stack of papers on the wobbly desk in hopes that it would appear she had been busy.
He entered slowly, warily, and it made Ruth feel fragile in a way that stung her eyes again. She didn’t want to feel fragile anymore, but she didn’t know how to stop.
She smiled at her brother and motioned him to the chair against the wall, determined to show him the happy face he deserved.
“Well, that was quite unexpected,” she said.
He sat down with a large sigh and a speaking look. “It was. I thought I would never see her again, much less…” He glanced at Ruth again and didn’t finish.
“What happened?” she asked. “I should have asked you after the masquerade, but I thought perhaps you didn’t wish to speak of it.”
“I didn’t.” He shrugged. “She was angry—hurt, you know. She thought that it had all been a sham—that I had used your methods to trick her into falling in love with me, and that, just like everyone else, I only wanted her for her wealth.”
Ruth nodded. “So, what changed?”
“Rowney. He talked to her—told her everything he knew about me. He convinced her that it wasn’t all an act—that I loved her as soon as we spoke, long before I knew anything of her situation.”
“He is a good friend.”
“He is. Despite the fact that I lied to him, too.” He sent Ruth a commiserating grimace. “I know you are trying to be happy for me, Ruth, and I love you for it. But I also know that you are hurting more than you let on, and I wish there was something I could do to change that. It feels unfair that things should happen this way, even if I am grateful for my own good fortune.”
She pulled him up from his chair and embraced him, glad that he was unable to see the way her eyes were filling with tears. It was all they seemed to be good for nowadays. “You mustn’t temper your joy on my account, Topher. I would never wish that. I am so very happy for you.”
He sighed, holding her tightly. “And for our family. It changes everything, you know.” He pulled away. “Rebecca has a kind heart, and she won’t let our family go wanting.”
“You needn’t go to Mr. Linas’s, then?” she teased.
He shook his head. “Rebecca’s father knows someone who might be willing to recommend me for studying law.”
“Well, that is good news, indeed.”
He kept a hand on Ruth’s arm and looked her in the eye. “We shall find someone for you, Ruthie. Don’t despair.” A small commotion sounded downstairs, and the familiar tones of their mother’s voice reached them. “And now I must go speak with Mama. She hasn’t any idea what has happened—and she is meant to accompany me to Rebecca’s tomorrow. Will you mind watching the children for the day?”
Ruth smiled. “Not at all. Now go give her the good news.”
Topher’s mouth broke into a grin, and he hurried from the room, leaving a cloud of joyful dust behind him.
Chapter Forty-Three
Ruth pushed at her sleeve again so that it sat above her elbow, but it was too late. It was already wet. The weight of the rolled, wet fabric caused it to slip back down again, and she surrendered to the inevitable, plunging her arm back into the basin of water and rubbing one of George’s shirts against the washing board.
She pulled out the small garment, twisting the excess water out and then spreading it to see whether her efforts had met with success. The same large stain stared back at her, though, just a few inches away from a hole where the seam joined the sleeve and body. He was growing too big for the shirt anyway.
She tossed it to the side, intending to make it into rags once she finished the rest of the laundry. Ruth’s mother and Topher were in London for the day, and Lucy was inside, making sure that the older children stayed focused on their studies—Ruth had asked to do the laundry herself instead of being tasked with watching the children. She didn’t enjoy laundry normally, but the manual labor was just what she needed to work through her emotions. Ellen was preparing dinner, while George and Joanna played at the far end of the small garden, watering the plants.
Ruth submerged her own chemise in the water and set to scrubbing it, wondering whether Topher and Miss Devenish’s marriage would mean she no longer had to do laundry. She didn’t feel right hoping for such a thing, but she was feeling particularly exhausted since coming home. Home was a refuge after the storm of London in many ways. But in other ways, it was a harsh reality—made all the more so for the luxurious interlude of the past month.
Penny stepped into the garden. “A letter for the Swan, Ruth.” She held out the paper in her hand, and Ruth sighed. Topher had always picked up the post from the office of the newspaper. Now that they had ended their contribution, though, apparently Mr. Jolley was sending the correspondence directly to them. Hopefully it wouldn’t be necessary for much longer.
“I thought Topher told them that we wouldn’t be taking any more correspondence. My hands are wet, so I can’t take it just yet. Put it on top of the dry laundry pile. I will get to it later.”
Penny set the note atop the heap of dirty laundry and skipped back into the house.
A little delighted squeal sounded behind Ruth, and she turned to see one of the plant pots overflowing with water. She rushed over and took the empty watering can from George, forcing her voice to sound patient. “That is far too much water, my love.”
“But you said they were thirsty,” he complained.
“They are—or were, rather. But they don’t need an entire pot full of water, dear, just as you don’t.” She directed a chastising glance at Joanna. “You know that.”
“I told him to stop,” Joanna said, and she tipped the horned spectacles up farther on her nose. Ruth stared at the glasses for a moment, swallowing at the memories they evoked. Joanna had been wearing them for days now, despite the teasing of her siblings.
Ruth set down the watering can and tipped the pot of plants slightly so that the excess water drained onto the sto
nes below, then packed down the wet soil as best she could.
“Go wash up inside. It will be dinnertime soon.”
With their wet clothes and dirtied hands, the two of them scampered inside, and Ruth watched them go with an irrepressible smile as she wiped her hands on her apron.
She looked at the pile of dirty clothing that still awaited her and the note that sat on top. With a sigh, she went over to it. Every time she read the Swan correspondence now, she was reminded of the short letter that had changed everything. If Topher were home, she would have made him read this one to spare her.
She frowned at the bits of soil that smeared the note as she opened it.
Dear Swan,
I write to request another in-person consultation. I understand that the rate has increased greatly, and I assure you I will provide fair compensation for your time.
Mr. O
The note trembled in Ruth’s hands, and she stared at it—the familiar script, the way the clean foolscap stood in contrast to her soiled hands, the signature.
The sound of movement brought Ruth’s head up, and her breath caught.
Hat in hand, Philip stooped through the doorway and into the garden, his broad figure filling the space, his gaze intent on her.
She tried to blink—to dispel the impossible view before her—but, aside from the rise and fall of her chest, every part of her refused to move.
He took a step toward her. “Ruth.”
It was one word, but it lodged inside her somewhere, assuring her that what she was seeing was real.
The edge of his mouth curved up in a small half-smile. “Little panda.”
Her cheeks warmed, and her vision grew blurry again.