She had to prove to Peterson that she was serious. Prove to him, and herself, that she could overcome her fear of making human choices. That meant, at least in Rebecca’s opinion, making amends to the people she had wronged thanks to judgmental blindness.
What better place to start than the wives of the men who owned the Cappadene Club? The men had a portion of censure still, in Rebecca’s opinion, for partaking in the ownership of a house of pleasure—but the woman they had married had never deserved her ire. There had always been a question mark hanging over Elsie Bennington, and exactly how she had come into contact with Sir Marcus—but really, all such mysteries seemed immaterial now. Rebecca, bringing her hand to her mouth to nibble worriedly at her thumbnail, knew that she was undoubtedly the most hypocritical of all of them.
She jumped to her feet, hurriedly curtseying as the door opened. To Rebecca’s unpleasant surprise, all three of the Cappadene Club wives entered the room: Catherine Hildebrande, Lydia Weeks, and Elsie Bennington.
She had been planning to visit the women separately. Rebecca, a cold quiver running through her, wondered how on earth she was going to explain herself to their shocked, guarded faces.
She had always viewed the women in front of her with near-pathological disdain. It was only now, with the experiences of the past weeks at the forefront of her mind, that Rebecca realised with a rush of embarassment just how much of her disdain had sprung from jealousy.
‘I must say, Miss Westbrook—your visit is something of a surprise.’ Catherine Hildebrande’s voice was as soft and cold as snow. ‘Forgive my lack of preparation.’
‘Forgive our presence as well.’ Lydia Weeks didn’t sound as if she required forgiveness—her tone was as acid as Catherine’s was cold. ‘Lady Bennington and I will leave, if her birth and my marriage offend your delicate sensibilities.’
This was rudeness of the most forthright kind, but Rebecca knew she deserved it. Lowering her gaze, examining the carpet with a blush, she took a steadying breath before replying.
‘You have never been offensive to me. I apologise if my behaviour suggested such a state. I—I still take offence at the nature of the trade your husbands are engaged in, but I am willing and prepared to see the nuances behind the—the establishment in question. Nuances that I was not prepared to see before. My… my myopia has led me to a very miserable place.’
A shocked silence greeted her words. Rebecca eventually gathered up enough courage to lift her head, where three surprised expressions greeted her.
‘Really?’ Elsie Bennington spoke first, her slightly country-tinged accent still strange to hear in a room of such splendour. ‘Forgive my forthrightness, Miss Westbrook, but—but that’s something of a change. From what my husband has told me, you’ve been most… well, most…’
‘Most unpleasant.’ Lydia raised an eyebrow. ‘What on earth has caused such a difference in attitude?’
‘I would suspect a sudden flowering of religious passion, but Miss Westbrook’s conduct in terms of her faith has always put the rest of us to shame.’ Catherine leaned forward, her brow furrowed. ‘Tell us, Miss Westbrook— what has changed? And why has this change warranted a visit to my house?’
Their curiosity was unexpected, but oddly welcome. Rebecca, taking a deep breath, began to tell them the bare facts of what had occurred. It was only as she mentioned John Peterson’s name, watching Elsie’s eyes widen, that she realised this was the first time she had unburdened her soul since the whole business began.
It felt… comforting. Like a warm bath. Like being a real person, capable of both failure and redemption, in the company of women who had experienced both. The story slowly became more than a mere retelling of the facts; Rebecca, hunched in her chair as her feelings overwhelmed her, began to include small but important pieces of her heart.
She had never had such a rapt audience. Even the most welcoming crowds of listeners at the Vice Prevention meetings had only recieved her public self for their trouble. Now, painfully retelling the secrets of her innermost self, Rebecca watched the three women consider her story.
‘... And so that is why I am here. To apologise, and to explain. I have apologised, and explained, in considerably more detail than I ever imagined I would.’ She felt lighter, cleaner, as if she had purged herself of something. ‘I know I am in no position to ask you for any kind of aid. Speaking through my current state has been aid in itself—I apologise for wasting your time with it.’
‘Time spent talking is rarely wasted, however many serious gentlemen say otherwise.’ Catherine’s face was inscrutable; Rebecca felt as if she were a puzzle, slowly being solved. ‘You have not wasted your time. I, and I speak for both Mrs. Weeks and Lady Bennington, appreciate your apology.’
From the look of Lydia Weeks’s face, the apology had been by no means universally accepted. Rebecca nodded gratefully all the same, slowly rising to her feet. ‘I shall impress upon you no longer.’
‘There is tea and seed-cake in the dining room.’ Catherine’s tone was softer still. ‘Refresh yourself, please, before you go.’
As peace offerings went, it was a pleasant one. Rebecca curtseyed again, leaving the room with a small, relieved smile.
‘Good Lord. That poor woman.’ Catherine Hildebrande softly shook her head, leaning back into her chair with a sigh. ‘I do not envy her.’
‘I cannot help but feel that such a punishment is fitting. I know this makes me the worst sort of harridan, but it is how I feel—it cannot be denied.’ Lydia clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes at Catherine’s mildly disapproving look. ‘Such an unexpected, devastating passion is no more than she deserves—and if I am to be very wicked, I am glad that it has gone badly.’
‘That is very cruel.’ Elsie looked warningly at Lydia, who sighed with irritation. ‘You heard the poor creature. I think this must be tearing her to pieces.’
‘I cannot begin to be kind to her if I do not exercise my cruelty beforehand.’ Lydia paused. ‘Why on earth has she come to us? I understand her apology, but cannot see why such spectacular revelations were gifted to us and not others.’
‘She is Rebecca Westbrook. London’s most famous shrew.’ Catherine’s smile was sad. ‘I doubt her friends, if she has any, would listen to her without censure.’
‘Oh, no.’ Lydia folded her arms. ‘Now you have me feeling sorry for the poor creature.’
There was a short, thoughtful silence. Elsie, one hand under her chin as she mused, spoke quietly. ‘Peterson is a fine valet. A fine person, according to Marcus. He is a good marriage prospect for anyone. Surely, something can be done.’
‘Do you speak to your staff about such matters?’
‘No. I have already had the most dreadful problems with the maids, given their knowledge of my birth. They were determined not to take orders from someone of similar parentage to themselves. If anything, Peterson has been one of the kindest—but I hardly have enough rapport with him to ensure a happy ending to this particular story, and neither do either of you.’
‘And I imagine we’d all be seen as dreadfully nosy. Conniving, even.’ Catherine paused. ‘I certainly wouldn’t wish a dowager duchess to poke her nose into my affairs of the heart.’
‘We have all quite freely poked our noses into one another’s affairs of the heart.’
‘Yes, but we are friends.’ Elsie paused, a slightly anxious note entering her voice. ‘Aren’t we?’
Catherine and Lydia looked at her with expressions of identical shock. ‘Of course!’
‘Good.’ Elsie looked down at her teacup. ‘Sometimes it—it does well to check.’
‘Do you think us less friendly because of your background?’ Lydia’s eyes were wide. ‘Oh, Elsie, you cannot think such a thing!’
‘I don’t.’ Elsie paused. ‘Or rather, I don’t believe I do. But my doubts are not the focus of this conversation.’
‘Your doubts are sillier than jesters, and deserve even less attention.’
‘Marcus was ever-
so surprised, this morning. Peterson asked for leave—the first time that he’s ever asked, instead of simply taking whatever leave was offered. He is going to Truro, to visit family.’ Elsie looked at Catherine and Lydia with wide eyes. ‘Marcus gave it to him, of course—but do you think it is for this reason? A broken heart?’
‘I highly doubt it is for anything else.’ Catherine rolled her eyes. ‘They appear to have each made a most devastating impression upon the other.’
‘I suppose it’s rather romantic. Each one mourning the other.’ Lydia sighed, more softly this time. ‘It would be a pity if we did nothing.’
‘Then we shall do something small. Perhaps one or two small things.’ Catherine rose, smoothing down her skirts. ‘Beginning with going and eating seed-cake in the company of Miss Westbrook, and trying to catch more glimpses of the rather pleasant girl hidden beneath the stridency and moral condemnation. Then, perhaps, we may be able to convince her to go to Truro.’
Eslie nodded. ‘To find Peterson?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine paused. ‘We can but hope.’
Truro was exactly as splendid as Peterson remembered. He walked solemnly along the sea-scented streets, wishing he had the heart to enjoy the more rustic pleasures of the town. Whenever he came here he was always melancholy—visiting Helen, bringing Helen back to the hospital, begging Helen not to leave again…
… this particular time felt worse than all of the others. Not because Helen was worse; the nurses had been happy to allow him a visit. But this time, he was the weaker part instead of the strong, steadfast brother.
Helen had people around her. Friends—people who had suffered like her, who could help her through her darker moments. Peterson, despte the large list of men he frequently laughed and joked with, couldn’t imagine telling any of them about Rebecca.
Rebecca. Even thinking the name hurt. As he rounded the corner of the street that led to the Temperance Hospital, small pink flowers waving gently in the salt-laden breeze, Peterson wondered if he would ever be able to view Rebecca Westbrook with indifference.
At least the hospital looked untouched by time and trouble. The nurses kept the place in perfect order—an order that Peterson knew his sister had to hunger for, even if she wouldn’t admit it. A neatness, a predictability, that could curb her need for chaos.
People sat taking tea on the lawns in front of the hospital’s rose-covered facade. Peterson looked at each group, some couples, some families with children, his heart briefly full of gratitude for those who sought to keep links with people who, for reason of illness, injury or unsound mind, chose the peace of staying at the Temperance.
‘Mr. Peterson.’ An elderly nurse, her deeply-lined face full of cheerful symmetry, hailed Peterson with a waving hand. ‘How lovely to see you.’
Peterson approached, taking off his hat and bowing. ‘I know I haven’t been here often enough.’
‘It is not my place to say.’ The nurse’s smile was gentle enough to obscure any hint of rebuke. ‘And you sister is very well indeed. All the better for the lovely young visitor you sent.’
Peterson’s smile faded. ‘I—I sent no… ’
‘I’m sorry?’ The nurse tilted her head, confused. ‘I don’t believe I—’
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
‘I’m sorry.’ Peterson held up a hand, thinking rapidly. ‘I misspoke. Miss… Miss Westbrook.’
‘Yes. Exactly.’ The nurse smiled, evidently pleased that there had been no misunderstanding. ‘Come through. They’re taking tea in the walled garden.’
He wasn’t ready. How could he ever be ready for such an unexpected clash of circumstances? Peterson forced himself to breathe calmly, following the nurse instead of running ahead, as they made their way through the low, crooked door.
Sudden shadows, mustiness—then light again. A soft, golden light that streamed into the inner garden, a small patch of daisy-dotted green, where two women sat in smiling conversation.
Peterson blinked. The scene in front of him was almost unimaginable. Helen, smiling as she sipped her tea, listened to Rebecca as she laughingly explained something, gloved hands making patterns in the air.
They could be any two women making the acquaintance of one another. Forming a tentative friendship, smiling as they sat amidst the sun-dappled greenery.
‘Do you wish to join them, Mr. Peterson?’ The nurse smiled expectantly.
‘No.’ Peterson couldn’t imagine trespassing upon the fragile peace she saw. ‘But—but I wish to speak to Miss Westbrook for a moment.’
‘It is almost time to listen to Mr. Holden play the violin. Shall I take Helen to the morning room, and you shall follow after with Miss Westbrook?’
‘Yes.’ Peterson made sure he was standing in shadow, half-hidden by the garden wall. ‘Do not tell Helen I am here yet.’
Ignoring the nurse’s slightly confused look, he watched her walk over to the table. Helen smiled, nodding gently as she took the nurse’s arm. Rebecca rose, evidently intending to accompany them, but sat down with a furrowed brow as the nurse murmured a near-inaudible explanation.
Peterson counted to twenty as his sister walked away, leaning on the nurse’s arm. Only when he deemed it safe did he step out from behind the wall, the wam green light of the garden filling him.
The colour drained from Rebecca’s face. She rose, her teacup falling to the table with a clatter.
‘You probably consider this a great overstepping of my bounds. I can do nothing but apologise.’ A high blush had rushed to her cheeks, making her look like a wilting flower as she stood before him. ‘But… but you seemed so worried about her. In your speech, and—and when we spoke to one another at your house.’ A long, painful pause. ‘I simply wished to assure you that she was well, and happy, and aware of how far she had come, how much she had worked—I was going to write you a letter, a very long letter indeed, pretending to be one of the nurses.’
He couldn’t bear it anymore. Peterson crossed the garden with a harsh, low sigh, gathering Rebecca into her arms as she gasped. Holding her hard enough to hurt, burying his face in her hair, he breathed in the scent of her as she spoke to him.
‘I don’t know what it is about you, Mr. Peterson. You make me do things that I would never normally do.’
‘I’m a terrible influence on moral women. I make them do terrible things.’
‘I cannot, under any circumstances, call myself moral.’
‘Call yourself mine.’
‘I already do.’ Rebecca’s whisper filled his heart. ‘Is that wrong?’
‘Probably.’ Peterson smiled, stroking his thumb along her jawline. ‘But it hasn’t stopped you before.’
‘I… I do know know the names of your parents. I do not know your favourite colour, or—or drink, or place to walk on Sunday afternoons.’ Rebecca looked up at him, wide-eyed, expectant. ‘But I would like to learn all of those things. Learn them, and—and learn them in public. With you.’
‘That would mean—’
‘I know.’ Rebecca’s voice quivered. ‘Would you like to?’
‘Does doing it make us both mad?’
‘Yes. I believe so.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘But I have tried very hard to be sane all my life—and I’ve never had so much fun as I have being mad.’
Peterson held her tighter still. ‘Then marry me. Be mad with me. We shall help as many as we can.’
‘Yes. We shall.’ Rebecca’s rapt sigh tickled his ear. ‘When we are not too busy with one another.’
‘Yes.’ Peterson smiled, the moment filling him with light. ‘Correct, as usual.’
‘I love you.’
‘And I love you.’
The rest was silence, and sunlight.
THE END
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A Bluestocking's Vice: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Four Page 7