Page 12 of Seductive Reprise
“Thanks,” Rose murmured, though to call their weak brew “tea” seemed an insult to warm beverages everywhere. Still, she felt herself come back to life as she tipped the pot and poured it into a tin cup. Collapsing into a shabby chair that had been garden furniture several lifetimes ago, she released a long sigh.
“You were out late,” Ruth said, gingerly plucking a piece of toast from the fork and offering it to Rose. Ruth worked long hours, not even counting the time it took her to walk back from Bond Street.
“Yes,” Rose admitted. She’d been restless, wandering the city, trying to shake her thoughts of Joseph. The unwelcome physical yearning for him. The dual desires to shout in his face and lay all her quarrels before him, only to then feel his lips on hersagain. Sensing a flush in her cheeks, she avoided Ruth’s gaze and crammed the toast into her mouth.
“Well, don’t go getting yourself flung in a ditch. Can’t make rent alone on a scant 25 shillings a week, can I?”
Even without looking she could hear the disdain in Ruth’s tone. Rose rolled her eyes and made a hard swallow of the dry toast. “You can go to work for one of the department stores. They’ve dormitories. Clean beds, warm meals. Even a newsroom! Must be nice, all that.”
Ruth sniffed. When Rose glanced over, the smaller woman was brushing her hands off on a handkerchief, having managed to finish her portion already.
“Living in? I would never. No freedom with those big stores.”
“Suit yourself,” Rose said, taking another large, unladylike bite just to irritate Ruth and her missish airs.
To her credit, Ruth ignored her, swiping daintily at her own mouth before standing. She went to the door, where a rustic set of hooks stuck out from the wall at varying angles. Retrieving her hat from one of them, she said as an afterthought, “I forgot to mention, since you were traipsing about the city like some lightskirt last night—”
“Come off it, Ruth,” Rose groaned, setting her tea down on a wobbly wicker side table. “It’s too early for your disparaging.”
Her housemate smirked, betraying a playfulness she rarely showed. “Only, another one of those letters came for you.”
Rose shot up from her seat, upending the remains of her tea, but she did not care. Stomping across the small sitting room, she snatched the offending mail from Ruth’s taunting grasp.
“Fine paper, with the crest and everything,” Ruth remarked, half in wonder and half in jest, before her gaze fell in irritation upon the spilled tea.
“Don’t worry, I’ll mop it up,” Rose lied, staring at the Ipsley coat of arms pressed into the seal. Embarrassment and fear chilled her blood.
Ruth tugged on her gloves and continued. “Don’t see why you’re stuck here with the likes of us.” She pulled on her cloak with a strained imitation of elegance. “If I had some toff as my swain, you can bet I’d negotiate better terms than—”
“Stop it,” Rose said, her voice hard. “I’ve told you, it’s absolutely nothing.”
Ruth finished buttoning herself up with a raised eyebrow. “So pious,” she sighed. “And yet you run with those artists, getting into goodness knows what sorts of,” her cheeks colored and she patted the back of her hair, “relations.”
Rose pulled a face and turned away to sit back down. “You’re going to be late,” she said.
“Well, I won’t bother asking about it, seeing as you never tell.” Rose heard the front door open. After several moments, Ruth added in a lighter tone, “Good luck today, with all of… them.” And then sharply, “Clean your mess.” Then the door thudded shut in its frame.
She considered her prickly housemate’s brief kindness before recalling her prior words. Of course Rose wasn’t about to tell Ruth about her preposterous past, but at least Ruth was looking out for her in the only way she knew how.
Rose took a deep breath, then broke the seal.
My darling daughter,the letter began.
A strip of paper fluttered out and into her lap. She picked it up sorrowfully. Fingering the perforations on one edge, she read the circling script, even as she’d memorized it all. The bank’s address at the top (54 Lombard Street), the handwritten amount (forty pounds), and the looping, elegant signature of the chequebook’s owner—Edwin Driffield, the Earl of Ipsley.
She glanced back at the letter. It was brief, as they all were. The earl chastised her once again for not cashing his previous cheques before spending several lines worrying over her well-being, for her place of residence was not the neighborhood he would like to see her established in. He then mentioned the current exhibition at the Royal Academy, and had she been? The letter closed with his usual supplication, that she call on him at his London address in Mayfair.
She looked back at the cheque in her other hand. Forty pounds. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. That would cover her and Ruth’s rent foryears.
None of the monthly “allowances,” as the earl called them, had tempted her as this one did. She was hungry and, in truth, failing. Ever since Jurgens had let her go from his workshop, she’d floundered, selling small pieces to galleries here and there, desperate for commissions, her small savings running horrifyingly low. And though she knew her father would welcome her back home to the coaching inn with a gruff nod, the thought twisted her stomach with guilt. She had not returned for more than a week at a time since she’d been a girl, ten or so years ago. Not since…
She sighed, rubbing the heel of her hand at her temple. Thesecursedmemories. If only she’d never met Joseph Palgrave, the vile, self-centered toff. If only she had lived in blissful ignorance.
And what? Married Elmer, the butcher’s boy? Taken on The Bit and Bridle, wiping down counters and serving tankards of ale as her mother had done for years, all the while dreaming of a life that could never be hers? Forgone any of the wonderful things life had to offer: art, beauty, the bustle of the city? Lovers? The thought of Joseph atop her, his fine, sinewed hands caressing her body, resurfaced in her mind. It sent a pleasurable shock to her core.
She frowned.
With a jolt, Rose stood up. She slipped the cheque into her pocket. Sparing one last glance for the earl’s letter, she tossed it into the fire, watching the small blaze erupt as it swallowed the rich, heavy paper. She would be well rid of both Joseph and the earl, if only she could regain her footing. And with Mrs. Hartley’s commission, she would soon be on her way.
