Rose’s lips quirked in the slightest hint of a smile before she focused on her sign. “There are plenty of faults in both our systems. Women of my status have been trained from birth to believe we are inadequate, that we are not enough without a man—a husband, brother, or father—to support us and speak for us. My only value to my family lies in whom I marry, when I transfer from my father’s ownership to my husband’s. Women will never realize our potential as long as we have to depend on men to survive.”
When Ben realized he was gaping, he snapped his jaw shut. Cass’s eyes were wide and Abby beamed, grabbing Cass’s hand and squeezing it. “Us Waverly girls are something special, aren’t we?”
Rose grinned and continued painting as a pink flush bloomed high on her cheeks.
“Where did you hear that?” Ben winced at the sound of his own voice, the barely restrained hostility lacing his words. This woman had said nothing offensive; in fact, she had articulated his sentiments far more concisely than he had ever managed to.
If his tone offended Rose she did not show it. “I’m not as sheltered as you think. I have heard conversations about suffrage and—” Rose’s eyes darted to Cass and Abby as she blushed, “—relationships that were not… traditional.”
“Homosexual, you mean.”
“Ben,” Abby hissed.
“Yes,” Rose replied, acknowledging her cousin with a quick bob of her chin. “And sapphic.”
“And what would you know of that?”
“Ben,“ Cass muttered. “Stop it.”
The chastisement did not have time to land before Rose spoke again. “Personal experience.” Her perfectly arched brows raised in an unspoken dare.
Ben exhaled through his nose and focused all of his attention on the individual bristles on his paintbrush, the black paint coating the pale lengths until their original color was impossible to detect.
“I think,” Cass said, “Abby and I can handle things from here.”
“I’m enjoying our conversation.” Rose’s eyes darted up to meet Ben’s. “Aren’t you, Mr. North?”
“Ben never enjoys conversation,” Abby cut in. “I think he’s said more in the last ten minutes than in the past year.”
Rose sent her cousin a stunning grin; Ben was certain that, if he were the full recipient of such a smile, he would have fallen to his knees under its power. “I suspect he is a gifted conversationalist,” she said, sounding as though she belonged in the Queen’s court and not Brooklyn. “What do you say, Mr. North? Do I bring out the best in you?”
Ben pushed to his feet, and the screech of the chair legs against the floor made the women wince. He could not find any words to say in parting as he slapped his bowler on his head and pushed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
His heart pounded as he descended the stairs, skipping the broken step and pulling together a mental list of tasks, activities to keep his mind occupied and dark thoughts at bay. Something about this utterly impossible Englishwoman tore at the edges of his control and threatened to unleash the turmoil he kept under control. She reminded him of everything that he hated about the world that had rejected him before he could even open his mouth. His ownership of a piece of high society, her world and his birthright, meant nothing when his mother’s blood flowed through his veins.
Ben kept the pain held fast, deep in his mind where no one could access it. But in the few moments of sparring between himself and Rose, something jumped to life in his soul, something that lay dormant for too long. With that revitalization came fear, then pain, screeching through his nerves like the most insidious lightning.
Four years last month. Ben skidded to a sudden stop on the stairs and gripped the banister tight with one hand while fisting the other at his side. Four years, fifteen days. He could probably count the hours since his heart took leave of his body, perhaps the minutes as well. Four years should be enough to mourn, to move on and start again. But his heart was too broken, his soul too shattered to repair, no matter how much time passed or how much activity he packed into his day.
The lightbulb above his head flashed, then sputtered out. Ben cursed.
His breath tore through his lungs, burned his throat as he pushed into his apartment, closing and locking the door behind him as though he feared the memories would chase him inside. He leaned his forehead against the wood and inhaled, exhaling through pursed lips as he whispered the names like a mantra.
Aiko. Hotaru.
He repeated them a dozen more times,Aikoas he pulled air into his lungs,Hotaruas he released it. When his heart stopped its tremors, he slid to the floor, his eyelids dropping shut. Wig emerged from his bedroom and bumped his head against Ben’s knee before settling against him, purring as he closed his eyes.
Ben’s heart was far too broken to hope for healing. Whatever few pieces of his soul remained, he would give them to others, to the women of his building.
All in honor of her. Ofthem.
TO: Lord Timothy, Marquess of Trembly, Ashburn Hall, Oxfordshire
This will be far too short but I had to tell you right away STOP I have found a glorious adventure for myself here in New York STOP I may not go to Boston at all STOP If you were here you would chide me for avoiding responsibility but alas you are not STOP Missing you STOP
FROM: Miss Rose Waverly, ? Batterman & Co, Brooklyn
TO: Miss Rose Waverly, ? Batterman & Co, Brooklyn, New York
