“Thank you for taking me to my aunt and uncle’s house. My cousin Abigail and I were great friends as children.” The words burst from Rose’s throat like verbal refuse. Making conversation was one of her gifts and a means to soothe her nerves, and rarely was someone immune to her charms.
Apparently, the driver calling colorful insults at a lorry in front of them was a rare sort.
Truck, not lorry.A pleasant woman on the ship had offered to teach her some American terms for several of her newly gained dollars, an expense she was certain would be well worth the cost. The generosity of Americans was remarkable.
“She grew up here, but she visited England with my aunt and uncle every summer and Christmas while we were girls. I have lots of family,” Rose continued. “Several sisters, in fact. I’m the youngest of five.”
The driver spat in the street. She winced, but would not be dissuaded. Once Lord Stilton had a bogey the size of a pound coin dangling from his nostril for an entire quadrille, and she persisted in conversation about his new curricle until the end of the set.
“Technically, the second youngest. I have a twin, and all of us have flower names—”
“Look lady,” the driver barked, flashing a passing cyclist a rude gesture with his finger. “I don’t need yer life story.”
The smile wilted from her lips. “Understood, sir.” She withdrew her cousin’s last letter from her reticule, the edges dulled and creases close to tearing from frequent handling.
I’m so sorry for your troubles, Rose. What happened to you is terribly unfair. I wish I could see you in person, give you the hug you deserve.
Fine, the words were not an invitation, per se, but one was implied. In several letters last year, Abigail had encouraged Rose to cross the Atlantic and visit, describing their luxurious Upper West Side mansion, the army of servants, and the delightful fun to be had in the metropolitan city. While Abigail had not issued such an invitation in the last several exchanges, she would be delighted to see her cousin again in person.
After all, Rose had precious few family connections left, particularly after her sister—
Rose squeezed her eyes shut as a lump grew in her throat at the thought of her sister, hertwin. Fern was… unusual. A woman more comfortable with books than people, easy to agitate and difficult to soothe. Rose had been the keel of Fern’s rocky ship during their shared childhood, providing comfort and compassion, while Fern’s brilliant but stubborn mind battled with the world around her. Rose believed she would be the only person who would ever love Fern, let alone understand her.
But Fern had fallen in love with a fellow mathematician and chased her dreams to America, putting an entire ocean between them. She turned her back on Rose at the first opportunity she had. With such a rejection, how could Rose not feel indignant? It wasFern’sresponsibility to set things right, not Rose’s.
But despite Rose’s protestations, their mother, the Viscountess Redbourne, had grown tired of the rift between the sisters and gave Rose a choice: she could reconcile with her twin, or she would be sent down to Hampshire to serve as a companion to her great-aunt Margaret. The last time Rose saw her elderly relation, the woman had overindulged in sherry and insisted on entertaining the Duke and Duchess of Kenmore by singing the entirety ofLa Traviata,despite being unable to speak a lick of Italian.
Sent to be a companion? InHampshire?Rose couldn’t think of a more humiliating fate than spending the rest of her days languishing with a perpetually foxed spinster.
Except, perhaps, being the laughingstock of theton.
A carriage wheel caught a pothole and Rose gripped the edge of the seat to avoid falling. When she looked onto the passing street, her stomach lurched.
The buildings were tall, taller than anything she’d seen, even in London, and cramped, as though squeezed together by some unmerciful external force. Lines strung between iron balconies and open windows sagged under the weight of draped clothing, like banners from a sad, outdated parade. The sidewalks hummed with people, vendors selling fruit, men pushing past those standing around talking. Other young people ran through the streets untended, chasing each other. Men shouted across the street, mothers screamed for their children, dogs barked, bells rang, hooves clattered—a dizzying cacophony that made her want to press her hands to her ears and scream.
The carriage lurched to a halt, and Rose gripped the driver’s bench as her stomach threatened to tumble into the street alongside—was that adeadrat?The door jerked open and her driver motioned for her to get out, punctuating his gesture with a grunt.
Rose stumbled to the curb. “Is-is this the Upper West Side?”
The man laughed, or he attempted to before being lost in a paroxysm of coughs. Clearing his throat, he shook his head. “This is Brooklyn Heights, honey, and I can’t linger.”
“And you’re certain this is the address I gave you?”Please be uncertain,she thought, as the creature she had assumed dead seemed to revive itself and skittered off beneath the carriage.
He narrowed his gaze. “138 Willow Street. You’re in the right place. Now that’s a dollar ’n ten cents.” He extended a gloved hand, fingertips poking through the fabric.
Rose swallowed and opened her reticule to remove the few coins that remained. The man on the ship had promised she would have enough, but after paying the boys on the dock and the cab ride—
Gathering everything she could find, she dropped the coins into the cabbie’s palm. He poked at the money and frowned. “That ain’t enough, girlie. I need five cents more.”
Sweat erupted on Rose’s neck as she dug through her bag once more, but she came up empty. “I’m so sorry, sir, you see, I only just arrived from England, and—”
“I don’t care where you’re from, but I want my fare!” The man gripped her arm and Rose shrieked, attempting to pull herself free.
“I haven’t any more, but I will talk to my cousin, she can—”
“What’s the matter?”
The cabbie froze at the low voice coming from behind her. The man gripping her arm stood up straight and cleared his throat. “Girlie here don’t have the fare.”
