“Then why are you doing it?”
Twisting in her chair, she fixed Ben with a glare. “Because I’m awoman.”
“But if the law changes, it won’t impact you. You’re going back to England in, what, a week?”
She jutted out her chin. Why did he insist on seeing the worst in her? “Because too many women don’t know about contraception, and too many lives are ruined because of it.” His wide eyes and wary expression told her he had not expected that response, and she pressed on. “My older sister, Violet… She had an affair with a man and found herself with child. She did not know her actions would leave her in such a state, as my mother never told us about the implications of relations outside the marital bed.”
“Is that why you left England?” His expression softened even as his jaw remained clenched.
She hesitated; how could she make him understand her worries when he faced significantly more insurmountable odds? “Violet suffered because she didn’t know how to protect herself, and the man she trusted let her down. My oldest sisters are miserable in their marriages because theybelongto their husbands, like cattle. I always thought my father would take care of me, but he’s one of the men who makes the laws keeping women out of power. He promised he would ensure my future, but he left us penniless.“ She shrugged, unable to meet his eyes for fear he would see the tears building in hers. “I asked him for money to visit my sister in Boston, but I never intended to visit her. Abby was the only person I could think of who would welcome me, who mightwantme near.”
“Anyone would welcome you.”
Now it was Rose’s turn to be confused. “You didn’t.”
He looked at his feet. “Maybe I judged you too harshly.”
Rose bit her lower lip and leaned forward on her elbows as she held his gaze. “You convinced me why this movement matters. Voting on matters like these could have saved my sister from heartbreak and near death. Your words, your ideas… Even if you express them rudely sometimes, they moved me.” She chuckled. “Perhaps you have made me a woman of substance, after all.”
Ben shook his head and pushed off the wall. He took the stack of letters from her hand, his fingertips brushing hers for the briefest of moments. “I’ll take these to the post office.”
Rose popped to her feet. “I’ll go with you.”
Pausing in putting on his jacket, Ben’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
Because I think I would follow you anywhere, even if I don’t understand why. “I need to learn my way around. I have no intention of hiding in the building all day.”
Ben grabbed his cap, then opened the door wide with a sweeping gesture, muttering under his breath. “After you, my lady.”
Chapter 8
Thelateafternoonsunlightpoured through the cracks between buildings and gilded the perpetually damp gutters lining Clark Street until they gleamed like gold. Ben sidestepped a rat investigating a pile of refuse and hopped onto the curb, then took a quick turn on the primary thoroughfare of the Heights.
Rose gave a little shriek behind him—she must have seen the garbage-hunting rodent as well—then skittered along beside him, the heels of her boots clicking on the sidewalk as she attempted to match his brisk pace. To her credit, she did not complain, nor ask him to slow down.
His mind stumbled through the fairy tales he heard as a child to grasp one of the few stories his mother told him in her native language. The details escaped his memory, as his Japanese was far from proficient, but he recalled the princess being sent out into the world to labor beside common people until she was ready to rule them. The princess was humble and kind, dedicated and fair, and ruled her empire with grace, beloved by her subjects.
Definitely a fairy tale.
He slowed down, waiting until she caught up with him and chiding himself for not protecting her as he should. Regardless of his feelings about her stay, she was essentially a tenant in his building. And Ben had to give Rose more than a little credit for her labor. Rose had drafted a dozen letters during the day, taking over the composition for Ben when the pain from his shoulder became too much and he needed to rest. When he emerged two hours later, she had not only finished his correspondence but edited and re-written several other letters he had prepared before his injury but not yet sent. Once he let his irritation over her presumptuousness settle, he recognized the power in the subtlety of her prose, how her words inspired the recipient to keep reading and even respond.
He hadn’t been able to stop watching her as she worked, her perfectly arched brows furrowed, her evergreen eyes focused as they darted across the page. Her nose was a perfect slope over her lips. And those lips, lush and the color of ripe berries. In any other setting, he would not have given her a second glance, dismissing her for her beauty, her incomparable poise and polish. She was an untouchable princess in a tower, far removed from his reality. But in his kitchen with ink stains on her fingers and her hair curling around its single dark ribbon, she burned with an intensity unlike anything he had seen before.
And he had an unexplainable desire to see more.
Ben paused to hold the door of the butcher shop open, allowing a woman—Elaine Harford, if his memory served—and her trio of small children to exit onto the street.
“Good to see you, Mr. North,” she said, pushing a wrapped package into her bag and shooing her children along. He knew it would be scraps, the fatty bits and pieces the butcher would have discarded, but would add some much-needed substance to Mrs. Harford’s stew that evening. His fingers itched to stop her, to offer the assistance that her children desperately desired, but he was certain she would refuse. And as he had learned, forcing his help on another only pushed them away.
He nodded as she passed, her youngest girl eyeing him warily, her gaze jumping from Ben’s face to the pocket of his jacket and back again. With half smile pulled at his lips, he sank his hand into his pocket to withdraw a sweet wrapped in wax paper and dropped it into her waiting palm. The girl beamed and nodded her thanks before tearing onto the street with her family.
Ben wished he could do more for Mrs. Harford; rumors said her arms would be covered in fresh bruises, and her ducked head did little to hide the discoloration below her left eye. Mr. Harford was a mean drunk, and, having been laid off from his work at the docks a month prior, found solace in the bottle and took out his frustration on his wife.
“Does she live in our building?” Rose asked from his side.
Our building. As though Rose had any stake in it. Mrs. Harford had refused an offer to move into 138 Willow; so many women did, afraid to strike out on their own with so few rights in the world.
“No,” Ben said in a stilted voice, letting the shop door close and continuing his march south towards the post office.
