Waverly snapped open a black umbrella and lifted it over his head. When had it started raining? Perhaps he was too numb to feel the sharp sting of the rainfall. “You won’t believe me,” Waverly said, “but I wish you the best. Rose explained the importance of your release, and it seems you have inspired many people in this city. My niece has always been a clever girl, and if she can speak so highly of you, perhaps you’re onto something.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned, striding toward a black carriage that had begun to sparkle as fat drops of rain fell, reflecting the meager sunlight as a uniformed servant took his umbrella and helped him inside.
Ben broke the seal on the envelope, taking a moment to savor the knowledge that Rose’s hand had touched this paper. Had it only been a day ago that he woke with her wrapped in his arms, kissed those delicate fingers, thought he would have the rest of his life to do so?
Her handwriting was instantly recognizable; he’d spent enough time watching her guide a pen over paper, and regretted not studying her more closely, not memorizing every detail of her and luxuriating in her presence while he had the chance. The script was hurried and smudged in places, as if she had been given scarce time to dash off a missive. As if she had been crying.
Ben,
It was my choice to go to my uncle. Had there been any other option, I would not have done so, but I hope that my decision will keep others, especially you, safe. My uncle knows nothing about 138, nor who lives there.
Perhaps it is for the best that I am leaving. I have done nothing but cause problems for you since I arrived. Eventually, you would have needed to choose Brooklyn over me. Our worlds are too different, and as much as I wish I could be your princess in disguise, fairy tales aren’t real. But know that my love for you is real, and will remain so for the rest of my life. I will always be yours, even oceans away.
Please forgive me,
Rose
Ben did not know how long he stood there in the rain, watching the letters on the page smear and blur until they became nothing, a poor excuse for a memory. When he finally started his slow trek back to Brooklyn, his heart shuttered more with each step, a wall of thorns rising inexorably until no princess could reach him again.
Chapter 32
Roseshiftedonthewooden slats of the deck chair, sliding her boots under her skirt. The leather working boots she’d worn everywhere in Brooklyn were horribly inappropriate for the first-class deck on a transatlantic steamer, but she refused to change them out, and wished she had gone back to 138 Willow and retrieve her silk slippers.
But if she’d returned to Brooklyn, not only would she have exposed Abby’s location, but she most likely would have grabbed the doorframe like a petulant toddler refusing to leave a sweet shop.
Hours of daylight had passed since the ship departed New York harbor, and she kept her eyes locked on the departing shoreline until there was nothing but blue-gray water between herself and the man she loved, the place she loved but did not belong. Her stomach protested her decision to skip tea, and her temples throbbed from exhaustion. The sun had begun its descent, painting the tips of the waves pink and deepening the sea to a rich plum as the air chilled, raising goosebumps down her arms and legs.
But she would not be moved. Not while she could pretend to see Ben, or imagine the pain he must feel. Not while the rally was happening, while women wore the rosettes she sewed and carried the signs she’d painted. The deck would be the site of her silent protest. Leaving the deck seemed disloyal somehow, as though she were abandoning something—someone—she loved so deeply, simply for her personal comfort.
The chair beside her creaked as Timothy sat down, his lanky form sprawling as he attempted to look dignified on the awkward piece of furniture. He handed her a wool shawl she had seen in her bags while a maid unpacked her stateroom earlier.
Moments after her arrival, her uncle had cabled her father; when the missive was returned less than an hour later with an urgent demand to be on the next ship to England, her aunt and uncle sent their servants into a tizzy preparing Rose for a voyage fit for a proper lady.
One month ago she would have fawned over the trunks packed with the latest fashions, her selection of matching bonnets and reticules, hosiery and shoes. Now she could only think about how much she despised wearing a full corset.
“How are you?”
She gave him a weak shrug, not diverting her focus from the writhing surface of the water.
Timothy shifted in his seat. “I suppose that’s a terrible question. Forgive me. Of course you’re rubbish.”
The sun had nearly finished its dip below the horizon, and her throat tightened and burned. Soon she would no longer be able to see the place where New York had disappeared. Soon he would be gone, and—
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Rose winced. She’d sent an eager Billy Middleton to find Timothy at the Union Club before she stepped into the cab bound for the Upper West Side, begging her friend to meet her and offer his support. She had told neither her uncle nor Timothy what Ben meant to her, only that his release was imperative. So imperative she would return to England immediately if he were freed.
She felt like the greedy magpie Ben had told her about on the rooftop, and she held no desire to share her story. Letting others know what happened between them cheapened it, tarnished the ephemeral gleam of their love. She would keep every detail for herself and polish it with care, hold it new and perfect in her mind and heart.
“We should announce our engagement shortly after we arrive in Oxford.” Rose had been practicing the words since she knew her fate was sealed, that there was no escaping this eventuality.
She would have to go back to being a princess.
Timothy scoffed. “I don’t think you’re in the best state of mind to make such a statement.”
Dark had finally taken hold, snuffing out the last whisper of light on the horizon. Grief sat on her chest like a lead weight. “You know we have to. People will talk about me.”
“Most likely. London is a frightfully dull place for the rich, and we need something to pass the time besides speculating on horseflesh and inventing new card games.” He reached his hand out and squeezed hers. “Rose, gossip is merely that—talk. Yes, perhaps I leaned a little too heavily on its importance when I thought you were simply avoiding responsibility, but now that I know…”
She turned her head towards him, and her neck ached. Everything ached. “Know what?”
