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“I don’t think it.” Their gazes met. “I know it for truth. Louisa was never happier than when she was with that man. Curse him, he made her believe in foolish dreams. They—they planned to run off together. Oh, he swore he’d make ’em a better life. Higher wages in the city and all that, enough to support them and the lot of us poor folks left at home. Louisa believed every word.”
“What happened?” She knew, watching Anne’s hands twist and tangle, as if she were envisioning someone’s throat beneath them, that she did not truly want to know.
“The night they was to run off, I told our father. I thought—I thought I was doing the right thing. That her marrying the curate would keep her safe. Close to family. I didn’t realize it was too late.”
“Too late?”
A deep frown pushed Anne’s brows over her eyes. She looked away. “Pa found Louisa waitin’ for the man to show. He’d up and left without her.” An inhale trembled Anne’s shoulders. “They questioned her hard, learned more than I’d even known. She said she loved the man. She’d not have anyone else.”
A patch of deep wrinkles had appeared in Sophie’s skirts. She relaxed her hands, flattened her palms.
“Curate got wind of things. The whole village looked at us differently then. It didn’t matter to them it was Louisa’s sins; they blamed the lot of us, in part. Didn’t come about to help Ma and Pa more than the Christian in their hearts demanded.”
“Is that when you went into service?”
She nodded. “I decided then that I’d never let a man do me so. I went away and started workin’ as a housemaid.”
“You have good reason to be proud.” Sophie smiled. “Working up to the position of lady’s maid is no small accomplishment.”
“Thank you, miss.”
“And your parents? What of them?”
Anne’s expression didn’t alter, but her eyes changed, evaporating Sophie’s smile. “They’re dead. Died alone, and ashamed. Without even myself for company. I scarce made enough to send home. I don’t suppose they could much afford their meals by the end.”
“I’m so sorry, Anne. That is an enormous loss.” Sophie reached out a hand before thinking the better of it, but Anne shied away.
“Well, now y’see.” Anne sniffed and patted her already-smooth apron. “Taught me to keep out of the business of others.” She rose to her feet. “Forgive me, miss, but if there’s nothing else I can assist you with, I ought to return belowstairs.”
“Of course—I apologize for keeping you.” Her own voice sounded far away. “Anne?”
The maid was impassive from this distance, safe behind the woolen walls of her black garb and already one pace shy of the door. “Yes, miss?”
“What of Louisa?”
“I learned a few years since that she’s dead. Succumbed to fever at the brothel house she run off to.” Anne might have been counting the silverware, so even was her tone. “If I may?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, you are free to go. Thank you, Anne.”
Only the top of the maid’s mobcap showed as she bowed and left the room.
Sophie sank back into her chair. There was a ringing in the house, or perhaps in her head.
nineteen
Rafe barely looked up when one of the seasoned shop boys burst into his office without knocking. Everything else had already turned to shite; this morning alone had wrought window-rattling lectures over delayed shipments and burnt pastries. Whatever the lad had to say couldn’t be worse.
“There’s a group of ladies here, sir.”
“Is that unusual?” Rafe asked, tapping the end of his pen against his lower lip. He needed to create more room in this damn account book, but the numbers jumbled in his mind.
“Well, no, sir, course it isn’t, excepting they’re of the fancy set.” The boy was fiddling with the door handle. Pop. Pop. “One has, uh, asked for you by name. Didn’t want me to assist her.”
Three things dropped at once: his pen, his stomach, and every number-related thought in his head. He rose slowly and tugged his coat into smoothness. “I’ll see to them. What counter?”
“Silks, sir.”
Rafe didn’t let his stride falter as he made his way across the store. It had been days since his and Miss St. Quinton’s last encounter. He was perfectly calm, ready to face her.
