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Chapter Seven
Rose knew she ought to act primly as she rode in the carriage with these two fine gentlemen, but a girlish excitement overwhelmed her as the wheels rattled along the cobbled streets of London. She practically pushed her nose to the window as they journeyed, her breath puffing out streaks of condensation onto the pane.
“How far is it?” She found her voice as they passed a beggar who had fallen asleep right there on the pavement. She felt a twinge of sorrow for him, for he was one of the unfortunates: too far gone to ever escape this city’s clutch. There was a touch of relief within her, as well, though she would not admit it. She would, at least, have a place to sleep this night. If Lord Langston had not made this offer of employment, she did not know where she might have ended up.
“Hmm?” Lord Langston blinked as though his eyelids were exceedingly heavy. As for Lord Bentley, he looked as though he were in more of a daydream than Rose herself, grinning out of the opposite window as though a pleasant memory lingered in the forefront of his mind.
She smiled shyly. “I asked how long it will be, My Lord?”
“My estate is two hours outside of London,” he replied flatly. It made her wonder if there was ever an instance where he showed genuine emotion, or if it was only with her that such revelations were denied. After all, he did not know her.
And yet, he smoothed my cheek with his thumb. He held my neck in his hands. He bore me in his arms. I’m certain of it. I wouldn’t have dreamed something so… intimate.If she concentrated, she could almost feel the bristling touch of his skin against hers—a subtle trace upon her flesh that could not be washed away or easily forgotten.
Lord Bentley stirred from whatever pleasant thought he had been enjoying. “And where do you hail from, Miss Parker? Tell us of this life you are fleeing from.” He flashed her an encouraging grin, so she would know that he was teasing.
“I have resided these past nine years in Southwark lodgings,” she replied quietly. Could they tell how direly she had lived just by looking at her? With her dress torn and her face smeared with the dirt and dust of London, after the scuffles with those ruffians and then with her father, she imagined she must look a fright.
“And before that?” Lord Bentley pressed, his expression open and welcoming to her tale.
“I lived a comfortable life in apartments in the nicer part of St. Pancras. My father was a silk merchant and purveyor of fine garments once. He brought silks and gowns and accessories to the ladies of London, all the way from dressmakers and jewelers and vendors in India and China, Persia and beyond. He was a roaring success for the first decade or so of my existence, and then… he wasn’t.”
Lord Bentley raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that explains how you were able to gain some education. You must have had a governess?”
Rose nodded. “For several years.”
She cast a discreet glance at Lord Langston to try and gauge his reaction. His shoulders seemed to have stiffened, his eyes staring into the middle-distance as though he were not listening to a word. And yet, there was something in the determination of his pressed-together lips and the flicker of his eyelids that told her that he was, indeed, paying attention to what she had to say.
“What happened to your father’s business?” Lord Bentley gestured for her to continue. The story of her past felt uncomfortable upon her tongue, like a foreign language that had grown rusty with disuse. It was not something she had spoken about in a very long time, and she had fought hard to try and forget it had ever been a part of her being. It was too painful to remember, at times.
“My mother contracted tuberculosis a few months before my twelfth birthday. She did a great deal of charitable work, and there were many people in the workhouse where she helped that also caught the contagion. I imagine that is how it afflicted her.” Rose swallowed a clot of discomfort in her throat.
Lord Bentley nodded in understanding. “Your father was so overcome with grief that he could no longer attend to his business?”
Rose shook her head. “Not quite. At the same time my mother fell ill, my father’s shipments of fabric and attire arrived moth-eaten and rotten, while many of the jewels had been stolen on the voyage. No sailors admitted to the theft, and the insurance wouldn’t pay for the damages. I don’t know the specifics of why they wouldn’t. I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“Scoundrels,” she heard Lord Langston whisper bitterly under his breath. Indeed, he said it so quietly that she was not certain if he had said it at all, or if her imagination had wandered wild for a moment.
“That is unfortunate.” Lord Bentley offered a sympathetic smile. It surprised her how casually he could show empathy and joy and emotion, while his friend seemed to find such states unnatural, or at least unpleasant, to display upon his handsome face.
Rose nodded. “My father did not surrender, though. He battled to win back his favor with the fine families who purchased his wares and had almost succeeded in restoring his good name by investing in another fleet that would soon arrive in London with similar cargo. But then, my mother died, a fortnight after my twelfth birthday.”
“Goodness, how you have suffered,” Lord Bentley said softly, while Lord Langston fiddled with his cravat, the cables of muscle and sinew tightening beneath the thin skin of his throat as though he were holding his breath. Or holding something in.
“He was so drowned in his grief that he didn’t go to collect the goods from the docks. They waited as long as they could, but weeks passed, and he still didn’t come. So, they sold on his portion to the highest bidder,” Rose continued. “He lost the money he invested, which was almost everything we had left, and had nothing to show for it. After that, he sold our apartments and moved us into the Southwark lodgings and proceeded to spend all the money from the sale on every bottle of liquor he could find.”
“And card tables.” Lord Langston’s jaw clenched.
Rose held back tears. “Yes, and those. At first, I hoped he would emerge from his pit of despair at some point, once enough time had passed for him to look once more to the future. But he never did. I think he sought my mother in the bottom of every bottle and in the thrill of a win or a loss.”
Lord Bentley gave a low whistle. “You have a flair for the poetic, Miss Parker.”
“I sought comfort in poetry and prose for many years after my mother passed and my world turned upside down, but then my father sold my books, so I had to conjure my own. But I do not profess to be any great talent at it. I leave that to the Romantics.” She observed her hands, so arthritic and calloused from endless hours at the sewing table. Once, they had held a quill with such dexterity that the ink had flowed across a page like a slender dancer, executing every pirouette and twirl to perfection.
“Do you hear that, Captain?” Lord Bentley gave his friend a playful nudge. “She is an admirer of those wastrels you despise.” He turned back to Rose. “For my part, I could read Byron and Shelley and Keats until my eyes ached.”
Rose cleared her throat. “I much prefer Wordsworth, My Lord.”
The slightest hint of a smirk turned up the corner of Lord Langston’s upper lip. “As do I, Miss Parker. I always refrain from casting him into the same mire as those other degenerates. He is far more than a ‘Romantic.’ He is a visionary.”
