by Renée Dahlia
“Yes. Because I’ve noticed that the staff at your bank are a good reflection of the population in London, with people from different creeds and ethnic backgrounds.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand how that helps.” To convince her grandfather that women—herself in particular—could also be good enough at mathematics and finances to work in a banking environment had been a lifelong, difficult journey. If this project was about women, the system at her bank still had a long way to go to be equitable on that front. They’d made a good start, but it was something Rosalie had remind her managers to think about every single time they made an employment decision. Don’t dismiss a potential mathematician because she might get married, or some such nonsense.
“I want to employ people who are open minded and won’t shun a labourer simply because of gender, race, or any other factor. You appear to have achieved this at Sanderson and Sons, and I hope that experience can provide support to this project along the same lines.”
Rosalie’s breath caught in her throat and she nearly spluttered on a cough. “Did you just compliment me?”
“Just because we have had our personal differences in the past, doesn’t preclude me from stating the truth when it matters.”
“Personal differences?” They’d never discussed that night and Rosalie had a sudden urge to apologise for running away, for losing her head when it should’ve just been a bit of fun.
“Yes. It was a long time ago, and honestly, we’ve managed to work together over the past six years without it being an issue.”
“It?”
Priya glared at her. “Don’t be obtuse, Rosalie.” The use of her first name in such a tone sent a cold chill down Rosalie’s spine.
“I was going to apologise for leaving that night, but I won’t. You walked out of that room as if it didn’t matter to you.” And Rosalie wasn’t going to admit how much it hurt, even though she could rationalise that Priya was too young to settle down. She wanted to be wanted as much as she longed for Priya and her sensational body. One orgasm was not enough.
“That I left the room before you fled from the house isn’t much of an excuse for you leaving the whole house without saying a word. And trust me. It’s not relevant. I’m not mad at you for leaving.”
Rosalie pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “You aren’t?” It took a moment to realise what Priya implied. “But you are mad at me for something?”
“You didn’t become the boss of one of London’s richest banks without having a decent brain.” Priya’s sarcastic note hovered in the air.
“What did I do wrong?”
“Not here.” Priya marched along the road, her hips swaying slightly, and Rosalie was left behind to contemplate what convoluted disaster Priya might have concocted. This was why she didn’t have sex with women who were too young to know their own desires—it wasn’t worth the emotional trouble—and now Priya had held a grudge over some unknown slight for six years. Six bloody years. She was too old and jaded to deal with this nonsense.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?” Rosalie whipped around to see a young woman standing outside a front door. Paint peeled off the door, but the woman didn’t show the same degradation. She was smartly dressed as was the child holding her hand.
“I overheard you talking and I guess the rumours are true? They are knocking down our houses? What will happen to us?”
Rosalie could easily fob the question off to Priya, but that wasn’t fair even if it was tempting. “I’m surprised you haven’t had any formal communication about this yet.” Hadn’t Priya mentioned she’d been working on planning for over six months now?
“There have been some letters, but I’m afraid I don’t read.”
“I can read them for you.” Rosalie wanted to call Priya back. So much for caring about the people who lived here. If they couldn’t read the communications, there would be a revolt when the first bricks were demolished. The woman nodded and ducked inside the house. A surprisingly refreshing scent of citrus filled the air, a reminder of Priya’s orange blossom perfume, and when the woman returned, Rosalie asked her about it.
“Orange peels make an excellent cleaner. Here are the letters.”
Rosalie took them. “My name is Miss Sanderson, and the other woman over there is Miss Howick.”
“You are both Miss? No husbands?”
“No husbands.”
“That’ll save you some heart ache, I’m sure of it. My name is Mrs Smith.”
Rosalie quickly read the letters. “Well, Mrs Smith, these letters are not about the proposed building project. They are simply advertising notices for a brand of medicine that is essentially snake oil. You are better off for not being able to read them.”
“Please don’t condescend to the people who live here. I am well aware of the level of literacy on this street, and I intend to speak directly to everyone about any changes that will occur in the near future.” Priya’s voice was strong and Mrs Smith’s eyes opened wide.
“I love your car.” The child spoke for the first time, and Priya bent down to his level.
“It’s a 1912 Rover Twelve Clegg open tourer. Would you like to sit in it?”
The child looked up at his mother. “Can I?”
“If it is no trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. The young lad is welcome to come and have a look.”
“My name is George.”
“Well George, how about you jump in my car with Miss Sanderson?” Priya managed to neatly make the child and Mrs Smith smile, while putting her in an awkward position. Rosalie couldn’t help but admire the snide gesture, even as she was effectively sent away from the more interesting conversation.
“Of course. Come along.” She held out her hand, and the child placed his in it. His hand was clean, not the sticky mess she’d been expecting, and she relaxed a little. She opened the door and the child climbed in, making excited noises that meant she couldn’t hear what Priya was telling Mrs Smith, but from the growing smile on Mrs Smith’s face, the news had to be positive.
Chapter 3
“A long day, Miss Howick?” Mr Sharma asked as he took her trench coat. He’d been the butler of their London house for five years, ever since Mr Clemton had retired. As she stepped into the house and went through her usual routine, Priya finally began to relax. It shouldn’t have taken until now. The rest of the day had gone well. Mrs Smith was happy to introduce them to some of the long term residents, and after many conversations, Priya had a much better understanding of the needs of those whose homes would be demolished. She’d driven Miss Sanderson back to the bank, then taken the long way home, opening up the car’s engine and letting her roar a little. It was a luxury to feel the wind through her hair, even if it would take some time and care to detangle it now. Mr Sharma’s son looked after her car, and Mr Sharma Junior was always warning her not to wear clothing that might dangle out of the car and get caught in the wheels, but her hair wasn’t long enough for that to be a danger.
“Yes, rather.”
“Mr Flannery rang again. I informed him of your wishes.”
Priya nodded, not wanting to think of the man who refused to take no for an answer. “Thank you.”
“Shall I send dinner to your room?”
Priya nodded. “Oh, yes, that sounds marvellous. I have some work to finish off.” It was an excuse. What she really needed was a good long hot bath and time to think about Rosalie’s surprising revelation. She’d just left after they’d had sex without talking to anyone, while Priya had listened to people’s chatter and she seemed genuinely confused when Priya wasn’t upset that she’d left, as if she didn’t understand why Priya was upset. Rosalie’s reaction made Priya doubt whether she was right to be so upset at Rosalie at all. Priya had listened to gossip, and assumed the words attributed to Rosalie were the truth. Why wouldn’t she automatically assume the other young lady in the drawing room that night was telling the truth? The comment about Rosalie only car
ing for her beloved bank aligned with Priya’s preconceived ideas, but if it’d been a lie... Did that mean Rosalie had wanted to be with Priya just for her body, not her money or connections?
Priya gripped the wooden handrail on the edge of the stairs. Better that than rub her breastbone. Did it mean Priya had held a grudge for six years for no reason? Blast. She might owe Rosalie an apology. How humbling.
“Why the scowl?”
Priya paused on the stairs at her brother’s taunt. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Ashwin stood two steps below her, eye to eye, with his black hair ruffled by his fingers. He had two bad habits; dragging his hands through his hair when he was frustrated, and teasing his baby sister—her.
“Spare me from older brothers who need to fix everything.”
Ashwin grinned. “That implies something needs fixing. Come with me.” He grabbed her hand and she wrenched it back. She was hardly going to admit that she did have a problem; she had to eat humble pie and the very idea of it made her shudder purely because her apologising to Rosalie would change the balance of how they treated each other. It opened up possibilities, sensual ones, that Priya couldn’t reconcile with her sense of independence. Pah, she was torn between wanting to see if kissing Rosalie was as good as she remembered, and between not wanting to risk the life she’d built since then. She was content. Occasionally, she might wonder what it would be like to have a partner, a life companion, like her friends Nell and Luciana did. Someone to share her worries with, but the notion soon faded because having to share meant compromise.
“Just because you are two years older than me, doesn’t mean you get to force me to go with you.”
“You’ll like this.” Having a bossy brother was more than enough. A lover would be another person in her life who wanted a piece of her, and she had plenty of family already.
“If that’s true, darling brother—” She glanced at the ridiculous face he was making and bit the inside of her cheek to prevent a laugh. “—then I’d come without needing to be dragged.”
Ashwin dropped her hand and laughed. “Fine. Come to Williams Variety Hall tonight with me. I know you love it.”
“I...” Priya couldn’t think of any reason why she might not go. She loved musical performance, especially the theatre, but she really needed time to mull over her Rosalie problem. “I’m already going out tomorrow night to see Therese’s first performance.” Her friend was a trained violinist and she was playing with a local orchestra tomorrow at the Century Theatre. All their friends were going to support Therese, who hadn’t played in public for years.
“We are young, Priya. Rich and free. The war is over finally. Why not go out every night?” Ashwin’s eyes were a little too bright.
She shoved him on the arm. “Who are you and what have you done with my uptight brother?”
“Uptight?” Ashwin paused. “Fine. I’ve met someone and I want you to see.”
“To see or to meet?”
“Both.” Ashwin sounded uncharacteristically uncertain and she understood, in a sudden rush that made her want to cackle.
“You’ve fallen in lust with a Gaiety Girl, haven’t you? It’s not like you to follow a trend.” So many men of consequence around town thought themselves in love with the performing dancers that it’d become a bit of a joke in the newssheets.
Ashwin’s cheeks darkened with a blush. “It’s more than that.”
“She just wants your money.” It was the one concern the family always had, the one thing they’d had drummed into them. When their mother was their age, she’d nearly been forced into an unwanted marriage by her step-mother for money, and even though she’d found love away from that dreadfulness, it had informed the way they’d all been taught about the world. People’s motives couldn’t be trusted. Having money was a privilege and came with many benefits. The problem was that people wanted those benefits for themselves which altered the way people saw them; not as people in their own rights, but as a cipher towards financial gain. They’d been taught to be so careful.
Priya breathed in sharply through her nostrils; a gasp but hidden from her brother, who thankfully was gazing up the stairwell with puppy dog eyes. It was hardly surprising that she’d believed the young lady at the Bloomsbury residence, because she reinforced everything Priya had been taught. Naturally she’d assumed Rosalie didn’t want Priya, just access to the Carlingford fortune, or at the very least, to gain influence by being close to Priya. Ever since then, Priya had been very careful about her crushes. She used her own hands for pleasure, and when she wanted companionship, she didn’t tell people her real name.
“She doesn’t know about the money. She just sees me as me.” The longing in Ashwin’s voice was utterly understandable. It was what Priya wanted too; to be seen completely as her, not as Miss Howick who was set to inherit a portion of Carlingford Enterprises. Priya paused, mulling over how to discuss this with Ashwin. He had exactly the same problem she did; the blend of hope that someone liked him for himself, and the lack of trust that a lover must be faking because they knew precisely how the Howick name was connected to Carlingford Enterprises. Rosalie had known from the moment they’d been introduced; she’d even joked about being defined by her male relatives. It’d been one of the reasons Priya had been intrigued by her. It was funny how that one comment had stuck with her for so many years.
“I will come with you.” She didn’t want to burst Ashwin’s moment of happiness. He often worked too hard, and didn’t have enough fun, and that also meant he was at risk of being wooed like this. Someone could offer him fun and he’d think it was love. She’d hate to see his heart broken by someone who didn’t care as much as he cared. She didn’t know how that felt, but with Rosalie, she’d had a taste of how it might be. Luckily, she’d found out about Rosalie’s motives quickly before she’d fallen too deep. She’d had a pinch of pain but had avoided the grander hurt of heartbreak, except now she had to reconsider whether she’d been right. It would be so easy to pretend she hadn’t figured this out; to keep Rosalie at the same distance as always and keep her heart safe. Why did she want to rebel against that?
“Thank you. I...” Ashwin leaned in closer. “I... She’s more than just a dancer, she sees the real me.”
Priya’s mouth filled with a bitter taste, like she’d sucked on a clove and her tongue was numb. She’d been wrong about Rosalie... probably. As for Ashwin, she didn’t mention the obvious—that if he hadn’t told her about his job, then it couldn’t be true that she saw the real him, not entirely. The real Ashwin was serious, a business leader who was heir to an English title. He wasn’t a man about town, seeking pleasure without consideration of others. Ashwin cared a lot and Priya was worried about him. He might irritate her but he was still her big brother.
How could a dancer understand the pressures he faced? And yet she completely understood why he hadn’t said anything about this unnamed dancer until now. Who was she to lecture Ashwin about this subject when she’d danced around the way she felt about Rosalie for years? She’d wanted to believe the young lady in the drawing room that day because it meant she didn’t have to care, that she could keep her heart safe from someone who made her feel so much. Not just that one time when Rosalie had licked her with her clever tongue, but every time they met and cagily discussed business while ignoring the crackle of heat between them.
“Give me an hour to get ready.” She tried to hide the shiver that raced up her spine with pragmatism.
“An hour!”
“Honestly, Ashwin, I’ve just arrived home from work. I haven’t eaten, and I’m not here for your whims. If it matters to you that I meet your nameless dancer, then you will need to wait. At least until I’ve brushed my hair and am wearing the appropriate clothing.” She couldn’t go to the theatre in her business jacket. It simply wasn’t done.
“Her name is Eliza.” Ashwin’s voice echoed in the hallway as she paced towards her room.
***
By the time they’d arrived at the theatre, the opening singer was crooning a modern tune with a small jazz band to accompany her. She was quite good, a soprano without the sharp edges. The way she stood and moved on the stage reminded Priya of Rosalie; they were of a similar height and build too although the singer had a rounder figure. Priya blinked hard to get rid of the thought. An afternoon spent with Rosalie shouldn’t have her obsessing over every pale English rose with high cheekbones, thin nose, and silky brunette locks. She turned away from the stage and settled into the box Ashwin had hired for tonight. The evening’s refreshments were laid out on a table at the front of the box, little sandwiches, strawberries and cream, and at the side, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.
“Just one other thing.” Ashwin poured some champagne for them both.
“You make it sound like I’m not going to like this.” Priya sipped the champagne, the bubbles on her tongue a fizzy contrast to the worry in Ashwin’s tone.
“Eliza is of African descent.”
Priya shrugged. “Why should that matter in the wider context of things? Many of the Gaiety Girls from America have been the same.”
“I just wanted you to know before you met her.”
“Ashwin.” Priya leaned closer to her brother. “We are of mixed Indian and English descent. I am proud of our Indian ancestry but we both know it’s not precisely an advantage here—” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth to protest. “I know it’s not the same. We’ve grown up wealthy in England with all the advantages that go with that, and yes, our grandmother was the granddaughter of a Maharaja. I understand the class implications too. And the complex nature of India’s relationship with England.” Priya eased out a long breath. She didn’t need to explain it to Ashwin. He’d had the same upbringing and lessons about their heritage as her. They were second generation English born, in a system that liked to pretend England wasn’t still pillaging India and leaving the nation stripped off its previous wealth. “Damn it, Ashwin, I would have thought you’d give me the benefit of empathy and kindness.”
