by L G Rollins
Brox gave her a nod. “Very well. I leave him in your capable hands.” His gaze slid over to Jasper and darkened.
Tressa thought she heard Jasper gulp. But perhaps that was just her own wishful thinking.
Christina didn’t utter anything coherent as Brox, still in his wet suit, led her from the room. Jasper stayed silent after Brox and Christina had left and the stillness settled around him and Tressa. Tressa eyed her brother, jaw working wordlessly. If he’d been any other man, she would have sunk her fist in his face.
Perhaps she still should. After all, he had humiliated her. If the pictures he’d taken ever made their way into the broadsheets, there would be very real consequences for Westwood.
Then again, he was her brother.
But brothers needed to be raised with a firm hand.
Only, Jasper was already grown. She wasn’t looking at a ten-year-old lad. Her brother was more than thirty, which made the stunt all the more ludicrous and unacceptable.
“Well, say something,” Jasper muttered.
“I’m trying to decide if I should yell at you, or just punch you.”
He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “You yelled at me a lot growing up. Guess it didn’t stick.”
“So I should punch you?”
“Who knows? Maybe it would work better?” His voice tipped upward, as though he was either asking a question or cringing in anticipation of her fist.
Tressa picked up one of the pictures and waved it in his face. “Did you set this up? The meeting, the buckets, everything?”
Jasper pushed the image away. “Only the buckets. I happened across Miss Brown this afternoon while you were out with Brox. All I knew was that you two had something going on. Miss Brown filled in the rest.”
What had he been thinking? “That meeting with the perpetrator was important. You don’t even like Christina.”
“She’s not half bad.” Jasper glanced to the side as though re-thinking his statement. “Well, not in small doses, anyway.”
Tressa let out a long, loud growl. “How could you, Jasper? You scared away our one chance of speaking with the perpetrator. Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was? We both were?”
Jasper’s gaze dropped to his feet.
“There were reporters there. Reporters. If they print something about this in the broadsheets it could damage Westwood’s reputation. They’re already hurting for supporters.”
Jasper’s brows hardened into a single line across his forehead. “I don’t care about Westwood. The devil can burn the whole blasted building for all I care.”
“How can you say that? If it hadn’t been for Westwood, you and I would have died on the streets.”
“Well, maybe we would have been better off.”
Tressa stared at her brother. Did he really feel that way? Had life been so horrid that he wished it had ended decades ago? “Jasper?”
He ran first one hand, then the other through his hair. It was rather long. And, now that she studied him harder, he had circles under his eyes.
Tressa rested a hand against his arm. “Are you in trouble?”
He chuckled, but it was mirthless. “No. I have more money, more friends, more everything than ever before.” He turned and rested both hands against the top of the long table. Dropping his head low, he gave it a shake. “And you blame me for taking fake, non-posed images.”
“Pardon me?” What did fake images have to do with dumping buckets of water over people and spoiling their chance at capturing the perpetrator?
Jasper snatched up one of his photos. It was of a young woman with her nose buried in a bouquet of flowers, eyes closed. “This. This is posed, Tressa. But, no, that’s not good enough for you. You like your facts hard.”
Dropping that image, he picked up another, this one of her and Brox dripping wet. “So, what about this one, huh? This wasn’t posed. This was real. But that’s still not good enough, is it?”
He threw it down so hard, the image hit the table at an angle and bounced away.
Tressa’s voice matched his. “What you did was childish and irresponsible.”
“What I did was capture a real moment. What I did was face the issue head on.”
“What?”
“I wanted a shot of surprise. So I got one. It’s more than you’re willing to do.”
Tressa felt her own brow harden. “I always face things head on.”
He stuck his chin out. “Like Westwood?”
“Yes, like Westwood. They need help and I am helping them.”
“Have you told Brox about the hallway, then?” Jasper unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve and pushed it up his arm, well past the elbow. Criss-crossing, pale scars stood out against his black skin, up near his shoulder. “Have you told him about our experiences with Westwood?”
Tressa’s tone hardened. “What would be the point?” She hadn’t spoken of her more painful childhood memories, not ever. Now, after two decades away from Westwood, she didn’t see any reason to start speaking of them now.
Jasper pulled his sleeve back down, his voice lowering, but still firm. “He doesn’t know, you realize. None of the new members have any idea why half the board was let go.”
That was ridiculous. “How could they not know?”
“Someone paid the others to keep it all hush-hush. The broadsheets reported the lay-offs as a result of financial mismanagement.”
“Oh, there was mismanagement happening all right,” Tressa muttered.
“True. But it wasn’t the money they were mismanaging.” Jasper picked up the picture of the woman and the bouquet and held it out to Tressa once more. “You got angry that I would pose a picture and then present it in such a way that it appeared to be an authentic moment. A snapshot of real life.”
Tressa took the picture and looked at it harder. He was right. She had gotten pretty mad at him the other day for faking his images and trying to convince people life was so posh and clean. “Young women smell bouquets every day. I don’t understand why you couldn’t take an actual impromptu picture.”
“People want to imagine their lives as more glamorous than that.” He pointed at the picture. “There were several half-dead flowers in the bouquet. But people don’t want to see that, so I removed them. The sun was bright and kept casting harsh spots across the woman’s neck and emphasizing her large nose, so I had to put up a sheet to soften the light.”
“You shouldn’t fix the image like that. People need to see reality for what it is.”
“You need to make them see reality for what it is.” Jasper rested a hip against the table. “You’re presenting money to the board as if you love Westwood. As though there are no dark shadows looming just out of sight. As if everything were as lovely and simple as a woman with a bouquet.”
Tressa shoved the image back at him. “If you ever get between me and helping those children again, I swear, brother or no, you’ll regret it.” Spinning on her heel, Tressa stomped out of the room, away from Jasper, and far from thoughts of their past.
CHAPTER NINE
Tressa ate breakfast alone.
Three days ago, after their argument, Jasper had slipped a note under her door while she was drying off and readying for bed. There wasn’t much to it, only that he was leaving. He didn’t say where he was going or how long he would be away. He only said he was leaving and that she could stay in the townhouse as long as she liked.
He hadn’t even promised he’d come back at all.
Tressa spooned another lump of unsweetened porridge into her mouth. She had considered frying up some of the bacon she’d found in the ice box, but she didn’t feel like eating anything fancy.
Unsweetened porridge had been enough for her as a girl; it was enough today.
Jasper’s accusations still swam through her mind. At first, she had been angry—how dare he accuse her of being as insincere as some fake, non-posed image? But, the more she thought about it, the more she could see the roots of his accusation.
Tress
a Wimple, who had always prided herself on facing problems head on, was skirting the issue at hand.
She let her spoon drop into the empty bowl. It clanked loudly, echoing through the silent space. Gears above, she hoped Jasper would come home soon. They’d both suffered through much, but they’d always had each other.
Of course they had always fought and grumbled occasionally, less often as they’d grown up, but there was never any question as to whether or not they would have each other’s backs. Where had he gone? Jasper had done well lately; his art was becoming something of a rage in London. But she knew he didn’t have enough for a second house.
She needed to clear her head. Tressa stood abruptly and, after washing her dishes, pulled on a practical jacket and strode out the front door.
The streets were mostly empty—it was still too early for a fashionable stroll. Tressa wandered first down one street and then another until she turned a corner and stopped.
A large motorcar was parked near the curb. She recognized that motorcar; it was Brox’s. Which meant—she glanced at the building that loomed over the car—sure enough, she’d wound her way over to Westwood.
Gads, stupid unconscious mind, driving her toward the one place she really wanted to avoid.
Tressa stared up at the wide doors. Jasper had accused her of feigning love for this awful place. He didn’t fully understand, though. As terrible as life in Westwood had been, it was certainly better than life on the streets. Without Westwood, dozens of children would be left with nowhere to go. Jasper was a grown man; he ought to understand as much without her spelling it out for him.
She glanced over her shoulder at the stationary motorcar. A driver sat inside, his hat askew and a broadsheet spread over the steering wheel.
Hadn’t Brox’s motorcar hummed rather off key a few days ago? She’d ridden around with him for quite a while, as they gathered the right clothing items to blend in before heading over to Rayden’s. She was certain she’d noticed something off with the motor.
That’s what she needed today—a motor to work on. A machine in need of care. Pulling her jacket off and pushing her sleeves up, Tressa strode toward the motor car and opened the hood.
The driver jumped in his seat at the banging of metal and then stumbled out of the door.
“What are you doing? Step away—”
“Hello again,” she interrupted, giving the driver a smile. It probably looked more menacing than pleasing, but she wasn’t in the best mood and so it would have to be enough. “Brox asked me to take a look at his engine. I noticed something was off last time we rode together.”
A bit of a fib; Brox hadn’t actually asked her to look at his motorcar. But, had she told him about the sound, he probably would have.
Tressa ducked her head lower, closer to the motor, ending her conversation with the driver. The engine was clean, she’d give the driver that much. At least he wasn’t a complete pigeon-brain.
“Hey, Seawoman Wimple.”
Tressa glanced up at the cheerful greeting. Michael, the boy who’d helped her in the boiler room, waved back, a grin across his face. At least someone was having a good day. She had truly enjoyed showing the eager young man around the boiler room, teaching him the basics. His presence was just what she needed now.
“Hello, Michael,” she called back. Tressa pulled a small wrench from her pocket. There were benefits to always carrying at least a few tools around. “Care to help me?”
***
“Turn the engine over again,” Tressa called to the driver.
With an impatient sigh, the man dropped his broadsheet onto the seat beside him and stuck the key back in the ignition.
Michael took half a step back and rested his hands against his hips. Tressa avoided touching her own clothing. Michael would never be able to scrub out the black stain he’d just put on his breeches. Not that it mattered. One couldn’t become a mechanic and stay clean.
The engine hummed, then a whirling started.
“Hear that?” she asked.
Michael’s brow creased. “Yeah, sounds like it’s coming from over there.” He pointed toward the back of the engine and off to the left.
“I agree,” Tressa shouted over the noise. “All right. Shut her off.”
The driver twisted the key and the engine died. Without waiting for further instruction, he pulled the broadsheet back up, muttering something about a waste of time.
“I’m guessing a bolt has gotten a bit loose,” Tressa explained to Michael. Together they leaned over the warm engine.
“Hello, Michael,” a light voice came from behind them.
Michael startled. Tressa was close enough to the young man to feel him clench up and then instantly relax. She loved that he was so enthralled with the engine to have forgotten the world going on around them.
Michael pulled back and stood up straight. “Hello, Suzie.”
Tressa stood as well. She could have tightened the bolt first—it was not as though it was a difficult job—but she’d rather wait and let Michael do it.
Suzie looked to be about Michael’s age, with brown hair and big brown eyes. Judging by the way she peered up at Michael, she had quite a thing for him.
“You missed lessons this morning.” There was no reprimand in the girl’s tone, only honest concern. “Mr. Broxholme didn’t know where you were and I was worried you had taken ill or something.”
Michael’s grease-covered hand flew to his forehead. “Lessons! Ah, blast.” He glanced over at Tressa. “I guess I got kind of wrapped up in things here.”
“Don’t worry,” Tressa said. “I’ll speak with Mr. Broxholme for you. He can’t be too angry since you fixed his motorcar.”
“You fixed it?” Suzie asked, her tone full of awe.
Michael turned red and his hand dropped away from his face, revealing the new, dark smear he’d just left on his forehead.
“That’s wonderful,” Suzie praised.
Michael didn’t say anything, but buried his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders raising nearly up to his ears at the compliment.
Tressa turned back to the engine as Suzie continued on with her extolment. Michael was a smart young man and he’d make a competent mechanic someday. He only needed to learn not to get grease over everything between now and then. That being said, it didn’t seem as though Suzie minded.
Tressa placed her hands along the rim of the engine and leaned forward a bit. Oh, to be a young man, to have the grease on your hands only serve as proof of ability rather than evidence that you’ll never fit society’s mold.
Footfalls sounded from Westwood’s front steps. “Michael, we missed you in class today.”
“Sorry, Mr. Broxholme, sir,” Michael sputtered.
“He was taking a different kind of lesson,” Tressa said, still under the hood.
Brox rounded the motorcar and smiled at her. “I’m glad to hear his time wasn’t wasted.”
Michael didn’t seem to believe he would be let off so easily. “I’ll work hard and catch up, sir. See if I don’t. And your motorcar sounds much better now. If ever you need help with the engine again, I’m your man.”
Brox turned his smile to the young man. “Thank you. I’m sure Suzie can fill you in on today’s lesson.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Michael backtracked.
Tressa watched the two youngsters disappear back inside Westwood. Though Michael had clearly been concerned about missing his lesson, he wasn’t scared. Not like someone who was frequently beaten or whipped, like someone who knew what it felt like to have food withheld. Westwood was improving. It filled Tressa’s heart to see the evidence.
If only Jasper could see the same thing—there was nothing wrong with donating her money to the orphanage.
The driver pulled himself out of the motorcar and approached her and Brox. “Sir,” he said in a tight tone. “She insisted, despite the fact that the motor was running quite smoothly before she ever stuck her head inside.”
“It’s all right, Rupert,” Brox said. “I trust her.”
Rupert let out an unapologetic harrumph.
Tressa coughed to prevent herself from laughing out loud. Brox may trust her, but Rupert certainly did not.
“Tell you what,” Brox said to the driver. “You’ve been here all morning, and you are no doubt hungry. Head inside and tell Cook I’ve said you can help yourself to a couple of her biscuits.”
Rupert rolled his eyes and, with hands clasped behind his back, stomped up the stairs.
“He’s a real charmer, that one,” Tressa said once the door to Westwood was closed again.
Brox chuckled. “I’m afraid he was one of the unlucky members of the upper echelon who fell on hard times and had to resort to working. Rupert forgot to leave his bored-with-life pretense behind when he was hired as a driver.”
The thought of pretenses only brought Jasper to mind and Tressa let out a sigh. She hoped he was all right, wherever he’d decided to go.
Brox reached an arm along the frame of the motorcar so that it wound between her and the engine. “What did I say wrong this time?”
Tressa shook her head. “Just worried about Jasper.” She took a half-step away from the motorcar and reached for a cloth to wipe her hands on.
Oh, blast. Her hand paused just above her breeches pocket. She hadn’t brought anything with her. When she’d left the town house that morning, she hadn’t exactly planned on working on an engine. Yes, she’d brought a few tools out of habit, but apparently her Jasper-worried brainbox hadn’t extended efforts far enough to realize she would have been wise to bring a cloth as well.
Brox pulled a white handkerchief from his vest pocket and held it out to her.
She glanced at it, one eyebrow raised. “If I touch that, it will never be the same again.”
Brox only held it out further. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve been working on my motorcar after all.”
Tressa took the handkerchief and began wiping her hands. Sure enough, large black streaks came off, staining the fabric.
Brox leaned back against his motorcar, both hands resting to either side of him. “You did well with Michael.”
