One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “That’s encouraging,” Rose said hopefully.

  “Oh, I shan’t recover,” Mama said. “Some people manage to survive this disease, but I know I will not. I can feel my body failing, a little more each day.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rose squeezed her hand.

  Mama’s head dropped and her hair fell into her eyes. “After what I did—being unfaithful to your father and abandoning you—it’s no more than I deserve.”

  Rose blinked back her own tears. It was so odd, the way the tables had turned. Throughout her childhood, Mama had been in control. Poised, composed, and dignified. Rose had always felt so small and inconsequential in her presence. She’d yearned for Mama’s approval, lived for a moment of her attention. But Rose had learned to survive without her mother’s love. She’d relied on Olivia and Owen. More important, she’d relied on herself.

  And now, Mama was the one to be pitied. She seemed to have withered to half her original size, the disease effectively obliterating all traces of the elegant duchess she’d once been.

  Rose was in control, and what’s more, she had the answers she’d come for. She might not know all the details of Mama’s life, like whether she had missed pretend tea parties with Olivia and her, or whether she remembered the lullaby she used to sing to them at night. She didn’t know exactly what Mama had been doing for the last several years, where she’d been, or whom she’d lived with. Those sorts of questions had once kept Rose awake at night, but no longer.

  She looked into Mama’s eyes and saw the regret there. She had her answers.

  The question was, what to do now?

  Rose did not owe Mama anything. She appeared to be receiving adequate care, and Rose doubted anyone would blame her if she chose to wash her hands of the situation, say good-bye to Mama, and walk out of the hospital forever. It might even spare them both some heartache in the end. What was the point of salvaging a mother-daughter relationship just to sever it when she left for America a few days later?

  But Rose remembered all too well how it had felt to be abandoned and apparently forgotten. And she couldn’t do that to Mama.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Rose asked.

  Mama blinked her bloodshot eyes and nodded.

  “No one deserves an illness such as this. And we all deserve a second chance. We all deserve forgiveness.”

  Mama blinked several more times, then covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Though Rose was tempted to do the same, she decided they simply didn’t have time to be maudlin.

  “I’ll be in London for only a few more days,” Rose continued. “But while I’m here, I think we should get to know each other again. I can tell you all about Owen, his lovely wife, Anabelle, and their darling baby—your granddaughter. I can tell you about Olivia and her dashing husband and their expedition to Egypt.”

  “Goodness.” Mama sniffled. “And what about you? Are you happily settled as well?”

  “I fear my own situation is a bit more complicated,” she said vaguely. “Sometimes life forces us to make difficult choices.”

  “The difference between you and me,” Mama said, “is that I made decisions selfishly, thinking only of my own desires and whims. You, Rose, are generous to a fault. You give no consideration to your own needs and far too much to the needs of others. That fact that you’re sitting here beside me now is proof.”

  Rose swallowed the knot in her throat and blew out a long breath. “I suppose we could debate these sorts of things all morning, and I’m more than happy to do so. But I think we must put first things first.”

  Mama’s brow wrinkled.

  “Let’s fix your hair, shall we? I should probably fix my own while I’m at it. Have you a brush?”

  Charles tried not to disturb Rose as he climbed out of the bed the next morning. She’d spent three hours at her mother’s bedside yesterday, and the reunion had left her happy, contemplative, and exhausted. After the physical and emotional demands of the last week, she could probably use an entire day of sleep. He tiptoed around the tiny room they’d let above Patrick’s shop, gathering his clothes and dressing as quietly as possible. Rose lay on her side, an auburn halo of curls on her pillow. Her slightly parted lips begged to be kissed, and he was sorely tempted to forget about his plan and climb back into bed beside her.

  But he wanted to do this for her—to let her know what she meant to him. And he couldn’t get started soon enough. Shrugging on his jacket, he stole one last look at her, angled his shoulders through the doorway, and closed the door behind him. He felt his way down the dark stairway to the ground level and swept past the curtain into the dimly lit shop. Patrick was hunched over his table, examining the inner workings of an intricate mechanical toy by the light of a candle.

  He glanced at Charles out of the corner of his eye and waved without looking up. “You’re up and about early. Preparing for your journey?”

  “Not exactly. I, ah, actually could use your advice.”

  Patrick set down his tweezers, pushed his spectacles onto the top of his head, and shot him a quizzical look. “Advice? About what?”

  “Two things. First, I need a job for the next couple of days. It doesn’t matter where it is or how much sweat is involved, but I need some quick money.”

  “I could give you a loan,” Patrick offered.

  “No,” Charles said. Too harshly, perhaps. “I need to earn it.”

  “I thought you were trying to remain out of sight.”

  “I am. I’ll use another name, do my work, and get paid.”

  Patrick nodded thoughtfully. “I have a few contacts. You said there was a second matter. Would it perchance pertain to a certain red-haired beauty?”

  Charles resisted the urge to punch the knowing grin off Patrick’s face. “I want to buy a wedding ring. Something unique and…  special.”

  “Ah, I think I can help you there.” Patrick walked behind the counter, unlocked a safe, and withdrew a velvet drawstring pouch. “These three are the finest I have,” he said, spilling a trio of rings onto a cloth on the counter. Charles moved the candle closer and looked helplessly at the sparkling, jewel-adorned bands.

  “This one,” Patrick said, holding out a ring topped with a square-shaped emerald, “came in just last week. The baroness said it had been passed down to her by her mother-in-law, and since she couldn’t abide the woman, she’d just as soon be rid of it.”

  Charles took the ring and turned it over in his hand. The stone would complement Rose’s coloring, and he could picture it on her slender finger, but something about it wasn’t her. He set it down and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Patrick picked up another band, gold and crowned with a fat ruby circled with diamonds. “A courtesan brought this in. It’s a very valuable piece, and she assured me that she earned every diamond on it—the hard way. I’d give you an excellent deal on it, of course.”

  It looked too garish for Rose, too showy for her personality. “I appreciate that, but it’s not right either.”

  Patrick raised a brow and picked up the third ring. “How about this one? The design is elegant and classical.”

  Charles inspected the tasteful, rectangular shaped sapphire, flanked by a pair of diamonds. “Where’d it come from?”

  “A gentleman sold it to me. He needed the blunt to pay off a gambling debt. I bought it for a steal.”

  “It’s nice…” Charles frowned.

  “But not for Rose,” Patrick guessed.

  “No.”

  His friend rolled his eyes. “Maybe while you’re out working today, the prince regent will waltz into my shop with something from the queen’s personal collection.”

  Charles jammed on his cap. “Give him my regards.”

  “You’ll find work at 56 Sawbush Street. Tell Jack you’re a friend of mine.”

  “Thank you. And when Rose comes down looking for me, will you let her know that I’ll be back in time to escort her to the hospital this evening?”

  �
�Aye.” As Charles strode toward the door, Patrick added, “Have a care out there. I don’t know who’s looking for you exactly, but I’d hate to see you—or your lovely fiancée—land in trouble three days before you’re bound for America.”

  “Don’t worry, I plan to lay low,” Charles said. And he hoped Rose would do the same.

  Shortly after waking, Rose dressed and ventured down to the shop to look for Charles. “Good morning, Patrick,” she said cheerfully.

  He glanced toward a customer browsing at the front of the store, raised a finger to his lips, and bustled over to her. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  “I know,” she whispered back, feeling ridiculous. “But Charles isn’t upstairs.”

  “He had to go out for a bit but said he’ll be back tonight to take you to the hospital.”

  Rose tried to hide her dismay. She’d thought they’d spend the day together, talking, shopping…  planning their future. But Charles was probably preparing for their trip. “Well then,” she said, “why don’t I assist you down here?”

  “It’s too risky. Someone might recognize you. Better if you wait for him upstairs.”

  “I could stay in the back,” she suggested. “I noticed most of the items that you’ve stored are in need of a bit of dusting or polishing.” It was a gross understatement. She could spend a week dusting and polishing items in the back room and not finish the half of them.

  “The dust is part of the ambiance,” Patrick said, as though mildly offended. “And I’d feel better if you were in your room.” The bell on the shop door rang as another man entered and walked to the counter. “I must go, but promise me you’ll stay upstairs until Charles returns.”

  “Very well.” She disliked the thought of being cooped up all day but told herself it would be good practice for their long journey across the Atlantic. She spent most of the morning pacing the length of the small room and searching for something productive to do.

  She considered writing letters to Owen and Olivia. She could seal and address them and give them to Patrick with instructions to deliver them a week after she and Charles had set sail. But she didn’t want to traipse downstairs and ask Patrick for writing supplies—he’d been quite adamant about her remaining in the room.

  Besides, just the thought of writing good-bye notes filled her with sadness. What would she say? “I’m sorry to have left you without so much as a hug, but I’m fleeing from the law. If you’re ever in America, do stop in for a visit.” How could she possibly convey the depths of her sorrow at having to leave them? The pain was unbearable, and yet necessary.

  No, she would not write the letters today.

  Instead, she walked to the room’s one window, which overlooked Cannon Street, and peeked through the curtains. In the daylight, she had an excellent view of the shops across the road. The haberdasher’s, the milliner’s, and…  Sophia’s bookshop.

  Colorful stacks of books made an enticing window display, and a sunny yellow door invited passersby to come in and browse. But it wasn’t the books that called out to Rose.

  Sophia could be in the shop at that very moment. It had been an age since she’d seen her—seen anyone from her family, for that matter. What Rose would give to spend an hour with her talking, laughing, and crying.

  It wasn’t possible. Not because she didn’t trust Sophia—she did. Rose and her half sister were alike in many ways, not the least of which was that they always seemed to be on the outside, just a bit apart from the rest. And she knew that Sophia would understand why she had broken Charles out of prison, and why they’d fled, and why she must now go to America. She would be able to explain it all to Owen and Olivia, and console them when they learned that their sister was gone. She’d make them realize that none of it was their fault and that there was absolutely nothing they could have done to fix the situation.

  But Rose couldn’t implicate Sophia, couldn’t ask her to lie to constables who might come asking questions or to keep a secret from Owen, who was probably desperately searching for Rose at that very moment.

  She swallowed and swiped at her eyes. At least she was physically close to Sophia. That would have to be enough.

  Without looking away from the window, she pulled the chair closer and sat before it, careful to keep her face mostly hidden behind the curtain. She remained there for a long time, imagining Sophia working in the shop—her efficient movements, her shrewd gaze, her encouraging smile.

  And if it made Rose a little lonelier, at least it helped to pass the hours.

  People came and went, but Rose especially liked observing the customers as they left with neatly wrapped brown parcels clutched to their chests, wide smiles splitting their faces.

  One such gentleman was leaving the shop now. He ducked out, a large package tucked under his arm as he strolled down the street. He had a kindly look about him, and she was wondering if he’d purchased a book for a child or for his wife when suddenly he stopped and turned to look behind him at—

  Sophia.

  She stood on the sidewalk behind him, without her coat, smiling and waving a man’s hat. Slender and impossibly graceful, she laughed and handed it to him.

  He took it and bowed gratefully, his cheeks flushing.

  Sophia waved away his embarrassment good-naturedly and turned to head back to her shop.

  Rose watched as Sophia walked briskly, rubbing her arms, until her simple but pretty light blue gown disappeared through the door.

  Perched on the edge of her chair, Rose held her breath as she waited to see if Sophia might reappear.

  When she didn’t, Rose rested her forehead on the windowsill and ignored the painful lump in her throat. She would not cry.

  In a few days, she’d embark on an adventure with the man she loved, and while nothing could make her happier, she had to admit—a part of her mourned the people she’d leave behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’m glad you’re back,” Patrick said. “I bought an interesting piece from an old man today. Come see.”

  Charles had spent most of the day—and the previous two—at the docks loading sacks of grain onto a ship. His back, shoulders, and arms ached like the devil, but the soreness would be well worth it if he could give Rose a ring that told her how much she meant to him.

  Something that was oddly difficult for him to express.

  He doffed his cap, shoved it under his arm, and rested his elbows on the counter to look at Patrick’s latest acquisition. There, on a scrap of black velvet, was a delicate antique ring with a square, light pink stone.

  “It’s a rose-colored diamond,” his friend said proudly.

  Charles liked it, and more important, he instinctively knew Rose would. “It’s perfect.”

  “Aren’t you curious to know who it belonged to?” Patrick asked.

  “Not really.” He’d had quite enough stories about jaded courtesans and dissolute rakes.

  Ignoring Charles’s response, Patrick launched into his tale. “A charming gentleman, frail and bent over a cane, entered the shop this morning. He said that the ring had belonged to his wife, Lord rest her soul, to whom he’d been married for thirty years. She died ten years ago, but last night she spoke to him in a dream and told him that he should sell the ring and use the money to take a little trip to the ocean, to visit the cottage where they spent their honeymoon.”

  Charles raised a brow. “Don’t be a bloody bastard.”

  Patrick held up his hands, all innocence and sincerity. “What do you mean? It’s the truth.”

  “That’s a far-fetched tale if I ever heard one.”

  “It’s what he told me. I swear it on my life.” He placed a hand on his chest. “And that’s not all. The gentleman said that nothing would make him happier than if the ring went to a young couple who were madly in love, just as he and his Beatrice had been.”

  Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much did you give him for it?”

  “A bit more than it was worth. But I wante
d him to have enough to visit the cottage by the ocean.”

  “Right, the place of their honeymoon.”

  “What?” Patrick cried. “It could be true.”

  Charles waited, giving his friend a few moments to absorb the facts.

  At last, Patrick slammed his fist on the counter. “Damn it to hell. I’ll bet he didn’t even need the blasted cane.”

  “I’ll buy the ring from you,” Charles said. “For whatever you paid him. I don’t want you taking a loss on it, especially after you’ve given us a place to stay.”

  The price Patrick quoted was a little more than he had, but Charles could make up the difference if he worked a few hours tomorrow morning before they left. “Keep it in the safe for me, and I’ll have the money for you tomorrow.”

  “It was a romantic story,” Patrick said. “You should tell Rose. It would likely melt her heart.”

  Charles snorted as he headed toward the stairs at the back of the shop. “She’s not half as gullible as you.”

  “Our last evening in London,” Rose mused. She walked beside Charles on their way to the hospital for what would be her final visit with Mama. They kept their heads covered and looked at the ground, careful to avoid the direct gazes of passersby.

  “Are you having second thoughts about leaving? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “But transitions are difficult. For me, anyhow. I will feel better once we’re on our way. It’s like we’re existing between two worlds, leaving one and going to another. We don’t really belong anywhere.”

  “We belong together.” He squeezed her hand and her stomach flipped in response.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way, and all the while Rose contemplated how much to tell Mama and how to best say good-bye. She had hinted that she would not be in London for long, avoiding most of Mama’s questions and keeping her answers intentionally vague. But Rose couldn’t delay the unpleasant task any longer.

  They entered the large front door of the hospital, braced for the smells of sickness that assaulted them. Charles escorted her upstairs to the room where Mama’s bed was, and they paused outside. “Shall I come with you this time? It might be easier.”