How ridiculous. She doesn’t even know of my existence.
“Thank God,” I mutter aloud. The thought of actually meeting Rose Gray gives me the willies. Insanity I am used to, but she’s a special case, and now that I have been privy to her private thoughts, it’s somehow worse to think of her face to face with me. And yet, hasn’t that been my goal these past few weeks? To find her?
I groan. What do I want? Maybe I only want to find her to discover her exact connection to Sam. And why would I want that? I pester myself. Blimey, this interrogation in my head is ludicrous!
I decide to force myself to submit to questioning anyway.
Why do I want to know her exact connection to Sam?
“Because you are falling in love with him, you dolt,” I mutter.
I was unsure of my next step. It was as if my life’s work was closing in on me. I had accomplished so much, but was it enough for me? Should I leave them alone, what was left of my family, or continue to destroy them, one at a time, until they were gone?
Luke wanted to be finished with them, although there was enough pent up rage in him over being shoved in a wardrobe that talking him into another confrontation with at least Israel wouldn’t have proved impossible. But he was tired, too, and worried about me. He missed our island, he said. We deserved a holiday.
I was sorely tempted, but I wasn’t sure I should leave them. It would be odd for them to travel so soon after arriving in London, but I didn’t know if their inner clocks would be ticking at a faster pace due to my interference. Would they still be here when we returned? “Just a week,” Luke pestered. “We can come back and find them again; they won’t have gone far.” We didn’t argue about it—our last row had left us careful of each other and wary of tempers—but we could not seem to agree on what was the best course of action. I wanted to stay, follow them a bit, lest they get away forever. Luke, I was beginning to think, wanted them to get away forever, not because he had any love for them, but because he wanted to move onto other things.
“What would you have us do?” he asked, the night after Emme’s funeral. “There will be no reconciliation now. Will you send your father to meet your mother?”
I wave away the notion. “I’m not convinced my father is my father. He doesn’t interest me much. And neither does Prue, so don’t get up in arms! Just Sonnet. I don’t even know why anymore. Do you think I’m obsessed, darling?”
Luke smiled at me, ruefully, and then laughed. “Only a bit. But I like it. I like you.”
“I know,” I frowned. “Stop being silly, this is serious. Wouldn’t you like a chance at retribution with the Rhode fellow?”
“I do owe Israel a little something. I never liked him, right from the start.” Luke glowered, and took out his knife to clean under his nails, something he’s always done when he’s concentrating and thinking of things. When that doesn’t relax him, he usually rubs my shoulders, but he could tell that I was in no mood to sit still. I was fidgety and anxious. Besides, rubbing my shoulders was distracting, and I needed to focus.
“See? I told you. We can’t just let them go.”
“All right. We’ll stay near them, if you like and if it means so much to you. On one condition?” He looks up from his knife and points it at me playfully.
“What?” I frown harder. Luke’s never given me conditions before. He knows I won’t tolerate them.
“I’ll let you plan whatever you like with your dreadful family; I’ll even help you accomplish whatever you decide needs to be done, but first—”
“What?”
“Marry me,” he said.
19
I can’t help but feel a twinge of happiness for Rose, though I quickly squelch it with rationality and a strong sip of very hot tea. She didn’t particularly deserve romance and happiness, not after what she had done, and yet—.
I’m incurably romantic, I suppose. I’ve read my Austen, too.
Perhaps love will turn her brain to all things pure? Sunshine, charity, hope, and puppies? Maybe a husband will calm her down. She can learn to knit, bake, shop…put down her deadly scissors and pick up some mending? Rock babies instead of pushing people off cliffs? Burn dinner instead of throwing teacups at heads?
I snort into my tea. I feel I know Rose well enough now to predict that marriage will not change her.
Luke knew her well enough, too. It sits uneasily with me her association with Jack the Ripper. Could Luke—? But no, that was taking things too far. But she spoke of moving Jack…as if he were Lost, too. And she’s forever moving Luke. Well, not in reality; only in her head, I guess.
No. I’m beginning to be fond of the fellow, even if he harbored a passionate love for a mad woman and seemed a bit dangerous himself. More than a bit, actually. But perhaps I was reading Rose’s view of him; who knew who he really was? Was he with her now? Helping her hide away? Did they marry?
I want to read on, but my inner clock is telling me to sleep. I don’t need to report to Bedlam tomorrow; it’s my day off, so I could sleep late. I yawn, and even the tea isn’t helping to keep me awake. Curiosity, as usual, kills the cat, and I turn another page.
Our wedding was a low key affair. I would have gone down to the rectory, in my homespun, red calico, and taken my vows there, but Luke wanted a wedding. Being underage and having no parents to recommend me, we did what we could do: we eloped to Gretna Green.
Luke said I deserved a dress, a real gown, with a veil and gloves and everything. He stole me flowers, too, and a ring, a beautiful ring that sparkled when I turned it to the sun, with a tiny pearl nestled in the band. I felt like a real lady, a respectable lady. I wasn’t the ragtag orphan that Old Babba grudgingly took in. I wasn’t the performing girl, embarrassed by her peers at the sideshow. I wasn’t even Golden Goose, loved and then abandoned by Solomon. I was a real, gentle lady, one worthy of respect and admiration. I dreamt of entertaining callers and pouring them tea. Better yet, having my maid pour our tea. I’d wear the finest hats and be highly regarded in the city.
At least until I ended up back at Bedlam. But I tried not to think of that on my wedding day.
The only piece of finery I balked at was the shoes: dainty, pointy, lace up boots with pearls. White, like my fine gown, and beautiful, too, but I hate shoes. Oh, I wear them when I have to, but I didn’t have to in the church that day. I married Luke barefoot, same as the day we met. He carried me in his arms when we stepped outside, just like a proper bridegroom.
I knew I looked stunning; he told me so, but I would have known even if he hadn’t. I felt stunning. My gown was so lovely, and I had washed my hair and everything. It fell nearly to my waist in shiny, yellow waves. I have never had the patience to plait it or pin it or do any of the other tens of dozens of styles other girls perfect. Of course, I never had a mother to teach me, nor an elder sister to practice on.
No matter. I have gotten along fine without them. Here I was, marrying the most handsome and intelligent man in the world. If they had been half the family they should have been, they would have been so proud. They would have been there to see my husband lift my veil and kiss me. They would have seen the priests bless us, even though I don’t think they were real priests, just witnesses who worked at the blacksmith shop. But they had eyes, they could see we were respectable folk.
I’m shocked when I find the tiny snapshot photos. I simply stare for several seconds, my mind not processing what I’m seeing.
I’ve kept some of these sewn into the hem of my red dress, but I took them out. I’ll keep them here for a bit, since I know how to get back to you if I need to. And here is the one from our wedding.
I pull them out gently. There are only three, all printed on old fashioned card portraits. They are sepia in tone, and I know it’s from their age and the ink turning. I stare at the wedding portrait first. Rose is beautiful, stunning really. Her dress is Victorian in style, and so is the veil. It looks as though all the yards of fabric could consume her if she let it, but her bearing a
nd her confidence won’t allow it. She is standing sideways, nearly turned away from the camera, and she looks over her shoulder. Flowers trail, almost drip, from her fingertips.
I kept a flower from our wedding. Isn’t it beautiful?
There is a pressed flower, or what’s left of it, glued to the next page. It looks as though a small child has been practicing her pasting skills. It has been painstakingly done, but that has not saved it: it is really only the spiny remains of the stalk. It, too, will be gone soon, especially if I keep carrying the diary around and opening and shutting it. I feel guilty for the destruction of the flower; I can’t even tell what species it once was. Hastily, I try to put the disintegrating pieces that had crumbled into the deep recesses of the diary’s fold back together. It’s hopeless. They are one touch away from dust. I feel a chill, and can nearly sense Rose’s disapproval. A palpable thing, it looms and chastises me, and never before have I felt so sad and miserable, not so suddenly and immediately anyway. It’s as though she leans over me, upset and frustrated that I have ruined her pretty flower.
The other photos are taken from her days at the sideshow, days I had hoped she had only imagined. She is a tiny thing in a tutu, her hair curled and wild about her head. Her ribbons on her ballet slippers lace up to her knees. In the first picture, she is merely posing. In the second, she holds a knife. It’s a chilling photo, at least to me, not the least reason that it is at least 40 years older than the wedding portrait, and yet it’s unmistakably the same girl, only less than ten years apart. On the back of the one with the knife, someone has penned 1846. They could be mistaken, of course. That’s nearly one hundred years ago.
I don’t want to read anymore, and I set aside the diary and crawl into bed, heavy as a body made of lead.
I don’t want to think about the fact that earlier I had come to the conclusion that this entry was made recently. If that were so, a pressed flower would hardly have turned to dust, not if the diary had been sitting in with Dante this whole time.
It’s almost as though the flower really is half a century old. What is going on?
********************
The next morning, I could kick myself for having spent an entire evening with Sam and still not finding out his residence. Not that I could march right up to his step necessarily; I may not be wonderful at being a lady, but I do have some standards. But really, I still have more questions: mainly, what the heck happened to Luke, Rose’s husband? I am beginning to worry about the bloke. Had a lover’s quarrel changed things? She wasn’t above murder, and I am beginning to be concerned for Luke’s safety, or had she “traveled” without him, this time losing him entirely?
I’m not prepared to entertain that last notion, not really. I’ll dwell on murder before I dwell on fantasies.
I debate going to the hospital even though it’s my day off. I wouldn’t mind talking to Nora again, but the threat of Miss Helmes with never ending spoons to polish, or Mack, rubbing in his surgeon tasks, wins out. I would just end up being sucked into the hospital, as usual, and there would go my only day off in weeks. I shouldn’t waste it. I’d visit Mina for a bit, and if I wanted to, I’m sure she would know how to find Sam.
My mind made up, I walk briskly. It’s a very long walk to Mina’s, and if I were smart, I would have rang her and asked her to send round the car, but it’s a lovely enough morning, and I can use the exercise and the fresh air. Sometimes I spend so much time confined to Bedlam’s walls, I worry my pasty skin will make me look like a cadaver when I finally emerge in public. My hair, freshly washed, is doing its freshly washed thing: being wild and out of control and blowing about my head. I hadn’t braided it this morning. After the loveliness of Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish had shown me the error of my ways, how could I? I’ll let Mina fix it for me; she’ll know all the latest styles. And we’ll see then if Sam would tease me about being a child! He’d be swooning and heaving his own bosom at me for a change.
I set my pace to something brisker and pull my shawl tighter as I walk. It’s a windy morning, and suddenly a fat drop of rain hits me square on the nose. I scowl. Before I am halfway to the Dobson’s estate, I am completely drenched. And after all that work, drying my hair in the freezing cold last night. Wretched weather! What I wouldn’t give to be on Rose and Luke’s island!
The imaginary one? I chide myself. Yes, that one. I’d imagine up enough sunshine to turn my skin nut brown.
I knock forcefully, and when it takes a minute for anyone to answer, I find myself wishing Mina lived in a flat like mine, where I could barge in at any time. I’m tempted to anyway, sopping wet and shivering, but when I push on the door it is already being opened by the butler. I don’t wait for an invitation, but step in quickly.
“Hello, Danvers. I’m going to show myself to the parlor, if you don’t mind. Is there a fire in there?” I’m already nearly there, and I have to turn my head to speak to him behind me.
Of course, Danvers, being the perfect butler, impeccably trained, and ever so proper, doesn’t show emotion, though he’s probably appalled at my behavior. He merely nods his stiff head and doesn’t blink. Blinking is beneath him.
“Very good, miss. I will alert Miss Dobson, Miss.”
“Thank you, Danvers,” I call, cheerfully, from inside the parlor.
I’ve only been in here one other time, and it was during a sewing circle Mina made me come to. I had to sit for hours, plucking at thread and trying to make sense of all of her friend’s petty conversations. Well-raised, bored rich girls don’t really talk about the same things poor, bored orphan girls talk about. By the time the afternoon was up, we had two quilt tops for charity, and I wanted to kill myself. I had decided I didn’t enjoy charity in any form: receiving it or bestowing it. It probably reserves me a special place in Purgatory, but alas, it’s how I feel.
Now there is no one here, and a lovely fire is burning merrily. I plop down, grateful, and toss my drenched shawl aside on the floor. It smells like a wet dog, or perhaps that’s me. I pull off my shoes and get my frigid toes as close to the flames as I dare. I love a good fire.
“Lizzie? Is that you?” Mina’s voice is surprised. “What are you doing here? Gracious, girl, did you walk?”
“Sorry, can’t speak. Defrosting. Needs all my focus.”
“You silly thing,” she says, fondly, and bends down to rub my arms briskly. “I would have sent the car; you know that.”
“Well, it didn’t start out raining. It seemed like a sensible thing to do at the time. Isn’t your sewing circle always harping about young ladies getting exercise?” My teeth chatter.
“Yes, wealthy, complacent young ladies. The kind who sit around their mansions all day, eating. Like me! Not like you.”
“You don’t sit around all day,” I yawn. “You work harder than most of us who are actually employed for a living.”
She looks uncomfortable, like I knew she would. “Well, I like to be busy, that’s all. Does Miss Helmes know you’re here?” Now she’s moved on from uncomfortable, to concerned.
“No, why? It’s my day off. I’m free!” I throw my arms out in an exaggerated fashion. I’m sure Miss Helmes is doing the same, somewhere. There isn’t too much love lost between the two of us, or perhaps all the love between us is lost? I’ve never quite understood the expression.
“Then we’ll make a whole day of it,” Mina answers, kindly. Sometimes I do feel like her personal charity, just a little bit, but somehow I don’t mind too much. I should; it really should bother me, yet somehow it is worth the price to have her friendship. She doesn’t mean to make me feel like a charity case, and besides, I’m quite certain she likes me and treasures my friendship as well. It’s simply awkward for the rest of the world when the two of us are pals. Plus, she has to put up with nasty looks from her mother, and those cannot be underestimated. “First, let’s get you something to eat. I know you; you’ve probably had nothing but your tea this morning?”
“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong!
I found a jar of marmalade in the back of my cupboard when I was toasting bread.”
“Did you eat some?” Mina puts her hands on her hips, and eyes me sternly.
“Um, I think I forgot, no. I was distracted by my thoughts, I’m afraid. So, yes, please, food would be lovely.” My mind wanders back to last night’s meal, when I was so stuffed with steak and butter beans, that I thought I’d never be hungry again. Although, Sam did finish my plate.
“Let me ring for some refreshments.” She crosses the room, but tosses her next words over her shoulder at me. “What were you distracted by?”
“Hmm? Oh. Nothing much, really, just a little thing. I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested at all… Forget I said anything.” I drift off, knowing she’d take the bait.
“What? What happened last night?—Yes, will you bring a tray of refreshments, please? Thank you.” Danvers nods and is gone again before I’ve even finished laying out my socks in front of the fire. My, but he is efficient. “Well? What was your big distraction?”
I debate keeping her tenterhooks a tad longer, but her fresh faced, eager expression makes me laugh. I give in promptly. “Mr. Connelly took me to dinner, and you’ll never believe who we saw! Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish. They even talked to us, Mina! It was wonderful. Oh, they signed photographs for me. Blast! I should have brought them to show you.”
“You’d only have drowned them. Here, give me those socks. You’re going to burn my house down.”
“They were even prettier in person, honestly. Though Sam was not impressed.”
“Sam, is it? Hmm.” Mina raises her eyebrows, suggestively. “How far we’ve come.”
Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 Page 15
