When Imogen next speaks, her feigned whisper sounds more like a shout, and it feels like a punch to the gut. “The scandal in Bretton.”
The breath is stripped from my lungs, and my heart slams against my ribcage as I’m suddenly back on that street I was on just months ago. Familiar faces of women I’d once called my friends stand around me, hurling insults.
Whore.
He didn’t even care about you.
Hussy.
He didn’t belong to you.
Seductress.
How could you betray the princess like that?
Temptress.
Did you use witchcraft on him?
I feel a gentle hand on my arm, one that brings me back to the present. It’s Ember who stands at my side, looking up at me with concern. “Are you all right, Miss Bellefleur?” she asks.
With terror, I realize I’m shaking, eyes unfocused. My gaze snaps back to Imogen, who watches me with a triumphant grin. I can’t let her see me like this. I can’t let anyone see me like this. For this is how they can hurt me.
With a deep breath, I force the memories to retreat, let my confident mask settle back over me. Don’t be weak, I tell myself. If you can’t escape their judgments, then be who they already think you are.
I brush off Ember’s concern and return to walking ahead. I wait until Imogen catches up to me before I speak again. “Oh yes, the scandal, as father calls it. Or as I like to say, a good time.”
Imogen’s mouth falls open on its hinge. “You can’t act like that here. It may have been acceptable to play the harlot in Bretton, but the people of Vernon will not tolerate such behavior. If you get caught up in something like that again, I won’t be able to be your friend.”
“Pity.”
“Have you no shame? No one wants a ruined woman as a wife. If everyone here were to find out about your…colorful past, you’d become a stain on this town and everyone you associate with. It would destroy my reputation.”
I turn my head sharply to the side, letting a hint of rage shine behind my eyes. “Then perhaps it’s best you keep your mouth shut about it.”
Ember masks another laugh behind a fit of contrived coughs, and the rest of our walk passes in glorious silence.
4
When we reach my townhouse, I can hardly contain my joy in bidding farewell to Imogen. I’m even more relieved when I enter the front hall and the maid informs me my father and sister are still out. That means more time alone for me.
“Delightful,” I say, handing her my hat and coat, dripping sheets of icy water from melted snow. “Has the post arrived yet, Susan?”
“No, miss,” she says, “but I will bring it to you when it does.”
I don’t know why I bother being so hopeful. I doubt there will be anything of interest addressed to me in today’s post. Invitations to tea and dinner, I’m sure, but the correspondences I’m awaiting are better than that. They could hold the key to my freedom.
Books cradled in my arms, I make my way upstairs to the parlor. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, drags at my bones. It takes a lot out of me to leave the house, more so when I have to deal with the likes of pretty much anyone in this town. Luckily, with the house nearly empty, I can let my mask slip, let my shoulders fall. Let all pretense wash away as I enjoy this moment alone.
Inside the parlor, the fire still quietly roars in the hearth, which feels like an inferno compared to the bite in the air outside. I pull a chair and small table closer to the fire and settle in, and Susan brings a tray of scones and tea. I flash her a warm smile and gush my thanks before turning my attention to my new books. I organize them in a stack in order from most-excited-to read to still-very-excited-but-less-than-those-above. The Governess and the Earl, of course, sits at the very top. I shift the order of the bottommost books several times, but once I’m content, I lean back with today’s paper and open it straight to the want ads.
Like I do every day, I scan the columns seeking job postings, which are plentiful, since the newness of this town provides a plethora of employment opportunities. But just like every day before, I’m in a rage by the time I’m halfway through my search. Nearly every job posting with even the slightest prestige has the caveat that the applicant be male. Male. Why the hell for? And those that allow women to apply pay far less or are for jobs I’m not desperate enough to take. Factory worker. Maid. Secretary. Governess. I’d be happy as a secretary, I’m sure, but for that pay? It would take decades to secure the financial independence I need to free myself from my father’s clutches and the need for a husband. And as much as I love reading about the governesses in the Governess in Love series, that career is certainly not for me.
Instead, I seek out ads with the words accountant, house steward, management, but all those postings are for men. The very jobs I have experience with are the ones I’m excluded from. It makes no sense! Who better to manage accounts and households than the middle daughter who saved her family from destitution?
The thought quickly turns my mood from anger to sorrow, for it makes me think of Mother. With that comes a tender lump rising in my throat.
It’s been five years since her death, and still it pains me daily. The darkness of the days that followed her demise cling to the shadows of my family’s past, as none of us were ever the same again. Father was changed most of all, not the least bit by the fact that she died in a collapse of one of the mines he owned. The incident killed more than just Mother, though, and resulted in several lawsuits—and even strikes at the other mines—over unsafe work conditions. Our finances crashed, and the mining operations fell to ruin. It was as if Mother’s death heralded an end to life as we knew it.
We soon left our home, our country of Isola, and all our happy memories. Seeking to replenish his wealth, Father moved us to the country of Bretton, settling in its bustling capital city. With Father constantly away chasing business and my eldest sister entering society to find a husband, it was left to me to oversee our accounts. Because of me, we survived. Because of me, no one knew we were poor. I managed our accounts so strategically that only a glimpse at our ledgers could have given our secret away. When visitors came to call, they saw our luxurious parlor, not our bare bedrooms. When we went out on the town, they saw us in fine dresses, not the outfits we’d had artfully repurposed or sold. The facade was so convincing, I eventually caught the eye of a viscount—
Just like that, my rage returns. I fold the newspaper closed, tossing it on my lap, and take a hearty sip of tea, wishing it were wine instead.
Footsteps sound in the hall, startling me and draining my momentary flash of anger. I replace my cup on its saucer and smooth out my skirts as if the motions could brush away my anger too. At the last moment, I stash the newspaper behind me and sit up tall. But when the figure clears the threshold, I’m relieved to see it’s just Nina, my younger sister.
“Gemma, you’re still here? Did you even leave the house today?” she asks, golden cheeks flushed pink after coming in from the cold. She takes a seat in a nearby chair and holds her hands out toward the fire.
“I left once,” I say. “Did Father come home with you?”
“No.”
At that, I fall back into a reclined position and retrieve my newspaper from behind me. Nina may be far better behaved than I am, but she’s one of the few people I can be myself around.
She spots my pile of books and rolls her eyes. “Oh, I see how it is. I can’t persuade you to come out with me, but a need for books can. Remind me to start hiding your books when I’m in want of company.”
“I don’t know why you’d ever be in want of company, Nina,” I say with a smile. “You’re already engaged and have made friends of half the ladies in town.”
“You’d be engaged too, if you’d get your pretty nose out of a book for once.” Her tone is scolding, but her expression is warm, reminding me so much of Mother. She looks just like her. Short, plump, with round cheeks, black hair, and dark eyes. My eldest sister, Marnie, is n
early identical, but just a few inches taller. No wonder Father has always liked them better than me. I take more after him with my height and build.
I pour another cup of tea and bring it to my lips. “I don’t want to marry. You know that.”
She bites her lip for a moment, as if she’s fighting what she really wants to say.
I give her a warning glare. Don’t, it conveys. Do not bring up the viscount. Do not try to tell me, yet again, that love still exists. I’ve seen both its pleasures and its demise, and I want none of it ever again.
Taking the hint, she replaces her smile. “You might still change your mind. If the right person comes along, that is. Just don’t do what you always do.”
“And what is it I always do?”
She gives me a pointed look. “You always expect the worst in people. If you didn’t, you’d notice just how many handsome gentlemen have arrived in town this week.”
“Goody,” I say. Taking up the paper again, I hide behind its sheets, seeing words but reading nothing.
Nina groans. “You aren’t still looking for jobs, are you? You know Father will never allow it.”
“I’m eighteen,” I say. “I don’t need Father’s permission to take a job.”
“He’ll cut your allowance.”
“That’s the point of getting a job.”
“He’ll forbid you from living at home.”
“Again, the benefits of a job.”
Nina stammers. “You…you’ll never snag a wealthy husband if you’re employed.” She says the last word like it’s dirty.
I flip the corner of my paper down to narrow my eyes at her.
When I flip the page back up, she says, “Well, have you had any replies to your inquiries?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. I know what she’s getting at, and no, not a single response has been sent to me from the jobs in town I’ve inquired about. That’s why I’ve been so eager for the daily post to arrive, despite my hopes proving futile. I’ve applied for every job I consider myself qualified for, save for those beneath my financial needs, which means most were reserved for men. Not a single employer has sent so much as a thank you, much less an invitation to interview.
“Inquiries about what?”
I jump at the sound of Father’s rich baritone coming from the hall and quickly fold the paper away, stashing it beneath the cover of one of my books. I sit upright just as he enters the parlor. He eyes me, suspicion in his dark gaze, lips pursed beneath his black mustache.
“Dresses,” I rush to say. “I’m seeking a new gown.”
He pauses to consider my answer, rubbing the stubble at his jaw, then gives an approving nod. “That should help your prospects.”
I try my best to smile instead of scowl. My prospects. That’s all he cares about. Now that we’re wealthy again, thanks to a change in fortune a few months back, he has no need for me to act as our household manager. He hires men for that role, and I am to return to what I was always meant to be in his eyes—a daughter training to be a wife. Just another one of his properties. Unlike my two sisters, however, I am more like the mining properties that gave Father so much trouble after Mother died.
With a deep breath, I settle once again beneath my mask of indifference, reaching a delicate hand for my teacup and taking a dainty sip. Ever the dutiful daughter. Ever the prized pig at the fair.
He takes a step closer. “Mrs. Aston says you met her eldest son today.”
Ah, so word of that has already spread. I shouldn’t be surprised. “Yes, he introduced himself to me at the bookshop this morning.”
“You refused his offer to walk you home.” He doesn’t bother hiding his disapproval.
“I did. I desired some time alone with darling Imogen.” My words come out with far more sarcasm than I mean to reveal.
“While I approve of your restraint as opposed to throwing yourself at the young man—”
I nearly lash out as my inner rage ignites. By throwing myself at him, I’m sure he’s referring to what he assumes transpired with the viscount in Bretton. Swallowing my anger, I grit my teeth and take another sip of my tea.
“—I do think your refusal must be far softer next time. Decline such an invitation only once to demonstrate your virtue. If you refuse a suitor’s persistence too many times, he’s not likely to try again.”
“Perhaps a suitor’s unwanted persistence shouldn’t be praised but condemned.” I try to keep my voice as light as I can, but a bitter edge cuts through.
His eyes narrow to slits, his heavy brow pulling down. “I don’t recall that being your opinion when we were in Bretton.”
My composure shatters, and I slam the teacup on its saucer. No matter how many times I try, I cannot be the daughter Father wants me to be, not even in pretend. Screw the mask. Screw my false persona.
Burning him with a glare, I rise to my feet. But as I face him, my chest heaving, I know not what to say. I’ve shared my side of the story once before. I’ve said my truth. I cried, I bared my bleeding heart. And what was I met with? My own family, both my father and my eldest sister, Marnie—two people I loved and expected to love me back—responded with disgust. Not disgust at the situation or the man who brought scandal to my life, but with me.
I was abandoned by the one who swore to love me, and yet I was at fault for giving away my virtue. I was responsible for my demise. My ruin. My pain. I was responsible for what the people were saying about me in the streets. I shamed the family, destroyed our precious prospects.
Father holds my gaze, lips pulling into a smirk. In this moment, he looks more like a demon than the father of my childhood. Gone is the kind, loving man whose eyes would crinkle when Mother made him laugh. All that’s left of him is a cold, unfeeling husk. And right now, he knows I have no defense against him. He knows I can only seethe and glare and squeeze my fingers into fists.
“You’d do well to behave, my daughter,” he says, taking a slow step forward. “If you’re caught in another scandal, I won’t protect you.”
I bite out a sharp laugh. “Oh, because you protected me so well before.”
“I did, Gemma.” His words are calm, quiet. There’s so much conviction in them that I know he must believe it’s true. “You are too willful to know when gratitude is due. We could have stayed in Bretton. I could have let you be forever known as the harlot who seduced the princess’ fiancé. Instead, I brought you here for a fresh start. If it weren’t for my change of fortune with the quartz mine, we never would have had the chance.”
He’s right about the last part, at least. We never would have had the means to relocate if it weren’t for the enormous cache of quartz discovered on one of Father’s properties mere months ago. It happened just as the scandal reached its summit and allowed him to make a deal with the Winter Court. He gave the court exclusive rights to the quartz in exchange for a hefty salary and citizenship of Faerwyvae—a rare privilege, I’ve come to learn, for humans must be personally escorted through the magic barrier by the fae in order to set foot on the isle.
Still, he didn’t bring us here to save me. He did it to save himself. His precious reputation.
“Say thank you,” Father says through his teeth, “and return to your seat.”
There’s something else I want to say to him, and it sure isn’t thank you. It’s a four-letter word and comes with a rude gesture—
“We are grateful, Father.” Nina leaves her chair and comes to my side, entwining her fingers with mine. “Gemma is grateful.” She looks up at me, her eyes round and pleading. She hates when Father and I fight, and I hate that stupid sweet face she makes at me when we do. It always softens my heart and she knows it.
At least it gives me a chance to cool my nerves before I say something I’ll regret. Push Father too far, and I have no doubts he’ll strip me of my allowance and marry me off to the first taker. Not even the highest bidder.
No, I need to secure my financial independence first. Then I can tell him to piss off.
&
nbsp; A trickle of sweat slides down the back of my neck as my eyes continue to burn with rage. Schooling my features behind a mask of subservience, I bow my head. In my mind, this is all pretend. I’m not myself but one of the governesses in my books. In the first book of the series, the governess is forced to play the part of the well-behaved pupil to avoid the wrath of her evil schoolteachers. That’s all this is. Pretend. I can play pretend.
I keep the story fixed in my consciousness as I say, “I’m so thankful for everything you’ve done, Father. I deeply apologize that I fail to show it.”
When I meet Father’s eyes, he purses his lips. I can’t tell if he buys my act, but he makes no argument. Instead, he waves his hand at my chair, and I follow his unspoken order. Then, without a word, he leaves the parlor.
I squeeze the arms of my chair, my body quaking with restrained rage as I listen for the sound of his slow, retreating footsteps. Only when I can no longer hear their echo do I meet my sister’s gaze. Nina immediately bursts out laughing as if it were nothing more than an entertaining show. “I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did,” she says. “That must be a record. What was that…thirty seconds of good behavior?”
I shake my head, unable to match her mirth. Closing my eyes, I release a heavy sigh that barely reduces the tension built up in every muscle, but I breathe steadily until I manage to cool down some. When I open my eyes, I feel empty. Worn. Tired. Shoulders slumped, I’m about to retrieve my newspaper when Susan enters the room with a tray of letters. “The post has arrived,” the maid says.
A rush of hope surges through me, just enough to push my exhaustion away, and I leap to my feet.
“Is there anything from Marnie?” Nina asks, hard on my heels as we race to Susan.
“I doubt it,” I mutter as I reach the tray first and gather up the envelopes. Our eldest sister remained in Bretton with her husband when we moved and has yet to send us a single correspondence since. After our last conversation, I can’t say I’m eager to hear from her ever again. I can still remember every word she said to me that day.
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 3
