‘Very good. As I’ve told you many times, you’ve no need to report your daily accomplishments. I trust you.’ The words rang true with honest appreciation.
‘Thank you. Then I will leave you to your rest.’ Pittman exited without another word.
Cole locked up and undressed. After a brisk wash from the water basin, he reclined on the bed and commanded sleep to come, but the same distracted tension, an agitated restlessness that seemed ever-present of late, held him hostage. He stared at the white ceiling and scoffed with the irony of it all. He needed sleep to function, his schedule demanding and uncommon. Awake all night at the hell, he slept during the day, but of late he couldn’t relax enough to sustain a solid amount of rest no matter which hours he kept.
There was a time when he wouldn’t close his eyes for fear of the nightmares that pursued him, winding him tight with anxiety and relentless fear. Every night he’d struggle to resist sleep and fail, awakening in the dead black of night with a cold sweat on his brow and tears on his cheeks, disappointed he’d succumbed to the inner terror that lurked in the darkest place of his soul, waiting to plague him.
But then Maggie found him and provided safety and shelter. She offered a sense of belonging and a modest education. It took some time but the terror finally stopped. Nightmares of abandonment, rats at his feet and starvation in his belly were now a bitter memory, so what was the reason for his perpetual agitation?
His body craved sleep and the mindless escape it provided, yet exhaustion held him captive, unable to calm.
He blew a long breath of exasperation and turned his thoughts to Lady Amberson. Gemma. A woman as elusive as a fantasy. As beautiful as his most daring imaginings. He may as well have created her in a daydream, she’d tasted so sweet. Perhaps dangerously addictive. The thought of her sparkling green eyes and their mischievous kiss managed to alleviate the rebellious insurrection which held him tethered of late. He turned to his stomach and hugged the pillow as his eyes fell closed and he found peace.
The next morning after breakfast, with Rosalind by the hand, Gemma walked along the slated path behind Stratton House. Kent hadn’t showed at their morning meal and she did not miss his strict questioning of her schedule or outraged grumblings about volatile issues in Parliament.
Here in the garden, flowers were in full bloom in every hue and variety afforded a duke’s entitlement, from rare specimens to familiar English roses. Foxglove, poppies and pyramidal orchids dotted the walkway while sweet pea and hop crept along the ground to cover the earth in a blanket of myriad colours. Interspersed among the florals were decorative marbles and hand-carved statues depicting cherubs and goddesses, the ornaments adding a peaceful contemplative element to the vibrant landscape. The scent of damp loamy soil permeated the air and reminded of how elemental things became when one looked past the trappings of society.
Gemma had no idea if Rosalind appreciated the gardens as much as she. It was a new routine for her sister, who often ate meals upstairs or returned to her rooms directly after breakfast. Of late, Rosalind would walk through the gardens with Gemma chattering like a magpie to fill the silence. Today was no different. It if eased Rosalind’s misery or aided in mending her heart, Gemma would talk for hours on end.
‘I have a secret to share, dear sister.’ They’d reached a turn in the path near a marble birdbath and stood in watch while two bluebirds splashed in fervent business until an intrusive rook swooped in and frightened them into flight. Why was it superiority often ruined the gentler acts of life? She dismissed the observation with a slight frown and continued. ‘Yesterday I kissed a man.’
Gemma hesitated in calling Mr Hewitt a gentleman, though she thought of him as such. Title did not necessarily equal goodness. She’d seen proof many times over. Still, the divide between their social stations resembled a mountain range. How she was tempted to blur the lines of distinction whenever she made the acquaintance of a pleasant someone who lived a different kind of life. In that temptation, she stood alone, though, society’s perspicuity harsh. In her world, bloodlines composed one’s past, present and future.
Rosalind stopped walking. She turned inward and held both of Gemma’s hands, prepared for a detailed story. Gemma laughed and smiled, her silent sister able to draw her back to the conversation with purpose, all without a syllable.
‘Yes. Well, it was wonderful. Beyond comparison, actually, although I’ve not kissed another to possess the necessary criteria.’ Accustomed to their one-sided conversation, Gemma rattled on. ‘Although somehow, I know inside.’ She released Rosalind’s hand and clenched her fist against her heart. ‘In here, no matter who I kiss for the rest of my life, it will never replace the experience of that kiss. Simply because it was my first, and it was extraordinary.’
Rosalind’s finely arched brows rose with delicate ease.
‘It was delightful and isolated; a one chance occurrence and a beautiful memory. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.’ She didn’t mean to sound regretful, though she must have as Rosalind squeezed her hands, now joined together again. ‘That one kiss made me feel special for being me. Not the sister of duke. Not a gentile lady. Just me. It’s silly, I know.’ Another squeeze from Rosalind punctuated the statement. ‘But the way he looked at me in that breathless minute before he placed his mouth upon me, like I was precious, a rare gem… I will never forget that feeling.’ She looked at her sister and waited, breath held if perhaps Rosalind would say something. Anything. Show the tiniest inclination to reply. But after a long moment stretched, Gemma resumed their stroll. Her sister’s face had expressed myriad emotions during the retelling, yet not enough to evoke a response. Still, Gemma refused to be disheartened.
They reached the place in the path where a granite prayer stone marked the remembrance of their father. Creeping thyme grew in abundance around the monument and the sharp lemony fragrance soothed Gemma’s heartache. How she missed her father. He had been a kind, loving man, with a large, generous heart, so different from her brother, who wore his title like a weapon to wield. Father had raised them to consider a person’s constitution before station, but so much had changed since his death, Kent hardly remembered their father’s intendment. Either that or Kent considered himself to have risen above the sentimental remembrance.
As was their routine, Gemma and Rosalind sent a silent prayer heavenward and then they resumed their walk. Perhaps having the thought of their father dear to their hearts, it was time to broach the troubling subject of Rosalind’s silence.
‘I was wondering…’ Gemma didn’t mean to force the issue, but the cloud of disappointment, and loss of hearing her sister’s laughter and voice, pained her daily. She wanted to share her adventure and laugh at her foibles and relieve the depths of Rosalind’s anguish and despondency. She wanted to help. She searched her sister’s eyes for any shade of invitation. ‘About the evening we learned of Father’s death.’
Rosalind stopped so abruptly Gemma’s slippers caught in her hems. Without warning, her sister tugged her arm free from where they were linked and withdrew, nearly stumbling as she hurried backwards, her eyes wide with alarm and something else, something stark and lonely, the reflection of utter despair. She blinked away a fast flood of tears.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will never speak of it again if it pains you, Rosalind.’
It was a foolish promise to make and altogether too late, the mood broken, moment lost, and Gemma made no attempt to stall Rosalind as she turned away and hurried towards the house.
It was mid-morning the next day before Goodworth arrived at Second Chances, the successfully run lodging house he owned and managed with Maggie Devonshire. The building’s location on the border of Strand Street was threateningly close to the upper classes, but he’d purchased the land and restored the building with that exact purpose in mind. The lodging house would serve as a reminder to society’s finest that an entirely different world existed less than a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square. True, he’d paid for a fine limestone slate roof and painted shutters with paned windows beneath, but aside from the appealing exterior, the heart of his noble work lay inside the ten rooms he let to anyone