“Downstairs, waiting in the carriage.” Hannah tugged on her kid gloves and strolled over.
Geneva signed the document with their standard signature of “CSS” and, after sanding the carefully worded papers, she folded the small stack and tied them with a piece of twine. She rose from the table and made a great show of officially handing the small packet to her friend.
“Excellent.” Hannah slipped it into her oversized reticule. “I’ll stop by the printer’s on my way home. What’s next?”
“An article on supplying instructors with more beneficial tools and resources. I vow it’s a shame women are not allowed in Parliament. The world would be a much better place, I’d wager.”
With a scowl, Hannah said, “Yes. I do believe it would.” She paused a beat, studying Geneva until the hair on the back of her neck raised.
“Is something wrong?” Geneva asked slowly.
“A date has been selected.”
The breath escaped Geneva in a rush. “I know he’s your brother, but Abra—”
Hannah touched her arm. “I think they’ll be happy, darling.” Another scowl touched her lips. “It’s that blasted stepmother of hers who’s kicking up the fuss.”
That was true enough. Abra was the daughter of Marquess Westbridge. Her mother had been from Jamaica. To hear Abra speak of her parents’ marriage, it had been a love match for the ages, but sadly, her mother had perished in childbirth along with an infant sister some years ago. Long before Abra had begun attending Miss Greensley’s School. Her death had devastated both her and her father.
Certainly, it had been natural for Lord Westbridge to remarry, but his current wife was determined to marry Abra off to the Marquess of Martindale. The man had recently inherited his title. He was a horrid man.
Hannah was convinced that her brother, Lord Ruskin, and Abra held an attraction for one another and were perfect together. Geneva wasn’t so sure and feared for her friend being treated less than she deserved. Baron Ruskin was decidedly the better of the two.
Clutching her reticule, Hannah opened the door. “We’ll talk soon. Get some rest, my friend. Those dark circles beneath your eyes will not cure themselves.Au revoir, love.”
The decisive click of the latch behind her friend reverberated through the flat, leaving exhaustion—mostly from her own thoughts and unending expectations—hitting her full force. She slid from her chair at the scarred table to the hardwood floor andstretched her body out, closing her eyes. Abra’s stepmother was nothing but a social-climbing, bitter woman who resented Lord Westbridge’s first wife’s child.
With a deep breath, Geneva drew in the ancient smells that permeated the walls. The fragrance wasn’t what she would callpleasant, per se. More like… familiar, bringing to mind Mama’s and her gentler times together when Papa had been away at sea. She basked in the quiet—
From the flat next door, Mr. Pickler yelled at his poor wife.Again. Her own walls vibrated with his fury—almostquiet, then. She slammed a fist on the plank out of frustration. There was something odd in the sound. Hollow. Her heart tipped in an erratic thump, but Mr. Pickler’s words were spiraling into a widening cone.
With tired determination, Geneva came to her feet, taking up the knife she’d brandished against her father eight years ago. She held it within the folds of her skirts before slipping out into the darkened corridor and pounding on the Picklers’ door.
The yells came to an immediate stop. Seconds later, the door crashed back and Mr. Pickler’s large, bulking form blocked her entry. The stench of gin nearly felled her to her knees. “Wot do ye want?”
She clenched her teeth and spoke through the putrid smell. “To see Mrs. Pickler.”
“We’re talkin’,” he growled.
Standing her ground, Geneva had learned early on, was the only way to deal with such bullies. “Still, I insist on speaking with her. I suggest, sir, you sleep off your stupor.” She shoved her way past him, her fingers tightening on the wooden hilt of the knife.
To Geneva’s greatest relief, Mrs. Pickler was none the worse for wear. The stubborn compression of her lips was reassuring. She stood at the table wielding her own knife over a loaf of freshly baked bread. “Ah, Miss Wimbley, I expect you’rehungry,” she said, slicing into the loaf, releasing a stream of steam.
Geneva’s stomach grumbled in a most convenient and timely manner. “I am, indeed, Mrs. Pickler.” She took one of the two chairs. More like collapsed in to.
Mr. Pickler glared at the two of them but muttered something unintelligible before disappearing into the curtained-off, makeshift bedchamber. Within seconds, his snores filled the flat.
“He’ll sleep it off and be back to his charmin’ self in no time,” Mrs. Pickler said with a sharp grin. Her thin, wiry frame belied a lifetime of hard work. The hazel eyes were clouded by weary dullness and her graying hair, streaked with white, was pinned up in a messy bun, though stray wisps had escaped to frame her face, softening her prominent cheekbones. “I ’preciate yer angel-like tendencies, dear.” Her bony fingers held up the knife.
Geneva took her own knife from the folds of her skirts and laid it on the table with a small laugh. “Thank you, Mrs. Pickler. I am relieved to hear that.”
Mrs. Pickler pushed a plate in front of Geneva then plopped a jar of currants down. She took the chair across from her guest. “Ye work too hard, gel.”
“Work too hard?” she murmured. Perhaps she did.
“Ye think the women in this buildin’ don’ know wot yer about?” She shook her head, smiling. “I see yer titled friends a comin’ an’ a goin’.”
“Oh.” What was she supposed to say? “I, er, wasn’t aware…” Her voice trailed off.
