“’Tis a good thing yer doin’. Ye’ll git no arguments from me. Now, eat up. Yer thin as a rail.”
Thirty minutes later, Geneva reentered her flat bearing a nice, warm gift.
“Good. You’re back. I let myself in,” Lady Abra Washington said unnecessarily. Geneva had given her friends keys to the flat due to the clandestine nature of their endeavors.
She stood in Geneva’s tiny kitchen with one hand on an open cupboard door. Her maid, Pasha, was seated on the sagging settee near the windows that overlooked the street below. Abra glanced over her shoulder, her hazel-brown eyes going straight to the borrowed plate from Mrs. Pickler with another large slice of bread slathered with currant jam. She dropped her hand. “Fresh bread? Is that”—she swallowed—“for me?” She glanced at Pasha. “I mean us?”
“Of course it is. That stepmother of yours is a horror acting as if you hoard every crumb you put in your mouth.” Geneva strolled to the table and set it down, then dropped the knife with aclunk. “I vow, if I ever have the opportunity to drag that woman into an alley—”
Abra’s eyes shot to Pasha then back to Geneva with a lifted brow, cutting her off. “Ah. Mr. Pickler was drinking, I take it?”
“Yes.” Geneva tilted her head, considering the knife she’d plunked down. “You know? I don’t believe we need worry over Mrs. Pickler any longer. That woman is resourceful and can take care of herself.”
“You doubted her? I never have. Not for a moment.” Abra cut the bread in half, then strolled over and handed the plate to Pasha. She took a large bite and her features relaxed into pure ecstasy. “I would kill the man myself if she promised us bread on a daily basis.”
Geneva grinned. “I feel the same.” She knelt on the floor and began lightly tapping the planks in a systematic manner.
“What are you doing?” Abra asked around another bite.
A grim smile touched Geneva. “I thought I heard a hollowing earlier.”
“Really?” Abra’s chair scraped back and she went on her knees too, starting in another area, mimicking Geneva’s actions. “When was this?”
“Right before Mr. Pickler began his rantings. Hannah had just left for the printer with the Education Advocacy pamphlets. Which reminds me—she mentioned a date had been set—”
“Listen,” Abra interrupted urgently. “Here.”
Geneva stilled and Abra tapped again. “That’s it.”
“You think it’s a secret compartment?”
It was the only hope Geneva could harbor after all these years. To prove having a legacy, the promise from her mother, had perhaps been wishful thinking. “Let’s see. It’s an odd place if it is.” The flat was on the third floor of this Berwick building. But where else could her mother have hidden a ruby locket? At times, her mother’s words and the man in the swirling, black cloak seemed nothing other than some reoccurring nightmare. And perhaps it had been. Still, her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
Abra jumped up, quickly returning with an oil lamp set at its brightest setting. “Look, there’s a space between the slats.” She retrieved the knife, pried the plank open, and set it aside. “There’s something there,” she whispered.
Geneva’s hands shook with disbelief and longing. “Truly? After all these years?” She reached in with trembling fingers and pulled out a wooden keepsake box. Carved leaves bordered all four sides. Etched atop in an elaborate design wasEmily Renee. “Good heavens. I-I didn’t dream it,” she whispered. Dust filled the carved-out crevices and came off on Geneva’s fingertips. “My mother’s name was Emily.” There was even a key in the keyhole. She ran a fingertip over the dull metal.
“Open it.” Abra’s impatience jarred her.
“Oh. Right.” She turned the key and lifted the lid. The creak sounded more like a squeal. It was the most precious sound Geneva could ever remember hearing.
Inside, she found a delicate, lace handkerchief yellowed with age. Silk ribbons that were stiff and almost unbending, faded pink and a blue one softened to grayish purple. A distressed sachet that had long since lost its scent and an empty perfume bottle. Geneva pulled the stopper and put it to her nose. Lemon verbena. “I-It still smells like her.” Overwhelming emotion stung the backs of her eyes. She grappled for control.
There were no trinkets. Or if there had been, they’d likely been sold off years ago. There was also… “No ruby locket,” she said. At the moment, she couldn’t have cared less. This was a legacy of sorts she’d never expected to have. The gravity of that manacled her chest.
“That top part is just an insert. Perhaps the locket’s underneath,” Abra said.
Nodding, Geneva lifted the wooden insert. Abra was correct. It was another compartment designed to hold letters, she supposed. There was only one. As if handling the queen’s jewels, Geneva took the note and unfolded it. She’d never seen her mother’s writing before, but whose else could it have been?
Lord Pender,
I beg of you, please. Things have turned most dire. My husband
The words were marred here. By tears?
is a violent man. You must do something to save my Gen…
Again, a blur.
