Oh, it was shameful to envy the girls their happiness, their babies.
She’d lost all chance of that, and she had no one but herself to blame.
On the other side of the thin wall, she could hear the low buzz of Miss Johnstone and Miss Thwaites talking anxiously. Theale, Miss Mallard’s assistant, had let slip—accidentally on purpose—that Miss Mallard was thinking about retiring, causing a mild panic among the staff members. Would the school be closed? Or sold? And if so, what would happen to them?
Emm refused to worry at this stage. It might be just a malicious rumor started by Theale—it wouldn’t be the first time. The woman positively enjoyed upsetting people.
If the rumor was true, Emm was fairly confident she could get another job. Miss Mallard would give her a good reference, she was sure. Bath was full of girls’ schools, and Miss Mallard’s was one of the more select.
But Miss Thwaites and Miss Johnstone were elderly, poor and without family. They’d told Emm that if the school did close, they would pool their meager savings and rent rooms in a cottage by the sea, there to live out the rest of their days, perhaps eking out their income by giving lessons in music, deportment and French.
It was a depressing prospect. Even more depressing was the thought that her own future would, in all probability, be much the same. She too was poor and wholly dependent on whatever she could earn. And she had no family to turn to. There had only ever been Papa, and now he was gone.
As always at the thought of her father, guilt and grief surged up within her. If only she had seen Papa, spoken to him before he died. Explained, apologized. Made peace with him. Told him how much she loved him.
She’d thought—hoped—he’d come after her, but instead, in a rage that must have lasted much longer than his usual fits of temper, he’d disowned her—changed his will, leaving her nothing, not a penny. And then he’d died.
Of a broken heart, Mr. Irwin had told her. He’d bumped into her in the street, just outside the Pump Room—he was in Bath on his honeymoon—and had broken it to her, right in front of everyone—that her father was dead, had been dead, in fact, for almost a year.
You caused your father’s death. You broke his heart and killed him,he’d told her with spiteful relish.
Why would anyone need to inform you?he’d sneered in answer to her shocked, stammered questions.You disgraced yourself, refused his bidding and ran off, never to be heard of again. Your father wrote you out of his will—left you nothing, not a penny. When he died, there was no reason for anyone to contact you.
He’d added gleefully,You’ve lost everything—you have no family, no home, no fortune. Serves you right for being such a stubborn little bitch!
She’d always known Irwin would never forgive her for refusing him, but the vitriol in his voice and manner had shocked her.
Emm thought of what she’d told Lavinia that morning.A girl’s reputation is a delicate thing, and it rests almost wholly in the hands of others.
She was the living embodiment of the truth of that.
Chapter Four
It was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent observation.
—JANE AUSTEN,EMMA
In the days that followed, Cal did his best to simultaneously watch over his sisters, get to know them and keep them entertained. His efforts weren’t appreciated.
He’d decided to check whether the headmistress’s comments about Lily were true, so he’d asked her to read—and that had ended in tears on Lily’s part and fury on Rose’s when she’d learned what he’d done.
For the next few days he was given the silent treatment—not by Lily, who simply avoided his gaze and whispered every response as if he’d whipped her—but from Rose. And from somebody delivering the silent treatment, she did it in the noisiest way possible, with long-suffering huffs and world-weary sighs.
But Cal wasn’t going to give in to that kind of nonsense, and when Aunt Dottie asked him what he’d done to upset the girls now, he snapped that he’d done nothing wrong, merely asked Lily—in the most reasonable way possible—to read a few lines of a letter to him.
Aunt Dottie looked at him as if he’d just admitted to strangling a kitten. “She’s very sensitive about it, you know.”
“I think I’ve worked that out, Aunt Dottie,” he said, but she was oblivious of sarcasm. She patted his hand. “They’ll come around, you’ll see.”
Keeping them entertained in the evening was also a trial. He’d suggested cards, which got Rose’s hackles raised because apparently Lily got cards confused—though how the hell he was supposed to know that, he couldn’t imagine.
Luckily he hit on the idea of spillikins, which Lily enjoyed and was good at. The evening finished on a much more pleasant note, but as Rose said before they retired for the night, “You can’t expect to keep us entertained with endless nursery games, you know.”
He cared about his sisters, he really did, but he was also chafing at the bit to be rid of these petty domestic problems and be back on the trail of an assassin.
He hoped Aunt Agatha would get here soon. He was fed up with sitting up late every night, simply to make sure the girls weren’t able to sneak out. And he was very fed up with having to watch what he said. Conversations with the girls was like picking his way through a treacherous swamp; you never knew where the dangers lurked.
“I don’t know why you make such a fuss of having to wear black, Rose,” Cal said after one particularly trying meal where Rose hadn’t missed a single opportunity to snipe at him. “Mourning colors suit you perfectly.”
