Library

16. Chapter 16

Chapter sixteen

“You can’t do this!” Iris cried, watching helplessly as the men gathered up their things and filed out of the schoolhouse. “We had an agreement!”

“An agreement I was under the impression was made with the earl , not his sister,” the contractor, Terrence Temby, shot back. “I’ve never taken orders from a woman in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”

He brought the leather-bound book he used to house his sketches, contracts, and billing information up between his barrel chest and meaty arm. With his free hand, he slapped his hat over his gray curls. His mustache twitched as if with irritation.

“But it’s not as if I’d be here telling you how to do your jobs, I only—”

“Not interested.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “The world is changing, Mr. Temby.”

“Not that much.”

“Yes, that much. Women are leaders now. Many of us have the vote, and before long, we’ll have all the same rights as you.”

His lip curled into a sneer. “With any luck, I’ll be dead by then.”

Anger flared in her chest. “And by the way, Mr. Temby, because I am the earl’s sister, I am to be addressed as Lady Iris, or my lady.”

“Good day, my lady .”

The sting of his sarcasm lingered long after he marched out. Iris’s shoulders dropped. What was she going to do now? Without a contractor and crew, how could she transform the schoolhouse? A few of them offered apologetic grimaces as they left, but their sympathy was of no use to her.

“What’s going on here, eh?” a familiar deep voice asked.

She turned toward the doorway and her heart leapt at the sight of Rowland, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the frame on his good shoulder. She inwardly scolded herself for getting excited. That was the sort of thing she needed to avoid.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said, raising her chin. “Good afternoon.”

He held her gaze. “What’s going on here?”

She huffed and shifted on her feet. “I’ve recently found myself without a contractor or men willing to work for a woman.”

“That so?” Rowland said. “Perhaps they need some encouragement.”

He reached for his holster, but she held up a hand to stop him. “No need for that. I’ll simply have to…find someone else.”

Easier said than done. Temby was her top choice because his prices were the best. Anyone else would put a strain on the budget that she wasn’t sure she could accommodate.

“Perhaps I can hire some farmhands,” she said, half to herself.

“Farmhands aren’t going to come here after a hard day’s work for an evening of more labor,” Rowland pointed out. “Not unless you’re paying them twice what that work is worth.”

She sighed, at a loss. She scanned the room, taking in the old, turned over desks, the rotting wood where the wall met the floor, and the layer of dust on everything. It was rundown and useless. A feeling she was familiar with.

“I’ll take care of it,” Rowland said.

“No. You’ve already helped enough.”

“Consider it a mutual benefit. I’m going to need men here for the next couple weeks, and repairs to the building are the perfect pretense.”

She hoisted an eyebrow. “Why?”

“To deal with the man who shot me.”

“Deal with him how?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, instead puffing on his cigarette until it was spent and he tossed the butt over his shoulder. “I think you know.”

“Ugh, fine, kill him if you must,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “But don’t get caught. I don’t need the men working on this going to jail and slowing our progress.”

He smirked. “You would make a fine gangster’s wife, Lady Iris.”

She speared him with a glower. “I’ll never be a wife again. To anyone.”

A shadow crossed over his face, but before she could discern the emotion behind his expression, it changed. He was back to his regular arrogant self in a split second.

“As you wish,” he said. “But what’s changed to make you suddenly all right with me killing him?”

“It won’t be in my home or on my birthday,” she said. “My party was perfectly lovely before that man ruined it. Plus, I didn’t want anyone there to see my investor commit murder and risk losing donations.”

His grin widened, mocking her. “No concern for the man’s life?”

“Concern for the—he tried to kill my friend on my birthday !”

“Is that what we are? Friends? ”

That gave her pause. She thought of all their moments together since their meeting, especially his defense of her against Lewis and the kiss, and decided. “Yes. I think we are.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“There’s certainly an argument to be made that we’re closer than your average business partners,” she went on. “Don’t you agree?”

“Caught on, have you?”

She rolled her eyes. “It is only out of respect for Sybil’s hard work that I don’t punch your arm right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still smirking. “I’m just delighted to hear you admit it.”

“You’re delighted at us being friends?”

“Sure. If friendship is what you’re offering.”

“It is.”

“Friends, then.”

“Friends.”

A beat passed, the air thick between them. Amusement still danced behind his eyes.

“I’ll send a telegram to Ezra and have the boys here in a week,” he said after clearing his throat. “Not to worry. This schoolhouse will be completely transformed before any of us pull a trigger.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I assure you, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing a friend.”

He tipped his hat and left. She turned and looked around the schoolhouse, and somehow it appeared brighter than before.

** *

Iris lay awake in her bed, staring at the letter. It had arrived two days after her disappointment with Temby, and initially, she was pleased to see it was from one of her old suffragette associates, Mary. But its contents had Iris fuming, even hours after the first reading. With a frown, she read over the words again, though by now she practically had them memorized.

Lady Iris, I was so thrilled to hear about this charity of yours. Lord knows, our steps toward the vote by no means establish equality, and certainly no defenses for women with cruel husbands. Not that unkind husbands are something you need a lecture on. I’m writing because a few of the ladies and I are interested in making a donation. But before we do, we want to be sure you’ll be servicing the right women.

The underline under ‘right’ made Iris’s blood boil. She’d heard a lot of that language throughout her time with the suffragettes. Not from all of them, but enough that she slowly distanced herself from that particular group. Iris’s idea of the work left to do, and their ideas of the work left to do diverged at the subject of race.

Furious, she threw the duvet off her legs and swung them around to plant her feet on the floor. Sliding into her slippers and a dressing gown, she lit a candle on her nightstand, snatched up the letter, and swept out of her room. She needed a change of scenery—and perhaps a midnight snack—if she was going to process this properly.

As she slunk down the stairs toward the kitchen, she realized the candle wasn’t necessary. The light was already on. She heard the gentle clink of cutlery against a plate, then the shuffle of feet along the stone floor. At first, she thought there was a late-night robber inside, but she reasoned that anyone with ill intentions would not have bothered to switch the lights on. Drawing herself up, she descended the last few steps and entered the kitchen.

“Mr. Sinclair? ”

Rowland turned from where he’d stashed the dishes in the sink. She knew he had extended his stay at Buckland Hall to be close by when Declan was moved from the jail to the courthouse. However, she had not anticipated finding him topless in the kitchen.

“Lady Iris,” he said with a nod.

She opened her mouth to speak, but finding him in only his pajama bottoms robbed her of anything she thought to say. Her eyes wandered over his firm chest, landing first on the stitches over the pink scar forming from his most recent wound. Then lingering on his tattoo for a moment before tracing a trail of dark hair beneath his navel. She jerked her gaze back to his before allowing any further liberties.

“Enjoying the view?” he teased. When he winked at her, it only added to her speechlessness.

To gather herself, she blew out the candle and approached, setting it down on the counter. He came around the counter and several pops of color at the end of his trousers caught her eye. His slippers were adorned with brightly colored pom-poms, from pink to blue to orange, and everything in between. They fluttered with each of his steps.

Voice returning, Iris burst into laughter. “What on earth is on your feet?”

“My slippers,” he said, as if it were obvious. He lifted one leg and shook his foot to make pom-poms dance. “Don’t you like them?”

Iris snorted. “You look ridiculous!”

“I’ll have you know, these are a Claire Brisley original design,” he said with a lighthearted huff.

“Did you brother send them in the parcel with your clothes and such?”

“He did. I asked for them specifically.”

“I’m surprised he wasn’t embarrassed to even hold them. ”

“Why should he be? He’s got a pair himself. Just you wait, these will be all the rage.”

“I’m sure they will be,” she conceded as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her fingers to clear the amused moisture from them. “Oh, goodness, I needed a laugh.”

“Happy to be of service,” he said. “But I don’t think a laugh was what you came down here for.”

She held his gaze. “No. I’m afraid not.”

“What is it then?”

“I…” she hesitated, wondering how much to tell him. “It’s not important.”

“Must be if it’s keeping you up at this hour,” he said. “Come on, friend. Confide in me.”

She rolled her eyes. “An old suffragette acquaintance of mine has taken interest in my work with The Rose Garden. But her support is conditional.”

She handed him the letter. With his free hand, he fished in his pocket and retrieved a pair of round eyeglasses that he rested on his nose. Somehow, they made him appear dignified, even without a shirt on.

“You wear glasses?” she questioned.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “Thirty-year-old eyes don’t read as well as twenty-nine-year-old eyes.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re only thirty?”

He carried himself with the confidence of a much older man. She wasn’t sure if it was the danger of him or his wit, but she would have guessed he was at least her age. His brows went up as he looked at her, but the uptick of the corner of his mouth told her he wasn’t offended.

“I know. I am far too distinguished for my youth,” he joked.

“Read the damn letter,” she said, rolling her eyes .

His eyes scanned it quickly, and when his jaw twitched, she knew he’d seen the part that was concerning. He tossed the letter onto the counter with a disdainful flourish.

“All their talk, and they aren’t brave enough to say what they mean,” he said, shaking his head. “Just say white. It even rhymes with what she wrote.”

Iris let out a bitter laugh. “You’d think it’d be simple.”

“You’d think.”

A pregnant pause hung between them and her ire built up all over again.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she blurted. “If the goal is equality, how can that be dependent on something no one can help? Just as we cannot help being born female, Black people cannot help that they are born Black. Or any race, for that matter. The logic of these women is as inconsistent as it is horrifying.”

“People can be infuriatingly contrary,” Rowland said. “Have you decided on your response?”

“I’ve hardly thought of anything else. I don’t have the exact words, but it will essentially be that The Rose Garden is open to all women, regardless of race, religion, creed, et cetera, et cetera.”

“I hope those et ceteras stand for ‘fuck off.’”

She let out a real laugh at that. “We ladies must think of more creative ways to say ‘fuck off.’”

He smirked. “I love hearing you say fuck. Sounds like your mouth was made for that word.” Heat rose to her cheeks. When she thought she couldn’t blush any deeper, he added, “Although, having been kissed by you, I know your mouth is good for much more.”

Her face could have burst into flame. How did he have this effect on her? One moment, they talked simply, like friends, and the next, her body lit up for him. Her eyes flicked back to his chest, and her mind conjured up an image of herself above him, sinking her nails into his ivory skin. She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“You shouldn’t talk about such things,” she said, rather weakly.

“That’s the most unconvincing thing you’ve ever said to me,” he pointed out.

She pinned him with a frown. “You’re infuriating. I want to talk about something else.”

“That’s more like it. What shall we discuss, then?”

“What brought you to the kitchen at this hour?”

It was the question she had in mind when she first saw him, before his bare chest, ridiculous slippers, and eyeglasses distracted her. His mouth turned down, and he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

“If you must know, I had a nightmare,” he said. “I get them sometimes. Ever since the war.”

That doused her arousal like a bucket of ice water. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m used to them now.”

“Would it sound terribly insensitive if I said I somewhat understand?”

He quirked an eyebrow in question. This time when she closed her eyes, she was back on that lifeboat in the frigid North Atlantic. The chill of the breeze made goose flesh rise on her neck. She looked at Rowland again and was grounded.

“In my dreams, I still see the faces of those people in the water,” she said. “After Titanic went down, and we went back to search for survivors. They all looked like ghosts floating in the water. Pale and lifeless.”

Rowland cut his gaze to the floor. “I see faces in my dreams as well. Boys, barely old enough to shave, with their faces covered in muck and blood. Eyes open. Unseeing.”

“Do you think we’ll ever be free of them?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

“I think we owe it to them to remember,” he replied, meeting her gaze again.

He held out his hand, and she took it, allowing him to draw her closer. When she was next to him, their arms pressed against each other's, she leaned against the counter beside him, and let her head drop onto his shoulder. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, and to her own surprise, she didn’t protest.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For understanding.”

She lifted her head to look him in the eye. “Of course. That’s what friends are for.”

Comments

0 Comments
Best Newest

Contents
Settings
  • T
  • T
  • T
  • T
Font

Welcome to FullEpub

Create or log into your account to access terrific novels and protect your data

Don’t Have an account?
Click above to create an account.

lf you continue, you are agreeing to the
Terms Of Use and Privacy Policy.