Chapter Eighteen

"I don't understand what we're looking for," Maggie grumbled, twirling her parasol in her hand. "We've walked this path a thousand times already. My feet hurt."

Ruthie scowled at her teammate as they ambled along the path in St. James Park. "Earlier at practice you told me you have nothing to do!"

"That didn't mean I wanted to spend it traipsing around the park like some debutante searching for a husband." Maggie's eyes narrowed dangerously. "We're not doing that, are we? You haven't turned into one of those newly married women who only want to help their single friends find husbands now, have you?" She started to backtrack, her fear vivid under her plain bonnet. "I'm aware I don't know you very well, Ruthie, but I thought you were better than that!"

"Oh, calm yourself!" Ruthie chided. She spun in a circle once more to spy anyone coming down the path. "I'm the last person who'd foist marriage on anyone."

Maggie chuckled bitterly. "And why is that? Is it not everything you dreamed it would be? I'm sorry to say, but you wouldn't be the first woman who realized that pertinent information a little too late."

"No, not all." Ruthie could feel her cheeks warming under her very small and very unassuming bonnet. "It has been most…enlightening."

It had been a week since Ruthie woke up next to Harry in their bedroom. And each night after had been just as… enlightening as the last. They still hadn't made love again, nor was Harry ready to take off his gloves yet, but the intrepid man was trying. And Ruthie couldn't ask for more than that. It was only a matter of time before he let her touch him. Maybe even a matter of time before he told her that he loved her.

Because Ruthie was surely falling in love with him. And the more she spent time at the club getting to know her husband, the more she became aware of that fact. She barely even noticed his quirks anymore, although she could always tell when he was irritated with them and the lengths to which he went to keep others from recognizing them. There were two Harry Holmeses—the one he showed to the world and the one that he saved for her…and Ernest.

The one that frightened other people, and the one that frightened himself.

Ruthie couldn't help but wonder if that was the reason he was always so exhausted by the end of the night. Hiding your nature day in and day out seemed a Sisyphean task, resulting in a crazed, paranoid mind.

At first, she had balked at being her husband's lodestone. She'd hated the idea of his only wanting her as a means of solace and protection. But something had changed in their nights together. Harry still took from her, but not without giving so much more. In the end, Ruthie had to ask herself if that would be enough. If he never grew to have romantic feelings for her—the kind she'd dreamed about as a young girl—could she be satisfied? Her answer scared her. Because she felt close—so close. And the closer they became, the more she wanted.

Perhaps she was just like her brother and father—bad at gambling. From her time at the Lucky Fish, she'd learned that a good gambler knew when to stop pushing. He knew when enough was enough. He knew when to walk away from the table.

And although Ruthie felt stronger than she ever had in her life, she didn't know if she would ever be able to do that. And that unfortunate realization reminded her of her mother's words during their last conversation, and the underlying pain that was still so very evident whenever she mentioned Ruthie's father.

"Enlightening," Maggie grumbled. "I don't think I like the sound of that."

"Is there anything that interests you about marriage?"

"I'm not against marriage," Maggie protested. "I'm sure it would be fine to find a nice man who loves me for who I am, like my father loves my mother."

Ruthie regarded her new friend. With her rich chestnut hair and sleepy doe eyes, she warranted many second looks by men of the ton . What could be the problem?

"Just fine?"

Maggie shook her head in irritation. "The men in our group don't like me. They never have. They call me a tomboy and say I prefer mud to dresses just because one time when I was seven, I accepted a dare from Lord Michael that I could ride a pig better than he could ride a horse. I could! And they've never let me forget it."

"Lord Michael?" Ruthie asked. "The Earl of Waverly's heir?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Of course you know him. Everyone knows Lord Michael."

"He's very popular in the set, isn't he?" Ruthie said. All the girls knew or wanted to know Lord Michael. "And he's good friends with my brother."

"Oh, so your brother's a pompous ass too?"

Ruthie scrunched her nose. "I'm afraid so."

"Ah, well, that's all right," Maggie said, strolling a few determined steps ahead. "It is too nice of a day to think about pompous asses. Now why don't you tell me who we're looking for so I can actually be of some assistance?"

Ruthie scanned the park. She'd come back every day since she'd encountered the little girls and their mother and only seen them one other time at a distance. By the time she'd made it to their end of the grass, they'd vanished. "I'm just hoping I run into some people again," she said. "I wish to speak to them."

"Then why don't you write them a letter like a normal person? Oh!" Maggie covered her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry. Did someone cut you in public over your marriage? Is that why you can't write to them? Well, don't worry about me or the other girls in the club. We're made of sterner stuff than that. In fact, when I told my mother I was spending time with you today, she was intolerably excited. She said that father owed your husband too much money for us to be uppity. She can be such a cow, but I love her to death."

Ruthie laughed despite the rambling, off-putting speech. "Thank you so much," she replied dryly. "And no, no one cut me—except my mother, I suppose. No, I'm here because—there!"

Her arm shot out as two little girls with dark braids came into her line of sight. They were wearing the same thin dresses as before and didn't appear to have put on one ounce of fat. If anything, they looked smaller. Ruthie tore off down the path with Maggie close on her heels.

"You, little ones!" she called out. "You remember me, don't you? You're Orla and Maeve."

The older girl's eyes lit up. "Oh, sure. You were the one with the fella from Kilkenny."

"Fella from Kilkenny?" Maggie asked.

"She means Harry," Ruthie answered quickly. "He's Irish."

"He's Irish?"

"Yes, now please hush." Ruthie turned to the girls. "Where's your mother?"

"We lost her a ways back," the older sister said, glancing over her shoulder. "The baby in her belly makes her slow."

"She's with child?"

The girl nodded. "She said it was our da's last gift to her before going up to heaven."

"I'm not sure if I'd call it that," Maggie whispered, causing Ruthie to elbow her in the side.

"Why are you wanting our ma?" the younger sister asked. The way her little fingers held on to her sister's arm reminded Ruthie of Julia. So trusting. "We're not bothering ya, so don't be telling her we were."

Ruthie shook her head. "No, of course not. I just want to talk to her about a position I need filled and to inquire if she's found a suitable place to live."

The older sister eyed Ruthie cautiously as if this were all some trick. "We're doing just fine," she replied rather testily. "We're staying with our auntie and cousins and granda and granny. It's lovely."

"We're sure your home is very lovely," Maggie piped in, no doubt trying to make amends for her previous comment.

It didn't work. The girl stared at Maggie as if she were speaking Greek. "It's not a home," she spat. "We left our home in Ireland. It's a room. And it's a fine room. We get by, even though the landlord spits on the floor every time we open our mouths, and he threatens to increase the rent. He says the Irish are nothing but good-for-nothing mongrels. I think he's the mongrel. At least we don't spit on our own floor."

"Why do you stay there?" Maggie asked.

The girl's face screwed up like she was explaining something to a dim-witted child. "Not many people wanted to rent to us. They say the Irish are lazy and never pay on time. But that's not true. Ma spends every day looking for a position. All she wants to do is work, but no one will let her."

Ruthie put her arms around the girls, turning them around. Together they walked down the path until they spotted their mother catching her breath under the shade of a tall oak.

"You don't have to feel sorry for us," the oldest girl said. "As we said, we're doing fine. There's nothing for you to worry your pretty head about."

"I'm sure it is just fine," Ruthie replied, catching the mother's eye. "But let's see if we can come up with something better than fine."

*

"My God," Maggie whispered in her ear. "How many are there?"

Ruthie nudged her friend with her elbow once more, certain that Maggie was never going to spend the afternoon with her again. She probably had a bruise from all the prodding. But it was a rude question—although Ruthie had caught herself wondering the same thing.

When Ruthie had told the mother—Colleen—that she had suitable rooms to let in her house for her and her family, she had no idea that the woman was going to bring so many others. But here they stood in the corridor of the third floor of the Lucky Fish—all eleven of them, though seven were children.

At Ruthie's prodding, Ernest opened one of the vacant rooms, and they all clamored inside. "Oh, this is lovely," Colleen exclaimed. "Yes, this will do well. There's not a rat in sight!" She nodded at the other woman, her sister, Sinead. "We'll be most comfortable here. And we won't make a fuss or any trouble, will we, girls?"

Orla, the oldest daughter, nodded, while Maeve decided it was the appropriate time to curtsey. "We'll be as good and quiet as church mice."

Colleen couldn't contain her smile. "We promise. And we'll be out on our feet in no time."

"I'm not worried at all," Ruthie said, encouraged by how well the situation was turning out. "But don't you want to see the other room?"

Sinead looked puzzled. "Other room?"

Ernest stepped forward. "There's no reason to share, miss. Your family can have its own. Right next door." He lifted his arm to shepherd them out and showcase the next room, but Sinead refused to budge. Her hair was lighter than her sister's and already interspersed with wisps of white. Ruthie gathered she was Colleen's older and less trusting sister.

"I don't need to see it," she said, folding her arms. "I know what's going on now. I know what this place is. I've seen men come and go. I've heard stories."

"This is a gambling hall," Ruthie said. "My husband is the proprietor."

Sinead gave her sister a look before turning back on Ruthie. "And do you know what it is your husband propriets ? What's he going to ask us to do for these nice, comfortable, separate rooms? Because I know. I know all too well."

Poor Ernest wobbled on his feet, close to fainting. "Mrs. Holmes is a l-lady," he stammered. "You mustn't speak to her like that. She…she—"

Ruthie cut him off. " She knows exactly what goes on at this club," she replied evenly. "I also know my husband would never force anyone to do anything. I brought you here because I am in need of a lady's maid. And I'm certain Ernest can find more work that's agreeable for the rest of you. But this is not a prison. This is not a workhouse. You are free to leave at any time." She looked at Colleen. "I just wanted to help. I'm asking you to trust me."

Sinead cocked her head. "I've lived in this cursed country for months now and no one has bothered to help us without making us feel like scum for receiving it. We don't know you. I'm sorry, missus, but why should we trust you? I just can't understand it."

Ruthie's shoulders slumped. "Do you really want to know?"

"I do."

She released an exasperated exhale. "Because my husband's Irish mother told him on her deathbed that he was going to die alone and go straight to hell unless he repented. And the foolish man believes her so much that he's taken to keeping a ledger of every benevolent thing he does so he can show the Almighty at the pearly gates. Now he's relying on me for his salvation. It is my job to spend his money for good to save his soul." Ruthie shrugged. "And I love the man. There's that. So will you help me?"

Sinead's expression slowly broke into a wide grin. "Oh, missus. Why didn't you say all that before? An Irish mother? A healthy stab of guilt? Now, that I understand perfectly."