ROSE SHUT THE DOOR behind her. Her hands were shaking; she felt sick to her stomach. But she had done it. She’d cut ties with Stephen Shaughnessy—and she’d survived it. She looked about the entry and frowned.
The house was dark. The sun had not yet set, but it was close enough to evening that a few lights ought to have been on. There were no lights in the front room, the dining room, the back pantry.
She frowned and tentatively called out. “Patricia?”
A door opened upstairs. A few moments later, Mrs. Josephs put her head over the railing.
“Your sister is not feeling so well, Miss Sweetly.”
Rose frowned. “Has she seen the doctor?”
“Not since last night,” the older woman said. “She says it’s just more of that false labor again. She doesn’t want to bother him.”
Rose felt a pit of foreboding open in her stomach. “Didn’t he say that false labor pains are supposed to stop? How can she be sure that it’s false labor, and not something else?”
Mrs. Josephs shook her head. “I’ve never been blessed with a child, Miss. Really, I don’t know a thing about it.”
Rose shook her head and then carefully ascended the stairs. Her sister’s room was dark, but Patricia was not in bed. She was walking a figure eight pattern on the carpet.
“Rose.” Patricia looked up as her door opened. “You’re back. Don’t worry about me; I’ll feel well soon enough. In fact, I don’t feel so badly now.” She managed a creditable smile.
“Should you lie down?”
“I feel better walking.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really,” Patricia said. “Just more of those false labor pains, that’s all. And they’re not coming particularly swiftly—they’re still only twenty-three minutes apart.”
Rose felt cold fingers clutch her heart. “You’re still having labor pains? They’ve gone on all day? They’re coming closer together?”
“False labor pains.” But Patricia sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “It’s too early for real labor. I…sent over another note to Doctor Chillingsworth at noon, and he replied that I had nothing to worry about from my description, that the only thing I needed to do was calm myself.”
“I do not like Doctor Chillingsworth,” Rose said passionately.
“He makes me a little uneasy, too,” Patricia said, far too nicely as always. “But I don’t want to bother him with a triviality. If I do, maybe he’ll not come when it’s urgent. So for now…” Patricia smiled. “He’s only five minutes away, less if Josephs runs. It’s doing me no harm to wait. And if I’d rather walk, it can’t be that bad, can it?”
No need to frighten her sister, no matter how Rose’s heart pounded or what scenarios her imagination invented. “No, of course not,” Rose said. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, no doubt. For now, do you want me to walk with you?”
“Yes. That would be lovely.”
Rose took her sister’s hand and paced with her along that four-foot strip of carpet. Patricia’s steps were slow and hesitant, but her voice was as welcoming as ever.
“Did you have a good day today?”
Rose hesitated. She could talk about her calculations, about the story Mrs. Barnstable had told her. But Patricia would see through her false humor in a moment. She was already peering at Rose, a frown on her face.
“I told Mr. Shaughnessy I couldn’t see him any longer,” Rose said swiftly.
“Oh, Rose. I know you had to do it—but I’m sorry you did.”
Rose shook her head. “It’s for the best, really. But…”
“But you liked him anyway, even though he’s a rake.”
“But I wish I were someone else,” Rose heard herself say instead. “Someone who didn’t have to think so hard about marrying an outrageous fellow without risking anything.”
“Marry?” Patricia turned her head to look at Rose. “He wasn’t talking marriage, was he?”
They made another circuit of the carpet, her feet falling on flowers, before Rose felt ready to respond. “He was,” Rose said softly.
“Did you doubt his future fidelity?”
Oh, she should have. All of England would doubt his future fidelity—all of it but her.
“No,” Rose said, her voice on the verge of breaking. “No, not that. But I’d be in all the gossip papers. They’d sneer at Papa for being in trade. And that would be only the beginning. It would be hard. Every day would be hard, and he simply won’t admit how hard it would be.”
“Oh, Rose.” Patricia’s hand clenched in hers. “I love you. But sometimes you have to do what you most want in life. You can’t hide from everything.”
“I don’t hide,” Rose said, stung.
Patricia didn’t speak for a moment.
Rose thought of her portfolios, her columns of numbers. She thought of the transit of Venus, of her ducking her head and insisting she’d never be attached to a scientific voyage.
It’s not that you think it’ll prove too difficult for me. It will be too difficult for you.
“I don’t hide,” she said, more slowly this time.
“You do. A little. And you have ever since you were small. It’s why Papa broke with Grandpapa all those years ago, you know.”
“What?”
“When Papa moved to London from Liverpool? It wasn’t just to set up that first import store. It was because he didn’t like what Grandfather was doing to you—putting you on display, having you do your little adding trick with the basket in front of the crowds. You weren’t shy before then. After that… Papa wanted it to stop, but Grandfather said it brought in customers.” Patricia shrugged. “So Papa and Mama left instead.”
Rose swallowed. She hadn’t realized they’d left for her. She had thought… Well, she’d been too young to think of reasons. She had simply thought that her parents wanted to strike out on their own.
All she could remember when they moved was a feeling of gladness—that she could stop feeling ashamed of the best part of herself, that she could sit and revel in her talent without everyone’s eyes on her. She had stopped belonging to other people.
She had always thought it a happy accident. It hadn’t been; it had been a gift from her parents.
“So I worry about you sometimes.” Patricia squeezed her hand. “I worry about you a lot, in fact, ensconcing yourself in a quiet office with nothing but numbers to keep you company.”