Page 107 of A Treacherous Trade
Because Beatrice Chamberlain, Mathew Butler, and Charles Hartigan were all incarcerated, Indira had decided to put her dream on hold for the time being and try her hand at running The Orchard.
When the hackney had come to collect them today, I noted that the sign above the establishment now advertised THE SPICE SHOP, and I approved of the retitling wholeheartedly.
Morag, Brinda, Kya, Katherine, and Isobel all stood in a row of mourning, roses in their hands as they gave their fallen family a final goodbye.
None of us truly knew how culpable Izzy was in Beatrice’s machinations, but everyone seemed to agree that she was a woman easily bullied, manipulated, and led about by her broken heart.
When someone died, especially young and under such tragic circumstances, their sins were so often forgotten by the living.
Thus it seemed to be here as, one by one, the women of The Orchard dropped a rose on Izzy’s grave, as well as Alys’s and Jane’s.
Very little was discussed between us after we dutifully said ouramenat the final prayer and dispersed. The grass crunched beneath our feet, frozen in the fading light of day, as we wound through the stones and pillars marking the dead.
I missed Amelia at the memorial, but Croft sent a note to say that he’d bundled her in a train headed for the South of France to visit a dear friend there. She’d been shaken by the entire business, and though she’d never showed it, he was worried about a decline in her vigor.
I knew what that meant. She’d lost so many friends at once. To the ground, and to betrayal. I was sure she was crushed by what had become of Beatrice.
My hackney driver, bless him, leapt down to help me into the seat, as I still had my arm in a sling. I thanked him and paid him extra for his pains before giving him directions to the hotel.
The hotel where I’d stay the night, but not alone. I’d sent a note to a man. One I wished to join me there for the evening.
For a night in each other’s arms.
There’d not been another Ripper letter. Only a fake glued together by Bea to taunt me whilst her brew eased through my veins.
Croft told me that she’d requested to speak to me from her cell, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to go to her.
I’d missed something in regard to her. I should have known, should have seen in her the sort of person who would cause other women such unfathomable pain. I read people rather well, I thought. At least I had before…
No, I couldn’t think of Aidan now.Thisbetrayal was nothing to that one, but it touched the same place inside of me. The one where hatred lived. Hatred of them for being capable of such evil. Of myself for not sensing it. Of the world allowing it. Feeding it with the constant cycle of temptation, yielding, and obsessive search for redemption.
Aidan had stood as a bastion of that salvation, a literal messenger of the Redeemer, able to hand out absolution from his very grace.
And he’d chosen to wield the power of condemnation instead.
Beatrice, on the other hand, was a purveyor of temptations. An enabler of surrender. Had I turned a blind eye to her because I’d turned my back completely on any hope of salvation? Because I’d still wanted someone to revere? Someone to rely on when a letter from the Ripper arrived? Or when a man made me feel small and afraid? Or I needed…
Needed what? A mother? A protector? A mentor?
Anyone that didn’t rely on me… or wield power over me.
I’d ascribed to her that duty—when she’d never once offered it—like a needy bloody child, rather than a woman possessed of three decades on this earth.
I wanted her to be my Joan of Arc. My Boudica.
But I’d forgotten what happened to them in the end. What happened to all women who led the war against the status quo.
They were the first to be chopped down by their enemies. Or they were hated for their power and taken down by their allies.
So where did that leave me? I was no holy warrior. No barbarian queen. I had no desire to be.
I was but a woman. And that was enough.
I had power over nothing but myself. And in the knowledge of that, there was freedom.
And, I was hoping as my chosen lover knocked on the door to the bower… more than enough pleasure.
