The Eyes Of Derek Archer. Vickie York

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СКАЧАТЬ competent. With the help of an accountant, which Mr. Bagby could probably recommend, they should be able to sort things out. Sallow or not, she had always had a good head for figures.

      Not until the last of the mourners had gone did Rose discover that she might have saved herself the worry. Horace Bagby had stayed behind when the others left. He wished he’d thought to ask Bess to stay and help him with the unpleasant task. He hated tears, never had learned how to deal with them.

      “As to the, ah—the will, I’m afraid the news is not good, my dear. Your grandmother’s estate is…well, the truth is, it’s mortgaged to the hilt and will have to be sold immediately to pay off creditors.”

      He braced himself to deal with anything up to and including an outburst of hysteria. Mrs. Magruder fooled him. She shed not so much as a single tear. There in the gloomy front parlor, its windows shrouded in respect for the deceased, she sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes somewhat swollen, somewhat pink, but quite dry.

      “There now, we’ll come through this, my dear,” he said without the least notion of how he would bring about such a miracle. As the poor girl didn’t seem inclined to question him, he hurried to fill the silence with all the information he had at hand.

      Rose sat quietly as the words droned on and on and on. Now and then a phrase would snag her attention.

      Nothing left?

      “—gambled away—risky investments—warned her, but you know Gussy, she was headstrong right to the end.”

      Sold immediately?

      “—lock, stock and barrel, I’m afraid. I’m sure we can think of something. That is, there’s bound to be a way—”

      Rose took a deep, steadying breath. “Would it be possible,” she asked, her voice unnaturally composed, “to sell several pieces of my own jewelry? They were given to me by my grandmother, but legally, I believe they’re mine to do with as I wish.”

      “Of course, of course, my dear, you’re quite right. I’ll handle it this very day, if you’d like.”

      Technically, the jewelry, especially if it consisted of family pieces, could be considered a part of the estate, but Horace wasn’t about to let this young lady suffer for the mistakes of a weak-minded old woman. After asking her once again if she wouldn’t prefer to go and stay with friends, he reluctantly took his leave. Rose saw him to the door. Mentally she was numb. Physically, she was too exhausted to think about dragging her trunks down from the attic to begin the arduous task of packing. After a night’s sleep, she might be better able to think clearly.

      Horace drove directly to Granby Street, where he sold the five pieces of jewelry, none of them particularly valuable. “It should keep her for at least a month, providing she’s frugal,” he confided to Bess that evening over teacups of fine, aged brandy. “Seems a sensible sort, but you never know. At least now she’ll be able to set herself up in a decent rooming house until she can find herself another husband. Shouldn’t take too long, even with mourning and all. She’s a bit long in the shank, but a widower with children might not be so particular.”

      “If marriage was the answer to every maiden’s prayer,” his companion observed dryly, “the two of us wouldn’t be sitting here drinking brandy and smoking cigars.”

      Horace lifted his teacup in silent acknowledgement.

      Unable to sleep after all, Rose dragged her trunk down from the attic and began emptying the wardrobe, folding and packing layers on top of the layers she’d never even got around to unpacking. Most were black, except for a few old summer things and the wedding gown she’d saved as a bitter reminder of what could happen when a woman made the wrong choice. She’d been in mourning for so long, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to wear colors.

      The next afternoon she divided the proceeds from the sale of her jewelry among the three remaining servants, thanking them again for their support. “I’m sorry it isn’t more. Goodness knows you deserve far more, this hardly even covers your salary, but it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

      They seemed to understand, to appreciate her appreciation, and they wished each other well.

      Not until the last one had left did Rose allow her guard to drop. And then the tears came. She wept until her eyes were swollen, her throat clogged, her handkerchief a sodden lump. “Oh, Lord, this is a waste of time,” she muttered, and then cried some more. On the rare occasions when she allowed herself the luxury of tears, she made a fine job of it, weeping noisily until every last dreg of emotion was spent.

      She cried for her parents—the charming rascal of a father she’d adored, her dainty, beautiful mother who had never quite known what to make of her gawky misfit of a daughter—and for the grandmother who had changed so drastically from the woman she dimly remembered from her childhood.

      But most of all, she wept for her baby, who had never even had a chance to live.

      Eventually she mopped her face, smoothed her skirt and stood before the heavy hall mirror, recalling the words her grandmother’s housekeeper had spoken when she’d tucked her share of the money in her purse. “There now, you’ll land on your feet, Miss Rose, you see if you don’t. You might not be much to look at, but you’ve got backbone aplenty.”

      Not much to look at, she thought ruefully. Never have been. Never would be. At least she would never have to worry about aging and losing her beauty, which had been her mother’s greatest fear.

      At thirteen Rose had been tall and painfully shy. At eighteen she’d still been shy, and even taller, but she could walk without tripping over her feet. She’d even learned to dance so that on those rare occasions when some poor boy had been forced to do his duty, she wouldn’t disgrace herself.

      “No, you’re not much to look at,” she told her mirror image. Given the choice between beauty and backbone, she would have chosen beauty, which just went to show she still hadn’t learned anything.

      Fortunately, the choice wasn’t hers to make. She’d been stuck with backbone, which was a good thing, because backbone was just what she would need until she could find a position and establish herself in a decent neighborhood.

      With the house empty and her luggage stacked beside her, Rose sat on one of the delicate chairs that flanked the inlaid hall table and waited for her grand-mother’s friend, Bess Powers, who had located a suitable rooming house and offered to drive her there, as her grandmother’s horse and buggy had already been claimed by a creditor.

      Limp with exhaustion, she was afraid to relax for fear she might fall asleep. Afraid the few dollars in her purse would not be enough. Perhaps she should have kept back part of the proceeds from the sale of her jewelry in case the landlord insisted on being paid in advance.

      What if she couldn’t find a position right away?

      And even if she could, it would be weeks, perhaps months, before she could expect to be paid.

      Choices. It came down to making the right one. Unfortunately, women were rarely given a chance to learn, their choices being made for them, first by parents and then by husbands. The first time she’d had to make a choice, she’d made a disastrous one. After suffering the consequences, she’d had no choice but to turn to her grandmother.

      This time she was fresh out of relatives. It was a criminal shame, she told herself, that well-bred young women СКАЧАТЬ