Page 97 of Rules for Ruin

A sickening numbness spread through Effie’s limbs. She no longer cared about the possibility of Gabriel learning her secrets. Her thoughts were consumed by that long-ago child. A strange brown little thing. A mere toddler, placed on the roof, her cries of hunger silenced by her terror of falling.

And Effie had been that child.

Her mind couldn’t recall it, but something in her did. The memory was imprinted deep, in her blood and in her bones. A scar gouged upon her soul. Never fading. Never healing. Always there to torment her whenever she ventured too high.

“What became of her?” she asked softly. “Of the child?”

“Can’t rightly say, ma’am,” Mrs. Young replied, drinking her tea. “She disappeared not long afore Mrs. Grace died. Some said she were sent to the workhouse. Others, that the father come and took her away. A lascar, I heard.”

Effie was vaguely familiar with the term. A lascar was a sailor from India. Which meant she must be half Indian.

People had remarked on her singular looks all her life. Had asked if she was part Spanish or Italian or any number of things. Effie had never known the answer.

“But t’were only a rumor,” Mrs. Young continued. “I didn’t see the man meself. I did ask Mrs. Grace where the child went, but she only laughed. Said she never wanted the tyke and good riddance. She were ill at the time, coughing blood and all sorts.”

“Consumption,” Mrs. Sturges supplied. “Isn’t that what you said, Vera?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Young nodded. “She had the consumption. Died a few months after the child disappeared.”

“There, you see, Mrs. Flite?” Mrs. Sturges said. “This Mrs. Grace woman couldn’t have been anyone’s servant. Not unless she’d fallen far since leaving your family’s employ.”

“No indeed,” Effie replied mechanically. “This isn’t the woman I was looking for.” Returning her teacup to the tray, she stood abruptly from her chair. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

Gabriel was at once on his feet beside her. Effie didn’t wait for him to speak, or for the others to protest her departing so hastily. She turned and strode out the door, left with only the fleeting impression of the two old women rising from the sofa, and of Mrs. Young extending her gnarled hand for recompense.

Lowering the veil of her bonnet, Effie exited the cottage.

Miss Corvus had warned her not to look backward.

But Effie had insisted on doing so, on learning the truth, like Pandora or Lot’s wife or any other of the countless examples of women who had coveted knowledge at the expense of self-preservation. And the result had been the same. Chaos. Misery. Obliteration.

There had been no kind, self-sacrificing mother. No place where Effie had ever belonged. She was the bastard child of a prostitute and a lascar sailor. Abused. Unwanted. Unloved.

Her dreams had been illusions. Her long-held anger misdirected.

Miss Corvus hadn’t stolen her away from anything worth having all those years ago—if she’d stolen her away at all. Indeed, it transpired, she had very probably saved Effie’s life.

25

The train departing Sawbridgeworth Station whistled a shrill final warning.

“All aboard!” the conductor shouted.

Gabriel set a gloved hand on the small of Effie’s back, wordlessly steering her toward the first-class railway carriage. She offered no objection, allowing him to guide her steps, just as she’d allowed him to purchase the two first-class tickets for their return journey to London.

The cost had been exorbitant, but any price was preferable to being cramped in an open railway carriage, with no ability to engage in unguarded conversation.

He and Effie hadn’t spoken since leaving the cottage in Trowley Green. Seated beside him in the hired carriage, she had remained mute behind her veil, her hands clasped hard in her lap and her body rigid. Gabriel hadn’t attempted to engage her. He’d been too stunned himself. Rendered all but speechless by the implications of the dreadful tale he’d pieced together.

It had taken him the full five miles to the station to get his chaotic thoughts in order. Only then had he resolved on something like a plan.

A railway porter in a green straight-buttoned coat stood at the door of the first-class carriage. He directed them to their compartment. Situated near the front, it was paneled in gleaming polished mahogany with four blue cloth–upholstered seats disposed in facing pairs.

Effie sat down in a seat near the oval window.

Gabriel shut the compartment door before taking the seat across from her.

Within seconds, a back-and-forth jolt and the grinding sound of metal announced the train’s departure from the station. The conductor shouted unintelligibly as it lurched into motion. Outside the window, the now empty platform slipped by with a gradual increase of speed.