Chapter Sixteen
Gwen
The carriage ride back to their townhouse is silent. Gwen stares out the window, trying to make sense of the cacophony of thoughts in her head. Her horror, her pain, her sadness, the overwhelming feeling of guilt and regret. And yet, all she can truly focus on is the feeling of Beth’s hands on her skin, and the complete peace of the two of them together. How can they give that up for Montson?
Father leads her from the carriage and up into their foyer. She stands there, thinking of the previous night, of taking Beth’s hand and dragging her upstairs. Of how she’ll never get to do that again, how last night was it. Forever.
She turns and finds herself enveloped in Father’s arms. She grips at his waistcoat, burying her face in his chest, soaking up the smell of his cigars and pomade—of home and safety and childhood. It makes her wish she was still small, that he could wipe the pain away with a kiss and a sweet. That he could swing her about by her arms and make her feel like she was flying and banish all bad thoughts away.
When it was just the two of them in her heart, and she needed nothing else at all. No one else.
He pulls back after a long moment and holds her by her shoulders, ducking his head to meet her eyes with a sad smile. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
But she’s not four anymore, and he can’t fix this with a smile and a promise. “It won’t.”
Father sighs, considering her. “There can be more space in a marriage. You’ll remain friends. He’ll have to spend much of his time in London, and when he does, you can visit Beth in the country. It’s . . . normal for ladies to have companions. You’ll see her more than you think.”
Gwen watches his face, sees him trying so hard to make this right for her. But is that what she wants? To be a spinster—to be in love with someone married to another, kept as a dirty secret—a companion? To be known to the world as the sad little friend who keeps company in the country? To be only a friend, forever?
“Would you do it?” she wonders.
Father blinks. “What?”
“If Lady Demeroven had married her husband and kept you on as a companion, to visit and lie with her when he was away, would you have done it?”
Her father’s face hardens for a moment, anger coming over him, before he takes a deep breath. He can be mad at the insinuation all he likes. She wants to know. Would he be content with this arrangement—to be a tawdry secret behind closed doors, second to a wife or a husband?
She knows that it’s her only option. Even were Beth financially settled, even if Gwen herself could inherit her father’s title, there’s no place for them together in the ton. No place for them together in the country, or anywhere. Two women cannot run a house, own land, live together and lie together in public view. Companions, yes. But there is no marriage for two women.
She doesn’t want to be a secret, to be second to Lord Montson of all people. To know Beth has felt his touch. To lie in the bed she’s lain in with him.
“Would you do it?” she asks again.
“No,” Father says softly.
“Then don’t ask me to,” Gwen says, pulling from his hold.
She can’t take the look in his eyes, the heartbreak on his face. She doesn’t want to make him hurt for her, when he’s been hurt enough by the Demerovens himself.
Instead she shuts herself up in her room. She stares at her crisply made bed, linens changed. At her tidied vanity, rearranged from the mess of last night. The pins she and Beth took from their hair are mixed together in her late mother’s dish. She doesn’t know which belong to her and which to Beth. She falls heavily onto the chair in front of the vanity, staring at this stupid pile of metal.
She knew the risks when she kissed Beth. She knew this was a pain charging at them when she invited her to stay last night. Knew it when they kissed, and undressed, and touched in her bed. Knew it as they came to know each other more intimately than she’s known anyone else—more intimately than she thinks she will ever know another person.
But knowing doesn’t make it easier. It feels like someone is prying her chest apart, ripping her open from the inside out and burrowing at her innards. Like a weight has settled upon her shoulders and the world has grown dimmer in just a few hours.
Gwen growls at herself and stands, ripping pins out of her hair for something to do with all of her hurt.
She wrestles her way out of her dress. Tosses her petticoat across the room. Undoes her hoop and leaves it in a pile on the floor. But the sight of her clothes, rumpled and scattered, just like her things were mixed with Beth’s last night, makes her stall out.
She stands there torn between heart-wrenching sadness and a deep, pervasive feeling of emptiness. Like all the good feelings she’s ever had have left and now there’s just a hollow pit in her chest.
How does she move on from here?
The door opens, but she can’t quite tear her eyes away from the pile of clothing on the floor—from the dress she was wearing when the sky caved in.
It’s only when hands gently loosen her laces that she seems to come back to herself. Mrs. Gilpe turns her by the shoulders, wrapping her up tight, and Gwen presses her face into her shoulder. Mrs. Gilpe sways them side to side, like she used to when Gwen was small. She’s always been stern and uncompromising, but in these moments, she’s soft and warm and so so safe.
“Come, let’s get you into something comfortable. Sally’s bringing up your favorite biscuits.”
Gwen feels a genuine smile spread over her face and lets Mrs. Gilpe help her put on a fresh petticoat. They layer an old housedress on top, comfortable and worn. And by the time they’ve gotten her hair down, Gwen feels like she can breathe again.
Mrs. Stelm slips into the room with a tray of warm biscuits and tea for three. Bless both of them. “Your father thought you could use some comfort,” Mrs. Stelm explains as she places everything onto the bedside table and shoos Gwen onto her bed.
Gwen smiles as Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe climb up as well, reminding her of when she was small and they would tell stories. Mrs. Gilpe rarely joined them, but it was always so lovely when she did. Comfortable and close and like family.
Mrs. Stelm holds out a biscuit, and Gwen takes it, biting into the buttery shortbread and spilling crumbs onto her dress. She feels her shoulders come down as she chews and gamely takes another one when offered. The food does help. After a few minutes and some gulps of tea, she feels almost human again.
The sadness hasn’t lifted, but she feels like she’s back inside her own head now, can feel the rise and fall of her chest and the soft mattress beneath her. She sinks against her pillows, pulling her knees up to her chest as she looks at Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm, who simply watch her with glum smiles.
“A little better?” Mrs. Stelm asks.
Gwen nods. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Gilpe smiles and holds out a hand for Mrs. Stelm to pass her a biscuit. Mrs. Stelm rolls her eyes, grabbing three and passing only one to Mrs. Gilpe. Gwen laughs.
“Spoilsport,” Mrs. Gilpe mutters.
Mrs. Stelm giggles and breaks the third cookie in half, passing that over as well. Mrs. Gilpe grins and leans in to kiss her cheek. It’s so fast Gwen could have missed it, but Mrs. Stelm blushes a little, the two of them sitting closer than she realized. They’re happy together, serving and sleeping together. Living this life they’ve found a way to share.
There must be a way she and Beth could be together like this, always. Companions she hears in her head and frowns. She doesn’t want them together around Montson. She just wants them together.
“Do you regret it?” Mrs. Gilpe asks, the question loud against the quiet room.
“No,” Gwen says, the answer immediate and firm. She wouldn’t give up last night for anything. To know that joy—even if this is the heartache she feels forever as a result—it’s worth having known it even once.
“Then it’s worth the pain,” Mrs. Gilpe says easily.
“You’ll know happiness again,” Mrs. Stelm adds. “Companions can build their lives as they please. Your father would surely finance a few more years for you before you find a match, and perhaps you could settle close to Miss Demeroven.”
Gwen feels her stomach clench. It’s one thing to grapple with the idea of Beth and Montson together. She doesn’t think she can bear the thought of herself with a man. She doesn’t think she could ever—the way Beth touched her, the way it felt—she couldn’t do that with a man, couldn’t feel that with a man.
“There are worse ways to live a happy life,” Mrs. Gilpe adds.
Gwen sighs. “It’s not fair,” she says, wincing at how petulant and petty she sounds. She’s no child. Fair is not something she’s ever expected out of the world.
But she didn’t expect Beth either. Didn’t expect to feel this way. To know that beyond simply being a woman—second class, chattel, property—she could feel even less like a person in the eyes of society. These wants, these new needs, no one will respect them, save the women on her bed and her father.
“Your father loves you,” Mrs. Stelm says. “And we love you. And no, it isn’t fair. But you won’t be thrown in prison.”
“That’s a grim silver lining,” Mrs. Gilpe agrees.
Gwen blows out a breath, trying to find her resolve and her fortitude. Tries to find some gratitude that this only costs her her happiness, not her life. But all she wants to do is rail at God for the injustice of all of it. Of a title she can’t inherit, of a husband she needs for security, of a love that cannot exist and a lover who will belong to someone else in far too many ways.
She searches for words and comes up short, exhausted and overwhelmed by it all. Mrs. Stelm smiles softly and hands her another biscuit, waiting until Gwen takes her first mouthful.
“So was it wonderful?”
Gwen chokes, spluttering as she coughs. Mrs. Gilpe whacks at Mrs. Stelm, all three of them laughing.
“It was . . . lovely,” Gwen manages when she can take in air, wiping at her crumby mouth.
“We’ll have to gussy you up for that dinner tomorrow, see if you can’t get a repeat performance.”
Gwen blushes even as she winces. She doesn’t know how they could lie together with the specter of Lord Montson’s proposal over them. But she also wouldn’t want to give up the opportunity.
“She’s awfully short,” Mrs. Gilpe says.
Gwen blinks at her. “What?”
“She’s very short, and small. Just saying.”
“So it doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman, you’re going to judge them either way, hmm?” Gwen says.
Mrs. Gilpe grins. “Of course, dear. It’s our right.”
“Yes, we don’t care who you’re kissing. It’s the kissing we must tease about,” Mrs. Stelm adds.
Gwen groans.
“And you did quite a lot of that,” Mrs. Gilpe says, reaching out to turn Gwen’s cheek, exposing the love bite she hid with makeup this morning. “My goodness, you’re grown women. Keep those where they can’t be seen.”
Gwen laughs and pushes her away, blushing up to her ears. Mrs. Stelm and Mrs. Gilpe start going on about the mess from last night and how cute Gwen and Beth do look together.
And even as she knows it cannot last, and even as the grief of tomorrow looms ahead of her, Gwen lets herself be briefly lost in their lighthearted teasing—in the idea that Beth could be someone they tease and toy about, who they can embarrass her about, like aunts crowing over a man. She should take her happinesses as she can, for she knows they’ll be forever fleeting. But at least she’ll have them.