Page 27 of Immortal Rose

I ran my fingers along the flowers on the loose sleeves, feeling adrift. The bath, the finery, even this bedchamber, it was all so . . . confusing. Complicating.

I was a guest, yes, but not one of any stature. As strange as it was, I almost missed my own tattered clothing, because they had at least been mine. They had helped to define the rules of Foxcourt’s scheme and my place in it.

The wood in the fireplace popped and crackled. Felicity brought over a stool from the nearby vanity, placing it beside the fire for me. The footmen came in and set about removing the water and the first tub, stoically trudging out with only a few grunts of effort.

Within a few minutes the radiant warmth of the fire had dried my hair. As she tidied up the room, I listened to her lovely chirping about the farming counties where she’d grown up. About the pond in the back garden of Foxcourt House and the cunning mews cat that had stolen the last of its fish. About the last Lord Foxcourt’s insistence on installing a system of water closets in the house to use in lieu of chamber pots or an outdoor privy—though I hadn’t truly believed they flushed until she’d ushered me to the one down the hall to demonstrate.

Back in the bedchamber, Felicity set about brushing and braiding my hair before helping me clean beneath my broken nails. And again, I felt the danger of being lulled into a state of exhausted calm. Perhaps I would have given in this time, had it not been for the tinge of blood returning to the air.

“Ah,” came Mrs. Keyes’s quiet voice as she crossed the bedchamber. “As I suspected, there was indeed a lovely young woman beneath all that.”

I tensed but forced myself to say lightly, “It was hard-fought, but Felicity has successfully excavated me from the grime.”

The housekeeper’s smile looked genuine. “Well done, Fizzy.”

The girl beamed as she set about tidying up the area, collecting the oils and soap and removing the screen. Mrs. Keyes held a small tray between her hands, and some of my wariness eased when I saw that there was only a teacup, a tin of some kind, and bandages resting on it.

“I’d like to apply some ointment to your wounds,” Mrs. Keyes said, shifting the tray against her hip. “It should help them heal faster and ease some of your discomfort.”

There was nothing remotely suspicious in the scent of the ointment or bandages. I nodded. “I would appreciate that. Is the tea what smells of honey?”

With care, Mrs. Keyes balanced the tray over the end of the remaining tub and handed me the teacup. “The earl requested Mrs. Silver make some of her comfort brew.”

“Chamomile, lavender, lemon balm, honey . . .” I said, sorting through the blend. But also, “Whisky?”

“Took it upon myself to add a touch of the north, to fortify you,” the housekeeper explained. “I fear this may be unpleasant.”

Stubbing one’s toe was unpleasant. Having whatever malevolent mixture was in the tin smoothed over the bruises and open sores on my back was flaming agony.

I’d gritted my teeth and braced myself, and still, as she gently applied the salve, I was fighting to not run screaming to the other side of the bedchamber. I curled down around myself further, gripping the fabric pooled around my waist until I’d twisted it into tortured knots.

Mrs. Keyes murmured a faint “Tch. Poor mite,” as she applied a second layer to a particularly sore spot on my shoulder. “It’s a blessing the earl fetched you when he did and spirited you away from that place.”

I stared down at the teacup at my feet, my brow creasing. The tart reply was at the tip of my tongue, biting: Well, he did know exactly where to find me, seeing as he put me there himself.

Something about the heartfelt way she’d said it, as if she were truly grateful on my behalf, rankled. It couldn’t be that they didn’t know, could it? Foxcourt had obviously told them who I was, or at least why he had brought me here. If they knew that much, they must have known—or been able to guess—why I had been in Fairgate to begin with.

Then again, I thought bitterly, how often were masters of households in the practice of explaining themselves to servants? It hardly mattered what they thought when I wouldn’t be here long. Let them cling to their illusion that Foxcourt was a gentleman.

“Miss Lockwood?” Mrs. Keyes began, interrupting my thoughts. Her hands had stilled against my back. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Please continue.”

Tremors rippled down my back with each new brush of Mrs. Keyes’s fingers. I reached for the teacup then, letting the warm brew spill out over my shaking hand as I took a gulp. It drowned the moan of pain that had been building in my throat, at least. The whisky burned, the honey soothed. And still, I didn’t let myself cry.

“Steady, Miss Lockwood,” the woman said softly. “Tell me if it’s too much and we’ll give it a rest. If you could survive the beating, you’ll survive the healing.”

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut as the housekeeper stroked the oily salve over my ribs. As much as the ointment stung, burning as it sank into the skin, like the whisky numbing my throat, it soon became a kiss of relief.

I could take this. I could survive this.

I took another sip of the tea.

“I deserved it, didn’t I?” I asked, staring down into the dark pool at the bottom of the cup. “It’s prison. You’re meant to be punished.”

Mrs. Keyes’s hands stilled against my skin, her calloused fingers gentling as she resumed her work. “For trying to make a few coins in the way you were uniquely suited to?”

I could have wept at the incredulity in the older woman’s voice, the forgiveness I hadn’t entirely allowed myself.