“Enough about that. Don’t you wish to know what we’re celebrating?” Elma’s stern expression melted into a twinkle as she reached into her purse. “I have the most lovely surprise for you. First, you are well rid of the viscount, dear. His love is not for one such as you, it seems. You must not blame yourself one whit for his behavior. But while he is a rascal, he is not a dishonorable one—nor a thief, I am glad to say! Just look what he left in the care of dear Lady Lytton.”
She opened her hand. In it was Richard’s ring.
Gwen’s lips parted on a silent breath of surprise.
“Yes, dear,” Elma said gently. “Take it, do. I know how much it means to you, and I’m so glad to be the one who managed to return it to you.”
Slowly Gwen reached out. For a moment, as her fingers closed on the band—so much cooler than the air, a hard and alien pressure in her palm—she had a curious sense of déjà vu.
She ran her thumb along the band, finding the familiar striations at each side. It was the right ring. The brilliant gleam of the gold surprised her. It seemed as if recent contact with Pennington’s finger should have tarnished the metal.
She glanced up and found Elma beaming at her, waiting, no doubt, for some cathartic bout of tears, or, failing that, a fluttering joyous clamor. The occasion deserved it. With the return of the ring, her honor was redeemed, she supposed. And she was glad to have it back—truly. It was a piece of her family; it belonged with her. She would not have rested easily so long as it was missing.
But as she turned it over in her fingers, she realized that somewhere, during these last few days, the blemish that its absence had gouged into her self-regard seemed to have healed.
This ring had traveled farther, and had enjoyed so many more adventures, than she had.
“I wasn’t wrong to have given it to him,” she said, and this time, she believed it. “It was he who was at fault. I couldn’t have known.”
“No, of course not,” Elma said. “Nobody could have! But now you have it back, you will put him from your mind entirely. So many other men in the world! In London, right now, the bachelors are swarming.” She leaned forward, the rope of pearls at her neck swinging free. “Just think,” she said mischievously. “Some handsome lad in town is waiting for you, never suspecting the good fortune about to enter his life!”
Gwen laughed. Indeed, to the swarming bachelors, that would be precisely what she signified: a fortune, no more. She doubted Elma was even aware of the irony of the statement. “But I’m afraid my feelings haven’t changed, dear.” If anything, they had strengthened. “I’ve no wish to begin that rigmarole again. Indeed, I think I would like to stay in France a while yet.”
Elma’s mouth pursed. The movement drew into prominence the little lines she so loathed, which fanned out from her lips and the corners of her eyes. “Gwen, do be reasonable. After last night, I can hardly countenance remaining here.”
“Yes,” Gwen said hesitantly. “I understand; it would not be conscionable.” She lifted her own teacup to her nose, breathing deeply of the calming fragrance. The spice from the bergamot rind never failed to put her in mind of her father, who had drunk so much of the stuff that the scent had seemed permanently impressed into his clothes. He’d grown up on bohea, a watery broth made from third-rate scraps; he’d claimed that no luxury had ever startled and delighted him more than discovering the taste of proper tea. What a miraculous transubstantiation for common water, he’d often said. I tell you, Gwen, no man-made chemistry has ever surpassed it.
Exhaling, she set the cup down. “You needn’t stay, of course. I’m old enough to look after myself!”
The other woman’s eyes shot wide. “I—good Lord. You cannot mean to say you think to remain here alone?”
The incredulity gave her a moment’s pause. Yes, it did sound quite outré, didn’t it? “But . . . it wouldn’t be so unusual, would it? That is, I see women of my age all the time unchaperoned! In St. Pancras Station, for one.” She paused, struck by that truth. For all the money she had, she’d never experienced any true form of independence. “Why, they stand alone at the refreshment counter—drinking brandy, even! Many of them look quite respectable.”
Had she sprouted another head, Elma might have gawked at her so. “Working girls,” she said. “Typists, Gwen. Postal clerks! Surely you don’t mean to compare yourself to those people!”
“I—of course not.” That would be foolish. Such women did as they must in order to keep a roof over their heads. Perhaps, if they could have afforded it, they would have preferred to be looked after by somebody like Elma. “But that doesn’t make them disrespectable, surely. That is—they are no better or worse than my mother, before her marriage.”