"There was a burglar in my room," I told the milk-faced policeman who was sitting in 'my' bedroom, dabbing my eyes. Around me, the room certainly looked like it had been hastily toppled, vanity rifled, jewelry box overturned. Though I couldn't tell you whether or not anything was actually missing - I hadn't owned the stuff long enough to know the catalog of its contents by heart. "He was trying to steal my jewellery. We surprised him in coming back upstairs so early - you see, Dear George and I were just married! He didn't expect us to be in the house, and George, he... the burglar pushed dear George out, into the hall you see and he-- he--!"
Okay, yeah, so maybe I was laying on a little thick, but the shock had finally set in. I had, effectively, committed murder. I mean, was it premeditated? No. Did I mean to hurt Mr. Lewis? Yes.
Did I regret it?
I didn't know.
Honestly, I didn't. But I was pale, and shaking, and Susan kept reappearing with cups of tea and finally a cut-crystal glass of sherry, and reassuring pats on the shoulder, and kind murmured words and she looked... she looked relaxed.
Fuck. She looked happy.
And it was all, "Yes ma'am," and "Of course, Mrs. Lewis," and "You poor dear." It was one hell of a performance. And when the policeman asked about the state of her face, she said the burglar backhanded her, and when he asked about mine, she clucked and chirped over me, saying it wasn't kind of the ruffian to lay hand on her Mistress as well, how dare, a gentlewoman struck so, which sent the policeman into tizzies of indignation and wow, was I glad that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle hadn't been born yet.
By the time the cops and coroner had cleared out, and someone had scrubbed down the steps, dusk had fallen and Susan had somehow arranged for a cold dinner to be served in the dining room for "Mrs. Lewis" and her guests.
"Guests?" I asked, as she helped me out of the hateful pink dress and into something black. Jesus, more fucking black. And I would have to wear it for six months, Susan explained. Well. "More police?"
"No, Ma'am," Susan said. "My letter, it seems, got through."
Letter.
Francis and his navy friends. Too little too late. No need for Francis' sword now, but better late than never. They can at least help us make sure Francis doesn't get punished.
I barely let Susan finish lacing up the back of the dress before I was downstairs like a shot. I leapt over the last step, still damp from it's cleaning, and rushed down the hall toward the big dining room. Along with the corpse, the servants all vanished to different parts of the house. I hoped it was to take as much portable wealth as they could find and stuff it into their own luggage. They bloody well deserved it.
But when I got to the dining room, there wasn't a gaggle of sailors and men in blue coats with their swords out, ready to defend the honor of one of their own. I had sent out the letters not only to Francis, but to his the inn where young Mr. Fletcher and his ilk were staying on land, too - and each letter decrying Judge Lewis and his cruel manipulation of the law to trick and blackmail poor Post-Captain Goodenough. It was the only way I could think of to get a bunch of blades in this house, and between me and my asshole husband.
But none of those blades were here. Instead, the room was occupied only by a woman in a plum-colored dress and bonnet. At first I had assumed it was Rose, for the lady was dressed in a similar travelling gown, her bonnet the same pale straw. But no, I knew that golden curl that peeked out at the nape of her neck. Then the woman turned, and I was struck full-force by the look of desperate relief in a beautiful pair of moonstone-blue eyes.
"Margaret," I said. My voice crackled, tight and dry in my throat. The world, which had been shifting constantly under my feet for the last day, seemed to suddenly lurch once and then completely still. Grounded. The vague burning ache that had lived behind my heart for the last two weeks was quenched by the way her smile curled in the corner of her mouth.
"Jessie," she whispered back. She dropped her reticule on the floor, surged forward, threw herself up against me, and enveloped in an embrace so fast I nearly toppled back into the wall. The door to the dining room swung closed behind me. Margaret buried her face against my neck and breathed deep and I couldn't help but turn my own face into the side of her bonnet, smelling her hair, hardwired still to want to lick and nibble along her ear.
Something inside me swelled, something hot and wet pooling low in my stomach, my heart fluttering against my rib cage. Margaret pulled back, lifted a gloved hand and ran the palm over my cheek, her thumb along my bottom lip. Then she pulled back pinched my bruised cheek hard.
"Ow!" I said, pushing her away and cradling my smarting cheek. "What was that for?"
"I thought you lost!" Margaret hissed at me, lashes spiking with tears that hadn't yet fallen. I had hoped that the sparkle had been tears of relief, but maybe they were anger. "I thought you...come upon the town!"
"Come a what now?"
"Upon the... oh, for heaven's sake; I thought you ruined. Your..." she coloured and made an aborted gesture at my belly button. "You left with no money, I had no inclination of how you could have supported yourself if not for-- the, the worst of... my imagination ran rampant, Jessie, and I was awake every night imagining horrible, wretched--"
"I'm already 'ruined,' Margaret," I said, unable to help the ridiculous goofy grin that just being back in presence brought out. It was better to joke that to admit that I had just, intentionally or not, made myself a Black Widow. "You made a pretty thorough job of that."
"I thought you a prostitute," she snapped, peevish with attempt at lightness. "And then when it came out that you had run away to London with the Cooper lad to be married. To think that you had cast me aside with such speed...!"
"Whoa, wait," I said, pushing her back an arm's length, but gently. "You were the one who kicked me out!"
"Which I regret it every moment of every day. Curse you!" she snarled, but the bottom of her eyes danced in the candle light. She yanked at the ribbon of her bonnet irritably, tossing her hat on to the table so she could brush her hair back in frustration."We did not know where you were! You were just gone. Curse you for making me love you." Margaret sobbed, and crowded me back against the wall and kissed me.
And I should have been mad. I should have been livid.
But I'd said things in anger and fear that I didn't mean before, especially when I first struggling with coming out. Boy, had I. And I had apologized. And my partner and I had moved forward. But Margaret and I hadn't had to opportunity to do so.
There weren't cell phones here. I couldn't text an apology, ask to talk, to work things out. I had just left, like she'd told me to. And I hadn't exactly provided her with a forwarding address, either.
I wasn't going to take all the blame for this. But I wasn't going to let Margaret off the hook about it either. There was going to have to be a long talk. A very long one. Probably more shouting. Definitely more tears. And eventually, forgiveness.
But for now?
The kissing was good.
"Come upstairs," I murmured against her mouth. "I'll have everyone lock up. Come upstairs with me. I missed you."
"I missed you so much," Margaret sobbed.
I reached forward, slowly, and tucked her up under my arm, breathed into her hair. "I'm sorry, Margaret," I whispered. "I wanted to come back to you. For you. I really did. Cooper was just a safety net. I promise. But Rose, your mother ... I'm sorry. You said you could never, and it was you who told me that women could only be wives or whores... I'm sorry."
"I do love you," she whispered, and then she was back, mouth pressed against my neck, hot and wonderful as I remembered it being. "Rose – I should not have listened. Jessie Franklin, I have missed you so fiercely."
"Lewis," I corrected.
Margaret pulled back again, startled.
"Jessica Lewis," I explained.
"Oh, Jessie," Margaret said, and the misery was so thick in her voice that I couldn't contain it any longer, couldn't keep it in.
The burning behind my eyes and in the small of my throat swelled into a great, heaving sob, so powerful that it stole my breath and I felt sure that I was about to puke. I gasped for breath and the moans that emerged were so powerful that I felt Margaret shudder, herarms a tangle against my back, knees knocking against mine, kind and compassionate and present.
"I want to go home!" I sobbed.
"Then I shall take you there," she said, petting my hair. "And if we are not made welcome there, we will make one of our own."
It wasn't what I meant. But the alternative sounded fantastic all the same. I kissed the tender, sensitive places under both of her wrists and she shivered deliciously.
Margaret grabbing my elbows gently. She kissed my forehead, my face, my neck. I waited for a moment, breathing hard, not believing that what had just happened had... just happened. That's it. It was over. Forgiven. And Free.
Free to be Jessie Franklin again.
We were free.
"I cannot stand it," Margaret said quietly, desperately. "There is an upstairs bedroom, you said?"
I smiled damply, fishing a handkerchief out of my sleeve to mop at both of our faces.
"There is," I replied. "And just one or two very discrete servants left."
"Show me," Margaret breathed, looking up at be through the damp lace of her lashes, her cheeks beautifully flushed.
And I've never been able to deny her anything.
I wanted very badly to be holding Margaret's hand, but I had sense enough not to, not here where we weren't alone. One day we would have a place for ourselves, where we could hold hands and snuggle on the sofa and not give one flying fuck about where and when we touched, but here, now, caution was the better part of valor. Which proved smart as Susan met us on the stairs on our way up.
"Susan," I said.
"Ma'am?"
"Miss Goodenough is spending the night," I said. "It's too late for her to venture back out." Which we all three of us knew was total bullshit, especially in a London where balls and private parties usually didn't wind up until dawn. "If Captain Goodenough or any of his crew arrive, please show them to the dining room and tell them to help themselves. If guest rooms are needed, please arrange it."
"Of course Ma'am," Susan said, cutting a sly look at Margaret, before looking back at me. Oh, is that how it was then? Nice to know I had allies among my staff. Speaking of...
"If anyone wishes to leave my employ, I understand completely," I said. "Just ask them to wait until the morning so I can make sure they have satisfactory references and, ah, what compensation we can drag out of Dear Old Georgies's estate, eh?"
Susan smirked. "Of course, Ma'am."
"And if you can send around for the Coopers - Mr. Joseph Cooper's bakery on Pyne Street. I'd like to see them in the morning." Fuck propriety. I groped backwards for Margaret's hand and she took it, squeezing it once, comforting.
"Yes Ma'am," Susan said with a final dip of the head and resumed on her way downstairs.
Margaret and I said nothing else until we reached the bedroom - not properly 'mine', I wouldn't call it that. But the only one I was willing to stay in tonight. I locked the door behind me, and Margaret walked over to to the vanity to look at everything Susan had properly tidied away. There were several necklaces and pairs of earrings, likely each worth enough to buy each of my remaining servant's comfort for the rest of their lives - and their silence. Though none of them had seen Mr. Lewis trip.
And my comfort too, now that I thought about it. I expected that my late husband probably had some debt, but he didn't seem the kind to have played fast and loose with his fortunes. I was likely set up for life and then some, now.
Damn.
On the vanity next to the jewels was my humble handkerchief bundle, holding the last vestiges and proofs of my previous identity. Margaret tapped the knot in the handkerchief thoughtfully, turning to send a questioning eyebrow over her shoulder at me. She'd seen the bundle in the house in Bath before, but I hadn't explained it then. I wasn't ready to, now. Wasn't ready to... take that final step.
Instead I held out my arms, and she made her way back into them, smile curling like a contented cat in the corners of her mouth. Of course I had to kiss them. Margaret wound her fingers into my hair, tugging, and I leaned back a bit, gentling the kiss, slowing it's urgency.
"We're safe," I whispered against her lips, my words mingling with her little moan of disappointment as I slowed us down. "We have time. Shhh. Turn around."
She sighed, content, when I kissed her nape and started to pull the pins out of her hair. Her curls fell one by one, brushing my cheeks, my forehead, tickling against my neck, smooth as silk and fragrant with rosewater. Margaret shivered and dropped her chin to her chest. I set the pins aside on the bedside table, pulling Margaret with me gently, then applied myself to the lacing of her dress, and then her corset, helping her step out of both when she was free of both them and her shift. She pushed down her drawers, but left her stockings on when I murmured to leave them. Margaret then helped me disrobe similiarily, peppering kisses on my back and shoulders as they were revealed. As we pushed my corset aside, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground.
"What is this?" Margaret asked, beautiful and bare and flushed so deliciously that I intercepted her as she crouched to pick it up to kiss her again, kiss her hard, and breathless so when I pushed her back gently onto the bed she was more than happy to go.
I scooped up the contract, laid myself between the thighs she spread so invitingly, lining us up toe to nose, and gave it to her. I reseted my weight to one side, enjoying the slide of her stockings against my bare legs, the prick of her pubic hair against my skin.
"Read it," I said, giving in to the temptation to suck a love bite onto her neck. Margaret squirmed and giggled.
"Stop it," she said, nudging my face away with her shoulder. Then she unfolded the paper, and went still, reading it. She gasped, then read it over again, eyes flashing across the page. "Jessie? I do not... what is this?"
"You got a publishing offer, huh?" I asked, pulling the paper from her surprise-lax fingers, and reaching across her - breast to breast, nipple to nipple, delicious - to lay it safely on the bedside table with the hairpins.
"I did. I have signed the contract. But I don't understand why Mr. Lewis' name--"
"He owns the company, or has shares, or something."
Margaret, my sweet dear Margaret, immediately covered her face and let out a pained little whimper. "Oh Lord. He only took the book to control Francis."
I kissed the back of her hands soothingly. "How did you know?"
"Rose came to fetch me. She told me all of it." I scoffed, still pissed at Rose, and Margaret dropped her hands to meet my gaze. "Rose has apologized to me, and I believe she will make her apologies to you as well. We have had... a very long conversation on the nature of love and happiness. I believe she will be willing to... to try to understand."
She tangled her fingers with those of my bad hand, tugging me down for another kiss. After which, Margaret signed heavily, melencholity, and relaxed back into the pillows, forlorn.
"What is it?" I asked.
"My book is not good," she admitted, like it was being dragged out of her by pincers.
"What on Earth makes you say that?" I asked, pillowing my head on her generous breasts as she petted my hair. "One rejection letter, followed one acceptance. That's a better average than most authors I ever heard of."
"Only because the publisher wished to use the book for leverage."
"You don't know that," I said, hugging her tight. "And you know, there is an upside to all of this?"
"Which is?" Margaret groaned, looking down at me as I turned my head and grinned up at her.
"The new publisher loves it."
"The new..." Margaret started, and then trailed off, eyes and mouth dropping wide. "You have the controlling share?"
"Mr. Daniels, the enterprising young valet of mine, brought me a document he found in the library while turning over the accounts to the police. Turns out," I said, nipping the skin right below her nipple, teasing, "that Dear Old Georgie's last will and testament was a couple of wives and a few siblings out of date. There are no kids, no brothers, no parents or first cousins. As his widow, I'm the sole inheritor of his estate, money, and, it turns out, shares. Do you know what that means?" I asked Margaret, sliding down her body, enjoying the taste and feel of her skin under my hands, my lips. She licked her own bottom lip, plump and pink from our kisses, her pupils blown wide and her chest and neck flushed.
"What?" Margaret panted, watching my every move, fingers tugging at the bedsheets.
I grinned and nipped the skin of her inner thigh. "It means that now? Now we celebrate."
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