Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
‘Frank!’ Eliza shrieks, making me jump. She tackles me from the side, taking me in quite a firm hug, too firm, really; I am struggling to breathe, but it is appreciated all the same, as without Eliza I was struggling to stand. ‘What are you doing here?’ She breaks away and looks me up and down, and I know what is coming before she has thought it herself.
‘Yes, another new jacket,’ I confirm, rolling my eyes. All right, I have become somewhat fond of a new jacket or ten. In fact, I think I shall pop in to see Mr Jenkins later today and buy another, perhaps in a paler blue to match my eyes, as I am yet to add that colour to my fine, expansive collection. ‘And I am here because, tragic as it is, I found myself feeling quite lonely at breakfast this morning.’ I look down Eliza’s body, grateful she thought to make herself decent, unlike some people around here. I turn a disapproving look to Taya Winters, finding her watching me closely, with no expression at all, folding the piece of paper as she does, smiling, but I cannot fathom if it is genuine or not. Whatever, I am not here to ponder the complicated behaviours of Taya Winters.
I return my attention to Eliza, my sweet, smart, now married, Eliza. ‘I brought this for you,’ I say, lifting an … empty hand.
‘What?’
‘Oh, that is odd,’ I say, trying to cast my mind back to the moment I lost the rose.
‘Are you looking for this, Mr Melrose?’
I turn and find Taya spinning the stem of the rose between her fingers, and she is chewing again. Slowly again, and this smile is definitely knowing. What kicks does she get out of taunting me? I hope she pricks a finger on a thor––
‘Ouch!’ Taya yelps, dropping the rose and hissing as she inspects her finger, where a drop of blood is beading. ‘Idiot.’
I do not know if she is speaking of me or herself. I expect me. Nonetheless, I take no pleasure from a lady in distress, so I swallow my pride, feeling rather awful for wishing this, and go to her, pulling a chair up and taking her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks as I take a napkin and dab at the pad of her finger to clear the blood so I can see exactly what I am dealing with.
I squint, getting closer, trying to see if the thorn has broken off, or if it is still intact, but, suddenly, her hand is not in mine any more, Taya having wrenched it away.
‘I can take care of it myself, thank you.’
Something tells me she is not thankful at all. ‘Have it your way.’
‘I will.’ She scowls at her finger and pops it in her mouth, and I find myself shifting on the chair, forcing myself to look away.
Unfortunately, I discover Eliza’s interested eyes jumping between Taya and me. ‘What?’ I ask, uncomfortable.
‘Were you two in here alone before I arrived?’
‘No,’ I say quickly.
‘No,’ Taya blurts, both of us looking at Hercules who is placing a bowl of sugar lumps on the table. He shakes his head mildly to himself before leaving. I have no idea why I am breaking out in a sweat. Eliza is a fine one to judge when it comes to the rules around here, for I know for certain she shared company with her husband unchaperoned before he was, indeed, her husband. But isn’t that the point? He is now her husband.
‘All right,’ Eliza says, coming to the table and pouring a coffee before taking it and leaving.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, standing.
‘I’m taking a coffee to my husband in our bed.’
I recoil. I’m pretty sure that’s not standard husband and wife practice. ‘But I came all this way to have breakfast with you.’
‘All the way across the square, Frank? Oh, please. Hercules,’ she calls, going on her way. ‘Please do keep an eye on them.’ She tosses a knowing, warning look back at me, and I snort my thoughts.
Taya stands. Oh good, she’s leaving.
‘Bugger it to hell!’ she yells, making me flinch, lifting her finger into the air, where it proceeds to drip all over the fine rug beneath our feet. Such a shame. It looks expensive, probably imported too, from India or somewhere equally exotic, I expect.
And we can’t have that now, can we?
I sigh, take her wrist, and pull her down into the chair, muttering something about everyone being ruined for one reason or another, anyway, and she does not fight me. In fact, she is rather quiet, and when I look up, I notice her green eyes look a little glazed. Oh dear, is she crying? Noticing I have noticed, she roughly wipes her face with her free hand and drops her eyes to her lap.