Sophie Dash - To Wed A Rebel

***

The opera was packed. Ruth knew barely anyone and no one she didn’t know cared to know her. It had been the same all week, with social events, dinners and mindless appointments. Lottie was in her element, catching up with those she’d only seen in the short breaks from school: her father’s friends, distant relatives, past acquaintances. Her laughter rang out like a clear bell and she had easily forgotten Ruth. It was not a malicious act; it never was. Lottie was always so invested in the moment that there was nothing beyond it. No one else existed but herself and the people within her direct eyeline. Ruth was used to it and if the alternative was constant, banal chatter, she was happier to sit by herself and take in as many sights as possible.

The air was close and lay upon them all like a clammy, second skin. This was the last performance until winter, when the aristocracy would clear London in favour of their country homes away from the slums that had already eroded half the decent corners of the city.

“It’s the hottest July I have ever known,” said Albert for the fifth time that evening from their private box.

No one paid much attention to the goings-on upon the stage. There was a constant background hum of conversation. People stopped by to visit and chat. Ruth sat near strangers whose talk she could not follow. They laughed at jokes she did not understand and mocked people she did not know. They wrote her off as a simple, artless creature.

“I can’t hear,” she told Lottie, when her friend had deigned to return to her side.

“No one ever can and it’s not like anyone even speaks Italian,” said Lottie loudly, for her companions to laugh at – and laugh they did. A few insipid women threw sympathetic looks Ruth’s way, as one would toss pennies to a beggar on the street.

Ruth sat back in her chair, defeated. Her dress was a poor shade that did not suit her and made her look ill: another borrowed garment, for Lottie refused to let her go out in her own ‘plain’ clothes. It was lifeless and thick, exactly how these people viewed her, and there was nothing she could do to change it. Ruth had not argued over the matter. She rarely did – it wouldn’t be proper. Even so, her gloved hands were tight upon her lap and her lips were pressed together, thin and bloodless.

A creak, a rustle and Mr Griswell’s muttered words soon found her ear, an uncomfortable, ticklish hiss against her neck.

“I recommend a walk, Miss Osbourne,” he said quietly. “Rather than risk losing your temper like the other night.”

Ruth quickly sought out Albert, who was engrossed in a conversation with some retired colonel, their large stomachs heaving with laughter.

“He told you?” Although she had snapped at him while at Lady Winston’s ball, she had thought little of it, had never anticipated he would latch on to the comment or repeat it to another.

“And how is your brother, Miss Osbourne?”

“I don’t have a…” Ruth trailed off. Brother . That man Isaac Roscoe had told Lady Winston they were siblings. Had the news spread so quickly? What must Albert think? If Griswell knew, then this surely spelt trouble, for the man was hardly a gossip – as self-absorbed in his own doings as his daughter.

“Yes, I – I should think a walk would…yes,” announced Ruth, shaking her head when Lottie looked set to go with her. “I – I shan’t be long.”

The musty hallway was scattered with idle bodies filtering from the coffee room. Ruth steadied herself against a panelled wall, her fingers lined up against her collarbone, as though she could press all the disjointed pieces of herself back together. There were too many people packed into the corridor, passing by, talking loudly. Though not a single one glanced her way, she found no solace, no quiet. A woman tried to push a half-dead flower into her hands in exchange for money and Ruth could only shake her head, stomach churning with all the fears and concerns she wrestled with. It felt as though she had been bottling herself up for years, burying shards of worry – and now she was fit to bursting.

“Come on, love, in here,” said a soft voice, a hand in hers.

The pressure on her fingers was gentle, yet firm, guiding her into an empty opera box. God, she was a fool, making an idiot of herself again. There was no way she could survive here, with its viper-quick tongues, conversations that moved too fast for her to understand – all packed together with Albert’s constant whiny and belittling remarks. They would be married soon and this would be her life and there was nothing and no one who could ever save her from it.

I can’t do this.

She wanted to turn back time and go back to the academy. She wanted her cold, barren room, her books and the faces she knew, the girlish chatter that was easy to follow. Real people, who held real concerns, who did not feed on gossip and other people’s misery.

She missed the country, the clean soot-free air, the sun. When had she last glimpsed the sun between those tall, blackened buildings?

God, she hated London. And it surely hated her.

“It will be all right, Miss Osbourne.”

“No, it won’t.”

There was a hand on her back, soothing, as she struggled to calm herself. Whenever she tried to push back the tide of emotions, the foam slipped over her fingers, across her arms, dragging her under. It was humiliating, ridiculous – she was ridiculous – for it was as though her body had forgotten how to breathe and no inhalation was ever enough.

“Stay with me, that’s it, I’ve got you.”

Ruth knew that voice.

At last, when she was able, she looked through her damp eyelashes to the individual sat beside her.

Isaac Roscoe.

“ You ,” she croaked. “I can’t be here with you .”

Chapter Four

Isaac

She wasn’t meant to cry. Griswell had given him instructions, hired a private box at the opera, told him to get the girl alone and do what must be done. But Isaac hadn’t anticipated this.

“What happened?”

“I shouldn’t be here.” Her face was blotchy, hands shaky, eyes puffy. Every breath seemed to escape her and panic her more. Isaac had seen men fall into the same state when overwhelmed by the sea, their vicious commanders, or the horrors that came with war. If he had a stiff drink, he’d have given it to her. It helped, he’d found. And if anything, he could use a drink.

It had never been like this before.

The women he’d brought down had always been spoilt, ambitious, money-grabbing creatures whose virtue needed testing. Or they were idiotic, simple-minded girls who needed crossing in love. (It helped to build character.) They all fell to him, forgot their better instincts, ruined themselves. Isaac merely provided the opportunity and he enjoyed it. The game, the chase, the danger.

When it came to Ruth Osbourne, the situation was not to his liking. She was a good person. He wasn’t used to those. He hadn’t even been sure they existed. It didn’t change anything. He couldn’t let it. He needed the money.

And she would recover, surely? It wasn’t as though she was ugly, aside from her ridiculous clothes. In some lights, she was rather pleasing to the eye. Yes, she had few connections and her uncle was an odd, unattached fellow, but someone else would intervene on her behalf. Soon she’d be someone else’s problem, not his.

“It will pass. Steady your breathing,” said Isaac gently, a hand on her shoulder, thumb moving in gentle circles. “You do not want anyone to see you like this, trust me.”

At last she stilled, chin against her chest.

“It seems you are fated to be here whenever I am at my worst,” she croaked. “And I fear I’ve been terribly rude to you, when all you’ve ever done is help me.”