Apprehension. That was the only word that could accurately describe the way Rose felt upon returning to work Tuesday morning. Questions coated in unease ran rampant through her mind. In what state would she find Mr. Gallagher? What mood? A gratified or foul disposition? Had he and Geneviève spoken? Come to an understanding? Had his temper cooled?

There was no way to know until she saw him.

But when she climbed the stairs to the offices on the second floor, she found them deserted. Mr. Gallagher was not in. To Rose's mind, that was either very good, or very, very bad.

Determined to appear oblivious to any and all potential troubles, Rose set about her tasks, fielding telephone calls in between her continued effort to compile an employee directory.

The morning passed in tense silence.

Shortly after eleven o'clock, the telephone trilled on the desk beside her.

“Gallagher Automotive Factory, Mr. Gallagher's office,” she answered.

“Oi, gorgeous!” exclaimed a flamboyant male voice on the other end.

Rose rolled her eyes. “Hello, Jimmy,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face as she spoke into the receiver. “Your father isn't in just now.”

“Like I'd ring to speak to that cranky ol' sot!” Jimmy scoffed. “Nah, gorgeous, I'm ringin' for you. Ya miss me?”

About as much as I'd miss a thorn in the cheek of my bum, Rose thought, her nose wrinkling in distaste. In direct contrast to her mental declaration, she said, “I do! So very much. When will you be back?”

Jimmy chuckled on the other end, the sound saturated with self-satisfaction. “Me boys and I need another day or so to sort out our business, but I should be back Thursday night. Maybe Friday morning.”

Their ‘business,’ whatever that was. And it would take another day or two to ‘sort out.’ Interesting. Although relieved by his prolonged absence, Rose knew the best course of action in her ruse was to fan Jimmy's ego.

“Not until Thursday night!” she complained, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Whatever will I do with myself until then?”

“Nothin' too fun without me, I hope!” Jimmy reparteed.

For performance's sake, Rose donned a spoiled little pout. “What fun could I possibly get up to without you?” she whined. “This is Manchester, for pity's sake. It's beyond dull.”

“Chin up, gorgeous!” Jimmy instructed. Rose noticed he sounded downright delighted with himself. “I'll make it up to ya. How's about you and me take in a show Friday night? The Kensington Theater is puttin' on one of them plays ya like. By that poet...er, sonnet writer, or summat.”

A poet known for sonnets? “William Shakespeare, you mean?” Rose clarified, rolling her eyes again.

“That's the one!” Jimmy cried. “Aye, Shakespeare. So, what d'ya say? Meet me for the eight o'clock curtain?”

“I'd love that,” Rose replied. The show, not the company, she added silently to herself.

“Brilliant!” Jimmy said. “I'll secure us a couple o' tickets. Maybe we can have a drink afterwards.”

“Sounds lovely,” Rose lied. “I can't wait!”

After they'd expressed their farewells, Rose placed the handset back in the cradle and returned to her project.

However, no sooner had she reestablished her rhythm, than heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs. Rose turned her head in the direction of the door, and a moment later Mr. Gallagher walked through.

His sharp features and shrewd eyes had been invaded by a haunted expression, and he didn't so much as glance in Rose's direction as he walked past her. His gait, usually so brusque and assertive, was reduced to a pale shadow of itself, as though he were in a state of trance-like stupor.

Rose blinked up at her employer as he made his way to his office door, uncertain what to make of his demeanor. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Had the news of his illegitimate son shocked him so much? It was certainly conceivable, given the delicacy of the situation and the sudden nature of its arrival into his life.

“Good day, Mr. Gallagher,” she said, her tone polite but cautious.

At the sound of her voice, he stopped in his tracks and turned toward her. He looked down at her in a way that suggested he wasn't seeing her at all.

“Miss Appelbaum,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Raw. Perhaps from overuse or strain. “Yes. G'day. Everythin' alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Rose replied. Taking in his sunken face, she tried to smile, but found she could not. “Everything here is fine. Grand. There are a few messages for you on your desk.”

“Mmm,” came the vacant reply. A blink followed. Then a nod.

“Are...you alright? Sir?” Rose asked.

“What? Oh, yes. Fine. Bit tired. Not enough sleep.”

“I see.”

“Mmm. Miss Appelbaum, can ya bring me a brew? Could use it.”

“Oh, yes, of course, sir,” Rose said. “I'll bring it right away.” Taken aback, she stood up from her chair and rounded the desk. Mr. Gallagher rarely drank tea, and never before had he asked her to fetch it. He seemed to enjoy his treks across the factory floor — to observe and put the fear of God into the workers, so Rose assumed.

When she returned with the cup of tea, Rose found Mr. Gallagher seated at his desk, absently sifting through the small stack of telephone messages. The distinct smell of smoke lingered in the air. Nothing odd about that; Mr. Gallagher smoked cigarettes in his office whenever the mood struck him. However, at present, his hands were devoid of a lit fag, and the ashtray was clean.

How queer, Rose thought. But she said nothing on the subject, instead simply stating, “Your tea, sir,” as she set the cup and saucer on the desk beside him.

Mr. Gallagher jerked his chin in her direction, his eyes still on the messages. “Much obliged, Miss Appelbaum.”

He lifted the teacup from its saucer and pivoted away from her. Apparently, she was dismissed.

As Rose turned to leave, she saw the source of the smoky odor. Atop the rubbish bin was Geneviève's letter. One edge of the stationery was charred and blackened, as though set ablaze with a lighter, then snuffed out before it could burn to cinders.

A covert glance at Mr. Gallagher confirmed his back was to her. He was distracted. If she took it, he wouldn't see.

This was insanity. She shouldn't. ...But she must. And it was now or never.

Biting her lip against her apprehension, Rose snatched the burnt letter from the bin, spun around, and retreated from Mr. Gallagher's office.

Back at the sanctuary of her desk, Rose folded the damaged stationery and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. What had possessed her to do something so dangerous, she didn't know. But the need to preserve Geneviève's written words was too strong to ignore, whether or not logic played a role in her reckless decision.

【♖】

“...and you should have seen his face, Daph!” Rose cried. “He had the look of a man tormented by his own personal poltergeist!”

“I can't imagine,” Daphne mused with a shake of her head. “Such a stoic man. Must have been unsettling to witness!”

“You've no idea,” Rose agreed. “Mr. Gallagher usually scowls, no matter his mood, no matter the circumstances. I didn't know he was capable of such a haunted expression!”

The work day had ended with far less intrigue than it'd begun, but with all she'd gleaned in the past day and a half, Rose felt the need to purge her mental vault of information. The compilation was vast and dire for the parties involved, therefore Rose needed the unbiased opinion of someone she trusted. Someone smart. Naturally, her thoughts turned to her favorite cousin.

At present, the pair of clandestine aristocrats were walking along the canal behind the factories. Daphne often came here on her lunch hour, so she'd told Rose. Between the constant din of machinery, boats on the water, and steel workers communicating through shouts and grunts, they were unlikely to be overheard. Rose spared Daphne no detail regarding William's apology, the sudden appearance of Geneviève, her startling news of a son, and Mr. Gallagher's severe reaction to said news.

“I wonder…” Daphne murmured, her voice barely audible over the grind and pounding of steel. “Mr. Gallagher is much like William in the sense that he's grown accustomed to always being in control. Little surprises him, I'm sure. An unexpected visit from an old flame combined with the news that he has a second — not to mention illegitimate — son, well... That would be enough to shock even the strongest of men. The weight of his past indiscretions was likely too much.”

Rose fiddled with the hem of her dress pocket as they strolled. Geneviève's letter seemed to possess an energy of its own, as though it would escape on the breeze if given half a chance. Had she truly rescued it? Or stolen it from its rightful owner?

“He is only human,” Rose conceded. “In truth, I often forget that fact.”

“How could you not?” Daphne tutted. “He's William Mercer without the charm!”

“Recipe for utter devastation,” Rose drawled. For the first time all day, she felt a laugh bubble up inside her.

A whiff of rotten rubbish assaulted both women, and they covered their noses as a man tossed a bucket full of fish bones and brine out onto the cobblestones.

“Ugh, that is foul!” Rose exclaimed with an affronted laugh. “Do you really enjoy taking the air here? On your lunch hour?”

“Keeps me slender,” Daphne joked, holding a handkerchief to her face. “Who could muster an appetite amidst this stench? And anyway, I enjoy watching the boats on the water.”

“The dirty water,” Rose corrected. “I think I see the smoke stack from an old coal-burning stove floating there. See it? And you had the gall to call this a ‘river’.”

Daphne chuckled. “Did I? Slip of the tongue.”

The pair shared a cathartic laugh as they continued along, and Rose slipped her arm through the crook of Daphne's elbow. How she'd missed this. Their camaraderie. Their intrigues.

A ways up ahead, a few burly men in coveralls were hauling a large object from the water. By the way they heaved as they set it down, Rose gathered that the weight must've been considerable.

“For pity's sake, the canal isn't a dumping ground! What discarded refuse have we this time?” Rose huffed. “Looks like dark fabric of some sort. The upholstery from a motor car, do you think?”

Her gaze migrated from the trio of workers to her cousin's face. Daphne remained silent, her brow furrowed as she squinted at the scene.

“Daph?” Rose asked. “What is it?”

Daphne pointed. "That uniformed man. There," she said. “See him? That's the constable.”

Rose's eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Why would the constable be needed to remove refuse from the canal?”

“He wouldn't,” Daphne stated, her voice thick with unease. “I don't think that's refuse, Rose.”

The pair increased their pace, drawing closer to the men that surrounded the long dark object. The workers had laid it atop a large wooden crate, and were speaking to each other with urgent hand gestures and distraught facial expressions.

The constable turned his head, catching a glimpse of Rose and Daphne as they approached. “Stay where you are, ladies!” he commanded as he held up his hand, palm forward. “Nothin' here proper girls should be seein'.”

“I'm Daphne Lancaster, senior editor for the Manchester Daily Post,” Daphne informed him in her most authoritative voice. “If there's something amiss, Mr. Hughes would want me to be informed.”

Rose followed her cousin, a fresh bout of fret festering in her stomach. The object the men had pulled from the canal had a very familiar shape. A shape Rose herself possessed. From her vantage point, even with the tall figure of the constable creating a visual obstruction, she could see that the object had a hand. And an arm. And a shoulder cloaked in dark, silky, sopping wet material. The object was no object at all. It was a person. A woman.

“Bloody press,” the constable cursed. But he didn't attempt to stop Daphne's advance.

“Found a girl!” one of the steel workers announced. “Pretty lass, too. But dead as Christ on the cross. Drowned.”

“That's not helpful, Wilson,” the constable snapped. “And just 'cause someone's found in the water don't mean it was the water that killed 'em. Keep your trap shut, will ya?”

“Do you recognize her?” Daphne asked the group at large.

The three burly workers shook their heads in unison.

“Never seen her before,” the constable answered. “And she's a darky. Rare 'round here. I woulda remembered her.”

At last, Rose was close enough to see the drowned woman's face. As she stared at the bloated, discolored countenance from over Daphne's shoulder, her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry.

“Told ya this weren't fit for ladies to see,” the constable reiterated, taking Rose's reaction for fright.

Shock and dismay caused Rose's knees to buckle. Although the glassy eyes and tangled disarray of black hair made the woman less recognizable, there was no mistaking her identity.

It was Geneviève.

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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