꧁ The Diary of Rose Sinclair ꧂

༺ 15th of May, 1925 ༻

Few things in the grand scheme of the universe are viewed as cliché as is a broken heart. It's physiologically impossible, after all. A heart cannot break. It's an organ made of soft tissue and blood vessels. A heart beats. It can speed up, slow down, clog, tighten, and even stop. But it cannot break.

So, why is it that the inside of one's chest aches in such agony when a loved one is lost?

It was a year ago today that I lost August. Two weeks before our wedding, he was taken from me. Gunned down. Murdered. Because his family is Jewish.

Despite my persistence, I never did learn the names of those who committed the heinous crime. The police did not go out of their way to find the assailants. “Gangs,” they said. As if that one word were both an explanation for violence in general and a viable excuse for their avoidance. “Lots of gangs around here. And lots of people hate Jews.”

I don't understand that way of thinking. So limited. So ignorant. Why hate someone simply because their beliefs differ from your own? It's disgraceful. Unforgivable.

I won't insult the memory of August with ugly thoughts of revenge or hatred. I will stay true to my course. No, I will never be Lady Rose Appelbaum, but I will preserve the person my fiancé loved.

The day we laid August to rest, I put my engagement ring on a chain around my neck. It rests beneath my clothing, against my heart. There it shall stay.

Life is short, fleeting, and precious. The pain of heartbreak reminds me that I am still alive. And as long as I continue to live, so too will his memory.

Rose

꧁ ༺ ~ ~ ~ ༻ ꧂

Rose closed the cover of her diary just as her cousin Daphne burst through the front door of the flat.

“Please tell me why I thought it would be a good idea to work for the local newspaper,” Daphne pleaded, a look of exhaustion on her fine-featured face. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and wiggled the toes of her stockinged feet. “Do I enjoy punishment? Or perhaps simply think I deserve it?”

Rose smiled. She knew these questions were asked in rhetoric, as her ambitious cousin posed some version of them on an almost daily basis. “What horrible infraction have you committed lately?” she asked.

“It must have been something loathsome I did in a past life,” Daphne said. With a dramatic sigh, she collapsed on the sofa next to Rose. “Murder, adultery, theft...one of the old favorites.”

“Don't let our very Protestant mothers hear you say something so blasphemous,” Rose teased. Daphne's mother, the elder sister of Rose's mother, was known for being pious to an unhealthy degree.

“That's why I'm saying it to you,” Daphne quipped back. “We always keep each other's secrets, don't we?”

“What is the purpose of a best friend, if not that?”

“Quite,” Daphne agreed. She gave Rose's knee a reassuring squeeze. “But I'd like to add ‘support’ to that thought. Don't think for a moment that I've forgotten what day it is. How are you? Really?”

Of course her cousin would remember the anniversary of August’s death. Three years Rose's senior, Daphne was as astute as she was witty, always situationally aware. One of the many reasons Rose had chosen to come live with her.

Rose looked down at the diary in her lap. “I'm alright. Feeling a bit like a ship without an anchor, truth be told.” Her hands tightened around the hard cover of the volume, causing her knuckles to turn white. “I miss him, Daph,” she confessed. “I miss him so very, very much. Still.”

A look of remorse graced Daphne's features. “Of course you do. And for good reason,” she said. “This evening, I'm at your disposal. We can discuss it at great length.”

Grateful for her cousin's candor, Rose smiled and squeezed Daphne's hand in return. “I have written all that I need say. The memory of August Appelbaum has been properly honored. Now I'd prefer to talk about something else. Anything else.”

“Done.” Daphne abruptly stood and made her way to the kitchen. “You be the ship, Rose. I'll be your anchor. I bought a bottle of wine for this very occasion, and it's high time we opened it. We can chat about whatever you like.”

Rose let out a shaky breath. A glass of wine sounded like the perfect remedy for such a heavy day. Not that she was surprised by her cousin's foresight. A few years ago, after refusing yet another marriage proposal from the vetted son of an Earl, Daphne had left her pampered life in North Yorkshire and moved to one of the few cities in England where a member of the peerage would not be recognized. She'd gotten a job by her own merit and was thriving in her life as a faux commoner.

“You came home later than usual,” Rose commented, twirling a blonde curl absentmindedly around her forefinger. “Trouble at the paper?”

“Wait just a moment,” Daphne called back. “I can hardly hear you.”

Rose settled into the cushions of the comfortable sofa and stared at the light fixture on the ceiling, her fingers wrapped around the chain that hung about her neck. Daphne's flat in the industrial district of Manchester was miniscule, but cozy. Apart from the parlor, kitchen, and remarkably adequate en suite, it had two bedrooms, the smaller of which was ideal for the now-transient Rose.

After August’s untimely death, Rose's elitist mother had made no effort to mask how very relieved she was that the marriage between ‘her daughter and that Jew’ would never come to pass. In truth, she had seemed downright gleeful. When Rose could no longer stomach the abhorrent disrespect toward her late fiancé, she'd left her family's estate of Thornewood Park without a backwards glance.

A loud thump followed by a curse sounded from the kitchen, and Rose covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Daph? Do you require assistance?”

“No,” came the irritated reply. “Just clumsy. I have it sorted. Don't move!”

Rose hummed to herself in amusement and allowed her mind to resume its meandering. So much had happened in one little year. In hopes of escaping her mother and her memories, Rose had toured the English countryside, staying with a myriad of cousins and family friends at their various estates and manors. Then, after a brief stint in Bath, followed by a couple months in London, Rose had heard about a large group of Russian refugees in need of help. Invigorated by the prospect of participating in a cause outside her own grief, this news had led her to join her favorite cousin in Manchester.

Daphne returned to the sofa with two tall glasses of red wine. The crimson liquid licked precariously at the rims of the stemware as she set them on the side table.

“My goodness, Daph! Bit over zealous, isn't this?” Rose laughed.

“When wine is on the menu? Never,” Daphne stated. She smoothed a rogue lock of her auburn hair behind her ear and grinned at Rose. “Now, you were saying..?”

“Was I? Oh, yes. The paper. Something amiss?”

Daphne pinched the bridge of her nose. “When it comes to the Manchester Daily Post, there's always something ‘amiss’,” she drawled. "That paper is an absolute cesspool of salacious gossip and scandal. This issue is no different, except that we're down an editor due to pneumonia. Poor man. I don't envy him.”

“Ahhh,” Rose said, rolling her engagement ring between her fingers on the end of its chain. “So, as a result, more of the tawdry stories are your responsibility.”

“Precisely.” Daphne shook her head. “Thank heaven you only read the adverts and bulletins, Rose. The rest would make your toes curl. Gang violence. Shootings. High-profile arrests. Illegal liquor production and shipment to the States. At least one suspicious death that has conveniently been ruled an ‘accident’ by the local authorities... If that rubbish didn't come across my desk each day, I would scarce believe what goes on in this town. Not fit for the daughter of a Marquess, let me tell you.”

Rose pulled a face. “I'm not that naïve or sheltered, as you well know, Daphne. And I'm not the ‘daughter of a Marquess’ in Manchester, am I? None of the locals know about my not-so-humble origins. Nor yours, for that matter.”

“And thank goodness for that,” Daphne agreed. “Otherwise we'd both be held for ransom. The people here will stab their brothers for a tenner.”

Rose laughed. “Our families wouldn't pay a ransom,” she declared. “Not if they found out the real reasons behind our residency here.”

Daphne made a pained noise. “Too right you are. Can you imagine? If my mother knew I was working for the local paper rather than as the live-in French tutor for the daughter of a peerage family, well…” She shook her head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “She'd send the cavalry here to collect me, wouldn't she?”

“She would,” Rose concurred, thinking of her Aunt Lavender's intolerance for deviant behavior. “And if my mother knew I was assisting Russian refugees rather than working on my French with you, she'd skin me alive.”

“If she was in a good mood,” Daphne said with a shudder. “Aunt Petunia is…”

“Terrifying?” Rose offered.

“To put it mildly,” Daphne agreed. “How two such privileged sisters can be so horrid and unhappy, I’ll never understand.” With great care, she picked up her wine glass and held it aloft. “To escaping our mothers. A true victory.”

Rose lifted the other glass and gently clinked it against Daphne's. “I can think of no better sentiment for a toast.”

Both girls took a generous swig of their wine.

After several seconds of indulgence, Daphne set her glass down and wagged a finger at her cousin. “Mm. I meant to ask: how are your Russians? I know you were keen on helping some of them find jobs.”

“The hunt is going well,” Rose said. The accomplishment, minute as it was, made her feel like she was making a difference for the forgotten and downtrodden as a whole. “Thanks in no small part to your newspaper advertisements, might I add. I was able to find jobs as house maids for two of the younger women. A few of the men have gained employment at Gallagher Automotive Factory. Let's see... Oh! Even ancient Olga—”

“The stooped woman with the gnarled hands?”

“That's the one,” Rose confirmed. “She was given a job as a nanny. You should have seen her face, Daphne. Such elation. I don't think she believed anyone in England would take her on.”

“Well, with those letters of recommendation you write, how could they not?” Daphne asked. She took another pull from her wine glass, momentarily closing her eyes in appreciation. “You have a way with words, Rose. Spoken and written. I'm half tempted to recruit you for the Post. Or perhaps have you write me a letter of recommendation so that I may get a job of the less headache-inducing variety.”

“You'd miss your daily dose of scandal, admit it!” Rose said in playful accusation. “And thank you, but no. For the time being, I'm content helping the refugees find work.”

“Speaking of, what about that handsome one? Oh, what is his name?” Daphne asked, snapping her fingers. “Your friend?”

“Dmitri Kuragin,” Rose supplied. “And yes, I was successful in finding him a job. A live-in job, no less. The printed advert promised wages sufficient enough for him to safely bring his younger sisters here. He's very worried about them. They're still in St. Petersburg, and the situation there is most unfavorable.”

“So I've gathered. We receive daily reports on the conflict in Russia,” Daphne said, her expression grim. “Nasty business. But let that go. Does Dmitri enjoy his new position?”

“You know…” Rose mused, sipping her wine while she thought. “I really can't say. Which is odd, as he promised me in no uncertain terms that he'd keep me informed. But it's been, oh...two weeks now, thereabouts. And I haven't heard from him. Not once.” She quirked an eyebrow at her cousin. “Should I be concerned?”

“I doubt it,” Daphne said, reaching for her wine glass. “He's likely just settling in. What's the job?”

“A gardener,” Rose replied. “At Warwick Hall.”

The glass froze halfway to Daphne's lips, and she stared at Rose with a furrowed brow. “Warwick Hall,” she repeated. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Do you know it?”

Daphne cleared her throat and set her glass back down without taking a drink, her movements cautious and deliberate. “I do. Warwick Hall is located just outside of town,” she said. “It's the residence of William Mercer.”

Rose stared at her cousin in confusion. “Yes...the advertisement detailed all of that,” she said slowly. “Daphne, why do I get the distinct impression that foreboding theatrical music has begun to play in your head? What difference does it make who lives there?”

Daphne cleared her throat again and began to fidget with her bracelet. “It doesn't. I'm sure it doesn't. But the Mercer family and their associates are often behind the scandalous content of the Manchester Daily Post — at times under false names. I simply mean to say that one should be especially careful when dealing with them. William Mercer in particular. I haven't met any of them properly, but I know that family owns nearly every business on Deansgate, multiple factories, warehouses, and pubs. They're powerful. And it's no secret that they have their employees do all manner of off-book jobs. Some...not altogether legal.”

“I see,” Rose said, her brow creased in concern. “Do you think I should attempt to visit Dmitri? Just to see how he's getting on?”

Daphne hesitated. “I think,” she murmured, “if Dmitri is William Mercer's new gardener, a visit is overdue.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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