My clumsy writing shall have to be ignored as the carriage is jostling and I have neither the skill to write steadily nor the patience to wait until we are stopped. I shall try to be quick, the views outside my window are calling to me, but I feel compelled to write of this now.

The carriage in which I now sit is new and smells of leather and tangy wood polish. Mr. Desmott sits opposite me. He is handsome with dark eyes, unruly black curls and a set jaw that is just noticeably in need of shaving. Upon first glance he appears younger than Lucius, maybe a year or so his junior, but when he is truly studied his bravado is that of an older, more confident, British gentleman—Twenty-five, perhaps.

He has barely looked at me since we were introduced. Unlike his friend, he did not offer me his first name and for that I am grateful. Being on a first name acquaintance with random men is not a habit I want to foster. I don't think I could stomach calling him "Levi" even if he asked me to. I can appreciate decorum and I am used to contemplative silent; but, I would be lying if I were to say that I did not wish for conversation. Riding in a carriage for any length of time without speaking is painful, especially with a stranger. It has been quite a while since I've been outside or traveled anywhere by foot or carriage. The sway of the carriage makes me sick--I find I'm sick over many things today.

As always, I am left to wonder what this man has heard of me and what he must think of it all. I tell myself that I do not much care what he thinks. Still, I do not enjoy the idea of being seen as a murder—It is an unattractive characteristic, a point that should not matter since I am currently wearing a plain black frock that has a skirt wide enough for it to have been my grandmother's. The collar is high and ill-fitting, which is just garnish to this overall inferior day. I was, perhaps, a fool to have expected anything more grandiose.

Today weighs heavily on my heart and it has only just begun.

Leaving St. Agatha's was harder than I had anticipated. It was rare to see patients leave the house, this was where wealthy families left their mentally ill to die—we were meant to stay for as much time, or as little, as that took. And yet here I was, leaving. Going home, or at least to a new home. I'd dreamed on London as a little girl. It was where ladies of my breeding went to find similarly well-placed gentlemen. It was where I would enter society and where I might find a husband—at least that was what thirteen-year-old Merritt had believed. That girl, the one who had easily believed those things, the one who believed she deserved love...she had not lost everything in a fire. I am no longer certain that I deserve those things, or that I would even be allowed to receive them if they were, by a miracle, ever offered to me.

I digress.

Desmott informed me when we first met that we would be picking up another lady on our way to the train station. He did not elaborate and I did not ask, so I am unsure if this woman is of similar background as myself. Perhaps Lucius has found someone else who cannot feel pain? Maybe I am soon to meet a friend. I don't know how I am to feel. Alas, the driver speaks and the carriage slows—I shall update when I know more.

This woman is in no way like myself.

I will admit we are around the same age, but our similarities halt there. I regret that I must even pen this, but the woman sitting across from me is most indubitably a whore. She wears fine clothes, with fabrics, beading and embroidery that is more elaborate than any I have ever possessed, and she wears embellishments—tainted lips and eyelids, her cheeks unnaturally pink. Her hair is auburn and intricately curled, falling around her powdered face in sleek ringlets. Her accent was notably high pitched and she had a whinny way of talking.

It is clear by her mannerisms that she believes herself to be sensual to an exorbitant degree. But in my eyes, she is merely scandalous, something that perhaps could have been misinterpreted if her dress wasn't so low plunging. She did not seem to notice or care that her breasts were on full display, barely covered at all by her bustier and frilly white lace bodice.

Desmott  seemed to brighten once she was there. They did not struggle with conversation and I was envious.

"But you believe things are going well?" He had asked her, his smile easy and charming.

She swatted his shoulder and laughed, as if his question was silly. "Yes, of course it is. Did you ever doubt?"

His face flushed and his brown eyes darted over to me before snapping back to her. "Never," he assured her. "But I am allowed to wonder about my investments, Rosie."

"And I'm an investment?" She cried, feigning offense.

He smiled and nodded. "You are—but I suppose you might also be more."

"I've missed you at the shows. The other girls have too." She ran a hand through his hair and showed her gleaming teeth is a pleasant smile as a few curls fell into his eyes.

He swatted her fingers away and fixed his hair. "I've been busy. But that will all change now, I've reworked some things so now my attention can remain focused." She leaned into to his shoulder, her lids growing heavy as she looked up at him.

He met her eyes and smirked. "You must promise to behave in London." He spoke low, not to keep me from hearing, but because they were now so close to one another, his mouth to her ear, that there was no need for anything more.

She squirmed under his intense gaze and sighed. "I'm always on my best behavior, Levi. There's no need to worry."

He smiled down at her and I thought for an instant that he might kiss her—right there in the carriage with me watching. Rosie seemed to think so too because she lifted her head, moved so that her lips were more accessible. He leaned in, her eyes fluttered closed—But he didn't kiss her. In the second before their lips met his eyes just happened to dart sideways, finding mine, and stopped. He frowned. The action was small, a reluctant acknowledgment of my prescence.

My entire body seemed to tingle, to pulse with some unseen emotional force. Jealousy, I realize now. I was jealous, sudden pent-up desire to be different, to have that girl's life instead of my own, flooded me. Self-loathing tainted my very being and I slipped down farther in my seat, wishing I could disappear—curl up in my linen closet and hide from this boy's dark stare.

I am forever an inconvenience -- to myself and to others.

Rosie straightened and stuck her bottom lip out in a distasteful pout. "What ever has gotten into you, Levi Desmott, rejecting a lady like that?"

He smiled sheepishly and broke his gaze away from mine to look at her. "Don't fuss." He cleared his throat and slid sideways on the padded bench so that the two of them were separated a little. "Only, I just remembered that the two of you were not formally introduced, an oversight on my part." He nodded to me, "Miss Merritt Holbrook, this is Miss Rosalie Gressil."

She leaned forward and smiled at me, her expression scrutinizing. "I'm an actress in Manchester. Theatre Royal. Have you heard of it?"

I shook my head.

Her eyes drifted to my dress, her expression becoming puckered as she attempted to hide her amusement. "Well no, I suppose you wouldn't have."

Desmott shot Rosie a reproachful look and turned to me once more. "What about you, Miss Holbrook, what is it you do?" He asked.

I opened my mouth and then quickly shut it. I had nothing to say, no hobby or talent worth mentioning. Not anymore.

Rosie smiled at my dismay and waggled her fingers at me. "Don't feel bad. Some of us are just more talented than others—"

"When I was a girl I could sing and play the piano." The words tumbled out of my mouth so quickly that I barely had time to regret them. All young women of decent upbringing were musically refined, it was silly of me single myself out as if I were so oddity. But it was all I could think to say, the only interesting facet of information I could vividly remember from my life before. The smile on my father's face as he watched me practice in the music room. The piano had been on of the only things in the house to survive the flames.

Desmott quirked an eyebrow at me and said, "No, please, do go on."

My face was hot, the carriage suddenly stifling under those eyes. "It is nothing." I whispered, "I should never have even mentioned it."

"Why don't you sing us a number now?" Rosie fluffed the skirt of her violet silk dress and grinned wickedly.

"Don't tease her. Arrogance does not suit you." Desmott said, her voice scolding, but gentle.

She turned her big blue eyes on him and made a show of adjusting the front of her dress. "What does suit me, Levi?" She fluttered her lashes at him and leaned her shoulder in against his.

Again she had him in her web. A pretty spider with an even lovelier silken web. 

I watched as his face flushed and he smiled wolfishly. This time when she leaned in for a kiss, he accepted. I turned my attention away, looking to the cobblestone walkways and foggy streets outside the carriage window. I was unsure what to do, was it appropriate for me to ask them to stop? What should one do when all sanity in the world has ceased?

In my world, the world of order and manners, men and women did not display such rampant passion before marriage, especially not in front of a complete stranger. Has the world really changed so much since I entered St. Agatha's? Do men and women lust openly for one another now?

He was inclined towards her, she was leaning against the carriage walls, pulling them both backwards. I watched through my lashes, chewing my lip, as his hands were wandering, finding the already exposed skin of her chest, gripping her corseted waist and sliding layers of fabric up her legs. I tried to look away, tried to stop myself from watching them, but I was stunned.

There was a feeling in my chest, a tightness that went beyond anything I had ever experienced before. Their eyes were closed and his mouth was moving away from hers, down, down, down. And my heart was racing, beating, breaking, and I don't understand why. I don't understand why I felt this profound sense of loss and anger. As if this act, this sultry behavior, was an act directed at me. Rosie was moaning under her breath, saying his name over and over again— Levi.

"That's quite enough." I spoke loudly and firmly, something in my gut telling me that if I did not intercede then I would find myself witness to something far worse than a few impassioned kisses. Desmott pulled away first. The tops of his ears were red but I doubted there as any real shame in him. They were both panting and I received a hateful look from Rosie.

He laughed and shook his head at her, "Now, Rosie, don't be cross. She has every right not to want to watch."

She sat up from where she'd been slumped against the side of the carriage and went to work straightening her clothes. When she was finished she folded her arms over her ample chest and sighed with more dramatics than was necessary.dramatically. Desmott laughed and wrapped an arm around her waist, their behavior more familiar than I'd ever witness between two people. "We can finish up later, perhaps on the train."

"May I ask, Miss Holbrook," Rosie said, her eyes growing wide and innocent, "did you become a prude before or after you set your house on fire?" All the air rushed out of me at once and I was left entirely speechless.

I have not regained my speech since. The words, whatever it is I wish to say, remain trapped in my mouth, a weight against my tongue. It chokes me. It has been choking me for years.

Upon boarding the train I was escorted to first class where I was deposited in a private compartment and instructed to stay put. I have not seen Desmott or Rosie since. We have another hour until we arrive in London; I hope Gabe will be at the station so I might avoid the discomfort of staying with them any longer. I am anxious to be surrounded by familiar faces once more. This day has already been so exhausting.

They have returned. The whore is napping, her head leaning haphazardly against the window. Every once in a while, if the train sways just enough, her forehead will bump harshly against the glass resulting in a sputtered awakening that I find a bit too pleasing. He sits opposite me, his attention fixed on today's newspaper. I am writing so that I do not appear bored or in need of conversation. I do not want to speak to him; he makes me anxious in terrible ways. I do not trust him, he is too sure of himself. And he is promiscuous, leaving me entire certain that he accomplished what he'd set out to do with Rosie in that carriage. He just said my name. Now again--Miss Holbrook. I wonder what that deep, warm voice might sound like saying my first name. Merritt.

"Miss Holbrook?" He says again.

Perhaps if I ignore him he will leave me alone.

Desmott apologized for the whore, for the question she'd asked me--and maybe for their actions in the carriage.

"She can get caught up in the drama of things," He'd told me quietly, "do and say things that are not appropriate or kind. I do hope you'll forgive her, I am sure she didn't mean to offend." His eyes shifted almost nervously to where she sat sleeping. "I—I also hoped you might forgive me for any part I may have played."

"May I ask what your connection to her is?"

He seemed slightly taken aback by my question. "She is merely a friend."

I tried to keep my voice steady as I answered, "I would hope you do not treat all of your friends the same way you treat Miss Gressil."

His lips pulled up at one corner in a crooked smile, the assuredness from earlier returning. "And what might you say if I did, Miss Holbrook?"

"I would say that it is unbecoming of a gentleman."

"You would say so under the impression that I care what is becoming of a gentleman." He commented, "Being decidedly against all things principled, I am not at odds with my behavior. I have embraced who I am as a man." He quirked an eyebrow at me and asked, "You're smiling, why?"

"Because everything you just said is made void by your asking for my forgiveness."

He huffed as the thought settled on him and he shook his head slowly, his expression changing from one of coy amusement to pure good humor. "That was then, this is now."

"Then was less than five minutes ago."

He shook his head. "I will not lower myself to arguing of semantics."

"Then you shall not receive my forgiveness."

He nodded to where Rosie was still sound asleep. "Not even Rosie? You would deny her your forgiveness because of my own hellish standards?"

"She has not asked for my forgiveness." I said simply. "She accused me of having killed my own family. Perhaps she should be the one to apologize—or is she against all things principled as well?"

"She would probably say as much, yes."

"But you don't believe she really feels that way?"

He considered the question. "I believe we both make exceptions, Rosie and I."

We fell silent, each of us processing what he had just said. I wasn't exactly sure that was supposed to mean. Was he saying that I was his exception? Does he ignore societal normalities until someone, until someone like me, makes it worth acknowledging them? Regardless, I would not grant him his request. Forgiveness is meant for the truly sorry and I do not in any way believe him to be apologetic. Mr. Desmott looks at women, looks at me, the way a cat looks at a mouse. I am either a meal or a toy, not something to be cared for.

After a few moments of contemplative silence he asked, "What business do you have with Lucius?"

"He is my primary physician."

"Yes, I know as much." He said, "I was more curious in the reasoning behind your needing a physician. You needn't share if—"

I buried my hands in the ample fabric of my skirts and said, "You didn't read the newspapers?"

His head tilted to one side, a predatory, studying look. "Which ones?"

I sighed through my nose and whispered. "The ones about me."

He shook his head, unbothered by my sudden meakness. "Not that I recall. Should I have?"

I tried to decide if I believed him or if he was pretending, trying for more information. Rosie clearly had known. She knew who I was. But then, she was also living in Manchester, putting her in the midst of my story. I did not know if my case was as far-reaching as London. "My house burnt to the ground when I was thirteen years old."

"I gathered as much from Rosie's comment. I also deduced quite a bit from your reaction."

"And what did you deduce?"

He leveled his gaze on me, his expression thoughtful. "I do not think you set a house fire, Miss Holbrook. You don't seem to have the spirit to do such a thing."

"You sound so certain."

"And somehow you do not."

I was suddenly incapable of looking at anything but my own hands, still twisted in the black mourning gown. His eyes are too intense, always looking, always searching me. It was under this gaze that I admitted, "There are moments when I am truly unsure what I am capable of."

"But being capable of darkness and having caved to it, are quite different."

"Are they?"

He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, as he smiled across the small aisle at me. "We all have darkness in us," he said softly, his tone confidential, as if these words were meant only for me, "but some of us just choose to befriend it."

I swallowed and fiddled with the edge of my journal. "I cannot disagree with you, Mr. Desmott. Only, most of us would prefer to remain at odds with that side of ourselves—it's the Christian thing to do."

He smiled smugly and leaned back in his seat once more, throwing his arms across the back of the bench. He clicked his tongue softly and smiled. "Love, that is not nearly as much fun."

Love. Something inside of me tightened, tensed and waited for him to say something else.

Rosie had stirred then, opened her eyes, whined about what time it was and complained that we would never get to our destination. Desmott had opened his arms to her and she had moved to sit next to him. She fell asleep on her chest soon after and we did not finish our conversation.

Later, as we stood at the train station, I'd waited alone while Desmott gathered his and Rosie's bags. He'd been shocked when I'd stood on the pavement outside of St. Agatha's with only this journal and what clothes I wore. I had arrived at the home with nothing and so it was only right that I would also leave with nothing. Desmott is the sort to travel light as well, carrying with him only a small valise and his dress coat. Rosie came with five trunks, three valises and cherry red handbag. It took Desmott and three station workers, as well as the carriage driver, to load her things and even by the end there still was not enough room for two of her trunks.

She had thrown quite the childish fit when she realized that some of her beloved things would have to be brought back later. She pouted, which now appeared to be her typical expression, most of the way to Gabe's residence. When we arrived, the new Mrs. Farley, Gabe's wife of only five months, greeted us. She was a tall young woman with dark brown hair that she meticulously curled and shaped into a beautiful chignon, large dark blue eyes, a pale freckled face and thin, delicate frame. She met us in the entryway along with a housekeeper and a housemaid. Before I could even speak she was upon me.

"You are Miss Holbrook, I'm certain of it. Gabe has a portrait of you from your childhood, you have grown but you still look like that girl. Still lovely. I do hope you will allow me to call you Merritt, and of course you will call me Lizzie." She was holding my hands in hers, her smile so large it seemed to split her flushed face in two. "We will be teh best of friends, you and I."

I tried to make my tone and expression match hers. "That would be just grand."

She ushered me into the parlor by my elbow, moving us out of the way of the house staff that were scurrying to unload the carriage. When I realized what they were about to do, I moved away from Lizzie and walked back to the door. "There's no need. None of those are mine."

Lizzie was at my side in an instant. "You brought no luggage?"

I turned to face her, entirely aware of Desmott and Rosie watching me as they exited the carriage. "I have no luggage." I told Lizzie, "Everything I own was consumed in the fire, what monetary sums remain—" are in the possession of your husband.

But I did not say that.

Gabe had my family's money because I was not permitted to. As my legal guardian and benefactor, he watched the funds and used them to take care of me. He was the one who had secured my place at St. Agatha's, a home that was far more expensive than it appeared. He had kept me as safe as possible during my confinement and continued to do so now that I was--free?

Lizzie broke through that thought. "You needn't worry." She assured me, "This gives us an opportunity to shop. We shall make a day of it—just you and I."

She walked outside into the warm night air and greeted Desmott and Rosie. I could tell from Lizzie's facial expression that she recognized Rosie for what she was as well, but she neither mentioned it nor treated her unkindly for it. They were welcomed inside and asked to stay for dinner.

"Mr. Farley is at his office but should be heading back soon. We eat at six thirty every evening and he knows to be home on time. If you are willing, I shall have my housekeeper add two more to the table?"

Desmott nodded. "We would be honored."

Lizzie excused herself and left us seated in her parlor while she went to make arrangements. "This is your brother's wife?" Desmott asked once she was gone.

I shook my head. "Mr. Farley was the apprentice of my father. Since my parents never had a son, my father was training him to take over our family business—becoming a lawyer. He was the son of a close family friend who had fallen upon hard times. As a result, my father took Mr. Farley under his wing and he spent a great deal of his life with us. We are very close, almost siblings."

"It must be nice to have such a bond with someone."

I nodded. "He has been incredibly generous to me, even when others have not."

"Well you haven't exactly done anything to deserve generosity, now have you?" Rosie said under her breath.

Desmott shushed her and she rolled her eyes at him. There was a look on his face just then, a strange way in which he held his mouth, almost a frown, as if in concentration. His eyes darted around my face as if he was memorizing it or trying to find something.

I do not, in any way, understand this woman. She is an entirely outrageous creature, full of arrogance and hateful attitude—things that should never be permitted in high society. I cannot fathom why a man like Desmott is allowing her to associate with him to the degree that he is.

I am not blind, I can tell that she is at least partially a prostitute, but that still does not explain his behavior. Many men are married and considered respectable, while still visiting brothels. But he has chosen to take her out with him, show her to the world as if she is some prize to be admired when she is simply not.

I realize, even as I recount all of this, that I care far too much. I do not know these people and now that they are gone from this place they are sure not to return. I need not worry myself with Mr. Desmott or what ladies he takes company with, least of all Rosalie Gressil.