These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel (4 page)

“You aren’t responsible for anything,” I assured her, settling into the nearby window seat. “There are plenty of other doctors out there for the case. It’s not as
if you’re actively hurting his sister.”

“But what if I am the only one who can help? And someone has to tell this girl, as she lies there dying, that the person who might have saved her could not make it because she has a
family’s reputation to uphold?”

“Rose, that’s
highly
unlikely. And your reputation won’t even be an issue soon—future matters shall be a bit easier.”

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes.

“Robert would be rather understanding. . . .” I added.

Her lips pursed. She still had no idea what I was talking about.

“And I may have told him tonight that I assumed you would marry him, which is actually an ideal—”

“Evelyn! You didn’t!” she exclaimed, stiffening.

“I’m afraid I did. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking and it just came out that I hoped you and Robert would be married shortly.”

“But he’s like a brother to me—to us. Where—how did you even get the idea I have feelings for him?”

It was my turn to be confused. I didn’t even know where to begin that list. “The endless hours you two spend together. The glances you give each other. Whenever we have a dinner
party, you prefer his company over anyone else’s,” I insisted.

“You sound like Mother now,” she said, slightly impatient. “None of that means I want to marry him. I don’t wish to marry him—or any man, for that
matter!”

I was the worst sister. I considered self-defenestration.

“I always assumed you were teasing when you spoke about Robert in that way,” she continued.

I sank back against the window’s drapes miserably. “And I always assumed there was an understanding.”

She frowned and paced before finally settling down on one spot on the rug. “Well, I will simply have to tell him you were mistaken.”

“The man has been in love with you ever since I can remember,” I pointed out lightly. “It’s not like declining an invitation to a picnic. You have to be careful how you
say it.”

She glanced over at Father’s desk and sighed. “Yes, I’ll have to prepare something so I don’t say the wrong thing—”

“I’m so sorry to have to put you in this position. I can help you—”

“No, don’t be, it’s quite all right. If he really is in love with me, we would have had the discussion at some point,” she insisted. “I’m glad you brought up
the matter. I simply don’t want to hurt him.”

Poor Robert. He’ll be devastated. I tried not to think of the horrid poems that would spill from his fevered brain.

“But I cannot allow marriage to impede my work,” Rose said, standing up with new resolve. “I must become a doctor. I must study in London so I can help people like Mr.
Cheval.

“If I settle this with Robert tomorrow morning, I should also speak to Mother. I cannot allow her to interfere with my nursing as she did this evening. I didn’t protest her
restrictions when she made them—I was happy to be treating any patients. But lately, I’ve been reading Mr. Darwin’s journals, and, well, he was only able to learn by traveling and
venturing to a new place. That was how he formulated his brilliant ideas.”

Rose spun Father’s globe with a great push as if she wanted to leave at that very moment. Her words came out with a speed to match it as she explained all the difficulties that female
doctors encountered in trying to get an education, take the certification test, and find a place to practice. “Oh, I wish I could do the same!” she said. “There are too many sick
and poor all over the world and not nearly enough doctors to help. If only Mother would allow me.”

“You have a better chance of persuading her than anyone else,” I said. “Besides, what is one more mad daughter to her?”

“I should thank you for going mad first, for it makes me look rather sane,” Rose replied with a laugh.

I unfolded my legs to let them dangle, but my feet kept hitting the floor. It took everything within me to refrain from complaining about my own situation. At least Rose had her passion. She
knew her precise goals and the obstacles standing in her way. It was a difficult path, no doubt, but it was still a path, and that was enviable. I could not be a doctor like her, and I had no
desire to run a household like my mother. What else was there to do? And how would I ever find out if Mother refused to let me see more of the world?

“Ev, you’ll figure it out,” Rose said, sitting down by my side. She saw through me with her piercing eyes, guessing exactly what bothered me. “There’s still plenty
of time. And Mr. Kent is quite understanding.”

“What do you mean?”

Rose giggled. “That man is in love with you. And he would certainly be a wonderful companion in your world travels!” Something hot ran through me, starting at the crown of my
head.

“I can’t imagine Mr. Kent ever marrying. That’s why I thought we got along so well.”

“Well, if anyone can convince him, it’s you.”

Mother had always argued that there was more freedom during marriage than before. But I had never considered that an actual possibility until this moment.

Rose smiled mischievously. “It looks like we both have a lot of thinking to do, men to turn down . . . or not turn down.”

“Indeed, it is exhausting being so in demand, is it not?” I asked archly.

“Speaking of which, I think it’s bedtime. I can barely stand after all that dancing.”

A yawn took over my mouth. “And all that hiding from dancing has exhausted me.”

We clambered upstairs by the faint light of a nearly melted candle. Outside her bedroom, Rose came to an abrupt stop and enveloped me in a hug. “Thank you. Just talking about this makes me
already feel better—freer even.”

“I shall declare your love to men at every ball, then.”

She snorted. “I look forward to it.”

“Good night,” I said, muffling the words into a kiss on her forehead. “Wake me up before you do anything tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

I started down the dim hall, and Rose’s voice followed me, soothing like a summer breeze.

“Ev, whatever you decide, I’ll help, too. Mother will be unable to refuse us both.”

Those simple words reassured me more than anything else could have. An involuntary smile crossed my face, and I felt a bit lighter myself. “Thank you, Rose.”

With a wave, she slipped into her room and closed the door behind her. For a moment, I stood in the dark, cozily silent hall—the candle flickering, my toes sinking into the soft
rug—and I appreciated the present. No restlessness about the future bubbling up inside to keep me awake all night—just simple contentment.

The only lingering question in my mind was whether there had been some sort of mix-up with our births. Rose was far better at playing the older sister than I could ever hope to be. As I climbed
into bed and drifted off, I promised myself that tomorrow I would be the best sister the world had ever seen.

I
WAS FLOATING
on the Nile River under madly swirling clouds obscuring the pale pink sky, when a familiar, female voice
sputtered through my dream.

“Mis . . . Wyn . . . am!”

I turned in the bath-warm water, struggling to see who it was. No sign of life on the riverbank, besides the prowling lions.

“Miss Wyndham!” it shouted, and a wave of realization shuddered through me. That voice. That stern reprimand. I’d heard it countless times from my former teacher and governess,
Miss Grey.

“Ca—yo—hear m—?” her voice called out. My head absently nodded to my disembodied teacher’s question. I stared around the dreamscape wildly, wondering why I
was still asleep and not jolting awake with fear.

I endeavored to speak, but no matter how I tried, all that came out was a strangled moan. How—where, no—
what
was she?

“Yo—mus—list—” A pale face framed with wild hair formed in the clouds high above the river, her words sparking with urgency. Bewildered, I struggled to make sense
of her mashed-together sentences, rearranging and testing out the sputtered half words. But even when the same sounds seemed to repeat in her desperate warnings, they remained impossible to fit
together. Only one intelligible sentence stood out from the mess.

“
Do not trust him—protect Rose.
”

“Who? Who can’t I trust?” I tried to ask. But nothing came out. The river lapped against my shoulders as I shut my eyes and desperately tried to wake up, wake up, wake up!

But all I could do was lie rigid and paralyzed in the water, staring up at the rapidly changing clouds with her words resounding in my head.

“
Do not trust him—protect Rose.”

“
Do not trust him—protect Rose.”

I lay for ages in a horrible half-state, knowing I was dreaming but unable to wake from the horrid nightmare.

Until a scream, one not in my head, pierced the air.

I
FLEW UP
and awakened, senses adjusting to the diffused sunlight, the smell of burned tallow, the sounds echoing across
the house. The cries had not stopped.

When I scrambled out of bed and stepped into the hallway, a folded sheet of paper rustled under my foot. I snatched it up, but another loud yell sent me running into Rose’s room, where
Mother and two maids stood, hands clasped to their mouths in shock. Chills crawled down my back.

“What happened?” I asked.

No reply.

Rose was nowhere to be seen, and her room had the strange appearance of a hasty departure. Her bedsheets had spilled onto the floor, her dresser drawers were left open, and her wardrobe was half
empty. A sizable number of her dresses were gone, but the selection made little sense. Her favorite green silk and other well-loved dresses were left behind, but some of the older, unfashionable
ones were missing. Kneeling by her trunk, I flung open the lid. Her familiar medicine bag, meticulously packed away, stared up at me.

“Where is she?” No response again. My pulse jumped forward. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. “What is all of this?”

“I don’t know, Evelyn!” my mother finally erupted, pacing the room with her hand at her breast, as though trying to keep her heart in place. Her wide eyes scanned the floor.
She bit her lip and cleared her throat. “No one has seen her this morning.”

“And in the night?”

“Please. I must think.”

My fists clenched, and the forgotten paper crinkled in my hand. A letter. The writing looked haphazard and rushed, but it was undoubtedly Rose’s hand:

“Mother,” I said, handing her the letter with shaking fingers, “it’s her hand—but this isn’t her. This isn’t Rose.”

She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes scanning the document. “Heavens.” The word escaped her lips unnoticed. Leaning against the wallpaper, she looked trapped by a congested tangle of
flowers and vines growing around her. Gradually, though, the lines on her forehead smoothed, and her distress changed to her usual, if more strained, self-command. “Your sister has put us in
a difficult situation.”

“Mother, Rose would not write such a letter! This was written under duress—someone forced her to do it!”

“Stop it,” she snapped, belying her composure. She drummed her fingers against her neck, where I could see the slightest tick of her heartbeat. “This is serious. Stay calm, and
I will speak with your father to decide what must be done.” She ordered the maids to clean up the mess and hurried out, folding the letter over and over.