The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Seven | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

Upon her departure from Arrow House, Rose stalked down the drive and through the gate with steadfast purpose.

Every fiber of her being urged her to run to the side yard to witness the fire that served as the final resting place of Dmitri Kuragin. But what would be accomplished by such a rash action? Mr. Shelby could have her removed for trespassing, and moreover, it may cause an outpouring of tears and grief. Sadness brought about a lethargic existence. She needed her anger and indignation to fuel her. Dmitri deserved to be avenged. She alone knew what atrocity had befallen him, therefore she would be the harbinger of that vengeance.

With steely eyes and a set jaw, Rose marched on, her destination Daphne's flat.

But as she walked back to town, she found herself becoming more uncertain of the best course of action with every step she took.

She couldn't allow Dmitri's murder to be swept under the metaphorical rug. He had been her friend. She cared about him. He was a good person in a broken world trying to make the most of an impossible situation.

However, would going to the police make things more difficult for the other refugees? They were in England legally, but only because the powers-that-be wanted to appear magnanimous while a formidable country like Russia was in such a state of unrest. They could reverse their decision at any time, for any reason. If there was a sudden increase of police calls for dead bodies in the area, instead of getting justice and given protection, the exiled Russians might be blamed.

And Thomas Shelby likely had the local authorities in his back pocket. Perhaps on his payroll. Who would they believe? Rose? Or the infallible Mr. Shelby?

Tears prickled Rose's eyes. She had shown the Dispatch advert for a gardener to Dmitri. She had insisted he go to the interview. She was responsible for him being at Arrow House. Now he was dead, and she was to blame.

How could she ever forgive herself?

Her pooling tears spilled over, and she reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, but her fingers closed around nothing.

Brow furrowed, Rose checked her other pocket. Then inside her reticule.

No handkerchief. It was gone.

"Marvelous," she muttered through clenched teeth. She swiped at her eyes with the backs of her fingers as she walked. "I must've left it in Mr. Shelby's study."

【♤】

Ensconced in a trance-like state of despair and indecision, Rose had no knowledge of the amount of time that passed. She was still perched on the sofa, back rigid, tugging at her lower lip, when Daphne returned home that evening.

"Rose, you will not believe who I saw this afternoon!" her cousin exclaimed. "Or thought I saw, rather. Or...well, regardless, the whole ordeal nearly stopped my heart!"

"Hmm?" Rose hummed, only vaguely aware of what Daphne had said. The excitable words simply sounded like a series of vocalized vowels and consonants, detached from any meaning.

Daphne seemed not to notice. She kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes, and dropped her bag on a chair before making her way to the kitchen.

"A gentleman came in to purchase an advert for an office secretary, right?" Daphne said. "He was a solicitor of some sort. I looked up, saw his profile, and I swear on my mother's antique pearl necklace that I was staring at Terence Margadale! He worked as a solicitor for your father, didn't he?"

Rose continued to gaze at the far wall in silence, rolling her engagement ring back and forth on its chain. Daphne's voice sounded like it was under water. "Mmm..."