The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Sixteen | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

Mortified, Rose snatched the diary out of his hands and clutched it to her chest.

"Ya left it on the settee in my parlor," Thomas informed her. "Found it for ya." There was a mischievous glint in his eye that suggested he was very pleased with himself.

A sinking sensation spread through Rose's stomach as she recalled the series of events. Clara and Chester's midnight escapades had distracted her, and she'd retired upstairs without the volume. She remembered with vivid, horrid clarity the last few paragraphs of her latest entry. Thomas had featured. Along with a shameful confession.

"You read my diary?" she whispered. The temperature of her face doubled. Regurgitation seemed eminent.

Thomas chuckled at her humiliation. "I opened it. Just to see if I recognized the penmanship, mind ya. Skimmed a few sentences."

"You...'skimmed' a few sentences."

"I did."

"I see." Her gut rolled. She could see it now: vomit all over Thomas' shiny shoes.

"Calm yo'self, Rose," he instructed, his expression one of amusement. "No need to get your garters in a twist. Consider yo'self fortunate that I found it and not a member o' me staff. Had one o' the maids come across it first, she woulda read it cover to cover. Over tea and biscuits, I imagine."

Rose swallowed against her nausea. How many times had Daphne scolded her about leaving her diary laying around? How many times had she promised herself she'd start paying those scoldings heed?

"That's supposed to comfort me?" Rose asked, her voice strained.

Thomas left her query unanswered. "What was his name? Your fiancé?"

"You didn't catch his name?" Rose snipped. "During your 'skimming'?"

Lowering his hands into his pockets, Thomas tilted his head in a crooked nod. "Atticus, wasn't it?"

Rose bristled. "Yes. Atticus. Atticus Aldridge."

"And he was Jewish?"

"Yes."

"That's why he was shot?"

Her hand instinctively went to the chain around her neck. "Unofficially. But it's what I believe."

"I'm sure you believe right," Thomas said, his expression unreadable. "When was this?"

"Can't your mystery source provide you with that information?" Rose snapped. "Or perhaps you could attain the answers through telepathy? Just as you so quickly and easily sussed out who I am, who my parents are, and the nature of my relationship with them. Come to think of it, I'm surprised you don't already know my entire history. Your omniscient powers are without parallel, after all."

Thomas merely stared. "I'm askin' you."

Rose huffed and turned away. She knew she was pushing her luck in taking such an impertinent tone with her new employer, but she didn't care. Her life with Atticus was her business. No one else's. She'd hardly shared her feelings regarding his death with her beloved cousins, so why on earth would she divulge anything to this man?

Unless... Unless he was willing to do the same.

"I'll tell you," she said at last. She turned back to him, an eyebrow arched. "After you tell me how Charlie's mother died."

He folded his arms over his chest and continued to stare at her. "Why d'ya wanna know? Think I killed her?"

Rose's eyes widened at his blunt inquiry, but in honor of equality she answered just as bluntly: "It had occurred to me as a possibility, yes."