An intolerable sob worked its way up her throat. She was overreacting. She repeated that over and over, scolding herself like a grizzled headmaster would. It did nothing to quell her tears, which only frustrated her more.
She made it to Blaugdone Island with zero fanfare. Tried to pull on her mask again, but now that the proverbial dam had broken, it didn’t fit anymore. Like she was trying to shove a lamb shank into a sausage casing. At least the air was cold. That would help with the swelling and give her an excuse for the redness.
Tromping across the plashy ground, she paused once at a stirring sound, but it was only a grouse. She let herself into the house, purposefully ignoring the portrait on the wall. She could hear Mr. Babineaux moving about the kitchen. Rushing up the stairs, she darted for her room before Miss Taylor could witness her humiliation.
The closed door at her back was a comfort. She tossed her spectacles onto the bed and lit a candle. Crossed the room and opened the window as wide as it would go, beckoning in a hiemal breeze. She still had water in her pitcher, so she poured it into a bowl and splashed her face. Loose tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead.
Sidestepping to her mirror, she leaned in to better see herself. A chuckle rough as rusted nails tore up her throat.
She was a histrionic mess. Her crying had made her eyes even smaller. Her jaw was too wide to be feminine—she’d seen those sharp lines work on other women, but not on herself. And her nose . . . her nose was the sort of thing authors put on storybook villains. Authors like Merritt Fernsby.
She stared at herself as new tears brimmed her eyelashes. No, her portrait would never rest in a frame on a lover’s bedside table or be pressed into a wallet or pocket watch. Her body would never know the touch of a man or the weight of a child. She was an augurist, after all. Her talent lay in knowing the future.
The most hateful thing of all was that she knew this, and she had accepted it years ago. She had made her peace, truly. She had been content with her achievements, her career, and her colleagues before coming to this blasted house.
She turned away, blinking rapidly, pulling her hairpins free with little grace. A tear fell to the floor. She ignored it. Tore a button from her dress, trying to free herself of it, and cursed. Cursed again. Spat out every foul word she knew, just because she could. It made her feel a little better. A little.
She chucked her corset across the room, nearly sending it out the window, but gravity pitied her and tugged it to the floor. She was a little more careful with her nightdress. She didn’t need two articles of clothing to repair, especially since she’d be leaving imminently.
She paused at the thought. Sunk into her mattress. Mouthed the words. Yes, she had to leave. For her own sanity and wellbeing, she could not remain in this house. Her rejection was raw and fresh and would certainly not heal with Merritt Fernsby walking the same halls, sharing the same jokes, wondering why she was such a mess. And heaven help her, if he brought this Ebba Mullan home to be lady of the house . . .
Hulda pressed her palms to her eyes as humiliation washed over her, rancid and prickly. Fool. You always have been.
Myra had known about her preposterous attraction. Somehow, she had known. That’s why she’d worked so hard to pull her from Whimbrel House. Or perhaps it had all been an act of God, to spare her this internal beating. And yet, it would seem she’d needed to learn the painful lesson again, so next time she would be stalwart in her resolutions. So her heart would stay in the cold, steel cage where it belonged.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as a new ache pushed up from her navel and spread through her chest. “Why couldn’t this have happened two weeks ago?” she whispered.
Then, she could have written Mr. Fernsby off as an infatuation. But she’d gone and fallen in love with him, his clever words, his gentle hands, his uplifting laugh. Curse Miss Mullan for having her name on that damnable poster!
Slouching, she cradled her head. It was her fault, she knew. No one had asked her to form an attachment. But it felt better, for a moment, to pin the blame on others. Anger was an easier pill to swallow than this sopping remorse.
A light rapping sounded at her door. Hulda forced a swallow, then fanned her face with her hands. Said nothing; hopefully Miss Taylor would assume she’d retired for the evening and leave her alone.
Another soft tap. “Mrs. Larkin? Do you want to talk about it?”
She managed to keep the next curse within her throat. Had she been so conspicuous?
The door cracked. “Mrs. Larkin?”
Hulda released a shuddering breath. “I suppose if I haven’t h-hid it well enough, th-there’s no point in turning you away, is there?”