Page 61 of These Immortal Truths
It’s only the gruesome nature of these deaths that arouse their interest.
A group of men stand on the corner just to Anna’s left. She can hear them gossiping about the details, a newspaper folded between them as they speculate who could commit such a violent act. None of them say the women’s names, they have resorted to labels varying between ‘first body’ and ‘fourth victim’. Meanwhile, the killer’s given name is on everyone’s lips and inked on every newspaper.
‘Two More Victims Claimed by The East End Ripper’
‘Jack the Ripper Claims 5th Victim’
This morning she overheard her employer discussing the details over breakfast with the chief of police, asking if he should be concerned about the killer targeting women of good breeding or if he would stick to chopping up prostitutes. It had made her stomach recoil, the toast tasting dry in her mouth.
Her hand tightens into a fist, an involuntary reaction to the anger she feels, but his small voice breaks her from her thoughts.
“Are you alright Miss Anne?” The boy’s brow is furrowed, nose pinched. “You look cross.”
Anna’s fist loosens, allowing herself to forget her anger if just to offer her charge a smile. He’s gotten too adept at reading her emotions over the last few years, a side effect of age. He’s only ten now, but he has a tendency to act five years older. “Apologies,” she says, “I’m afraid I got a little lost in my thoughts. Come, I believe I see our carriage a little ways down. James must be waiting for us.”
Her charge follows dutifully. He’s a good boy. Sweet. Anna gives credit solely to his mother, because she’s certain it cannot be due to any influence from his father. She’s witnessed far too much of the lord of the house to believe him capable of the same empathy his youngest exhibits in spades. Anna finds it a shame that Mrs. Hastings hadn’t been allowed to dictate how her elder two sons were raised. Anna’s convinced they would have grown to be much better men for it.
Seth walks a step behind her, his shoes scuffing along the cobblestones. “Are you certain we can’t stop by the sweets shop?” he asks,as sugary as the toffees he so loves. “I’m certain mother won’t mind.”
“No, Seth.” She glances down at him, finding his dark eyes staring back. She smothers a smile. “The lady of the house was quite clear that you return by noon. You have your piano lessons today.”
His lips pull into a pout. “I don’t care for piano.”
“I’m afraid that’s something you’d have to take up with your mother.”
“Perhaps we’re just a little late? We got a little lost and had trouble finding the carriage?”
“No, Seth.” Her gaze slides to him, brow raised. “I rather like my job. I think I’d like to keep it a bit longer. If that’s all well with you?”
“Mama wouldn’t fire you,” he says, with the kind of confidence only someone as young and privileged as he is can carry. “She likes you.”
“And I her, but you know that decision wouldn’t fall on her. Your father would be rather upset if the instructor your mother convinced him to hire arrived and found himself without a student.”
He goes quiet, brows drawing together as he thinks.
Anna remembers that Piers used to wear a similar expression when he found something hard to accept. She sees so many similarities between them. It’s hard not to when Seth is the first child she’s allowed herself to care for since saying goodbye to the one she lost to time. Sometimes their shared quirks feel like staring down a ghost, but Anna can’t say it hurts. Not anymore. With every twinge of recognition is a fondness. An acceptance. Piers is gone, but his memory is something she’ll carry with her always.
Their carriage is only a bit farther when Seth speaks again, his voice low and only for her ears. “I hate him.”
Anna’s steps falter. When she turns to look at him, he won’t meet her gaze. There’s a tension around his mouth, a bitterness darkening his eyes, that wipes away any doubt that she misheard. She steers him off to the side so others can pass without overhearing, and kneels to his level. Propriety be damned. “You mustn’t say such things,” she whispers, taking his hands. “Do you understand?”
The scowl that darkens his expression makes him look older, more serious. “But it’s the truth.”
“I know,” she says, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. “I’m not saying you’re wrong to feel that way or that he doesn’t deserve it. But you must be very careful not to speak it or the wrong people may hear.” She leans in closer, voice hushed in ways that will only reach his ears. “How would your father react if he ever found out?”
Seth pales, his dark hair a stark contrast. “He’d be angry.”
“Yes, and what do you think he’d do?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers, but in his tiny voice Anna hears the truth. He’s scared to think about it.
She nods, never letting her gaze drop away. “May I tell you what I think would happen?”
His answering nod is hesitant—unsure. Anna tells him anyway, because the weight of the truth is not nearly so crippling as the weight of the consequences. Mr. Hastings wouldn’t stand for a son that publicly hated him and he would blame everyone but himself for its happening. He would accuse Mrs. Hastings of being too soft, for turning him against him, and both mother and son would be punished for it. Worse, he would take it as a sign to raise the boy himself—would make it his mission to crush every good and gentle thing about him.
“He would try to fix it,” she says, hoping he understands. “He would try to fixyou.”
She brings a palm to his cheek and lets every last conviction lace her words. “And you, sweet boy, do not need fixing. Do you understand?”
