Page 53 of When You Rescued Me

Elinor stirred sugar into her cup. “Reverend Wilson spent twenty minutes discussing one verse in the Bible, which, if you think on it, is really quite noteworthy.”

“Almost as noteworthy as you paying attention that long,” Sophia said.

Elinor ignored her, but Hannah experienced the first stirrings of a smile.

“What was the verse?” Hannah asked.

“‘Judge not, that ye be not judged,’” Elinor said.

“Oh.” Hannah dropped her gaze to the simmering liquid in her cup. Of all the verses in the Bible, why did it have to be that one?

“Warning against being judgmental seems to be the reverend’s theme this month,” Elinor continued, obviously unaware that Sophia had already shared his message about the woman caught in sin with Hannah. “This time, instead of preaching on the importance of remembering that judgment is God’s, not ours, his focus was on the importance of us showing compassion over condemnation.”

Hannah felt weary to her bones. “I daresay I needed to hear that this week.”

“We all did,” Sophia said. “Goodness, is there anyone in London so judgmental as I when it comes to what people hang on their walls? I seriously doubt it. If I but employed more compassion over Mrs. Chesterfield’s insistence that every painting in her house be orange so as to pay homage to her love of sunsets or Emma Kempton’s father’s obsession with trophy antlers, not only would I eliminate disparaging remarks and, therefore, be a nicer person, but I could also manage to remain in their parlors long enough to enjoy more than half a cup of tea.”

Elinor made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

“Seriously, Sophia?” Hannah said. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Probably not.” Sophia was completely unruffled. “But it made the point, did it not? None of us is perfect, Hannah. Not you, not me, not Mr. Ross. Not even Elinor, although she is closer than the rest of us. It is completely understandable for you to feel all the anger, hurt, sadness—and everything else—after hearing Mr. Ross’s confession, but you cannot continue to live in that maelstrom forever without it destroying you. And since Elinor and I refuse to allow that to happen, we are intervening.”

“Intervening?” Hannah knew a moment of panic. “What does that mean?”

“It starts with talking,” Sophia said. “Talk to us. You have had three days of solitude. It hasn’t seemed to do the trick, so try sharing your burden instead.”

“But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Elinor reached out to take her hand. “It doesn’t have to be everything. Why don’t you tell us what you are most upset about?”

“I . . . I feel deceived,” she said. “On every front. Deceived that the pickpocket didn’t die when I thought he did, deceived that the Bow Street officer I had come to admire wasn’t who I thought he was . . .” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Even my own heart deceived me.”

Elinor squeezed her hand. “Surely you are not sorry that Mr. Ross was spared the gallows all those years ago?”

“Of course not!” It was still a struggle to associate Samuel with the young man who had haunted her nightmares. “I prayed for him for years. It’s just that—” She shook her head. What was she trying to say? Was she truly so selfish that she felt cheated because she had carried an unnecessary weight of guilt? Sophia had already helped her realize that she should never have shouldered that in the first place. Samuel had suggested the same. She turned her focus to the second issue. “He should have told me who he was when we first met.”

“He may not have been fully transparent,” Sophia said, “but neither did he lie to you. His was most certainly a more grievous omission than most, but to one degree or another, I think we have all found ourselves in similar situations.” She shrugged. “Last year, when Mrs. Chesterfield was excessively effusive about my painting of bluebells hanging in the drawing room, I accepted her praise without telling her that I was also the artist behind the charcoal sketch of Astley’s Amphitheatre in the hall that she’d only just told Mrs. Kempton was an unsuitable picture to display.”

“But Samuel concealed a criminal past,” Hannah said. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Given how vehement Mrs. Chesterfield was about the sin of associating with circus performers, I think she would argue otherwise.”

“It is hard to overlook the grievous nature of Mr. Ross’s past,” Elinor admitted. “Truth be told, I am still coming to terms with it, and I do not have the same close connection to him that you do. But from the limited interaction I’ve had with the gentleman, he gives every impression of having fully changed, and so I keep thinking about Reverend Wilson’s sermon and asking myself what I should do to show compassion rather than condemnation.”

“Elinor is too good,” Sophia grumbled. “She casts everyone else in a poor light.”

Hannah wanted to agree, but something her youngest sister had said had struck a chord. When he had shared his experience of losing part of his ear, Mr. Ross had talked of changes and new chances. And he had spoken of them as though he had considerable experience with both.

“Do you believe it is possible that he has fully changed? That there is no lawlessness left in him? No ulterior motive behind his actions?” Hannah asked. It was a question she had repeatedly asked herself over the last few days, but sorting her personal desires from her present reality had proved extremely difficult.

“What does your heart tell you?” Elinor said.

“My heart is numb. It cannot tell me anything.”

Sophia eyed her speculatively. “Your heart is numb? I would have thought it would be filled with anger over his deception—if that is truly what has you the most distraught.”

“I am angry.” She shook her head helplessly. “Or I was angry. Sometimes I am still angry. But then I recall that he saved my life when the highwayman had me in his clutches, and since then, he has been nothing but kind and solicitous and . . .” She pressed a hand to her face. “I do not know what I feel anymore.”