Wendy felt her world unraveling, thread by tiny thread. “Mr. Whitfield . . .”
“Away with you now. Your face is already breaking my heart as it is. I’ll tell Booth that you went home. Please don’t forget the books for your brothers.”
Her movements stiff and mechanical, Wendy picked up the pile of books from the table, one of them slipping out of the twine binding and hitting the floor with a loud thud. “Tell Booth that I . . .” She tried to maintain control over her voice, which was cracking, her lower lip trembling. Mr. Whitfield looked away from her with red eyes behind his glasses.
“Wendy, I’m sorry for this misfortune. It isn’t fair. But please think about Booth’s future before you consider your own needs. Good day, child.” He waved his arm toward the door. Wendy moved toward it, unsteadily gathering her shawl and stepping outside onto the dusty street. Her skin, still warmed by Booth’s touch, seemed to steam in the cool London air, and the world suddenly seemed strange and unfriendly.
CHAPTER THREE
WENDY DIDN’T REMEMBER THE WALK HOME, only that she had been numb, her hands wrapped tightly around her books, her heart strangely empty and sad. People moved around her in a blur: men with black hats, boys in wool shorts, babies pushed in their prams with bright red cheeks and curious eyes. She stepped into Number 14, and before she even had a chance to breathe, Liza was on her, fussing about her missing gloves.
“Miss Wendy! Why are you so pale? Where are your gloves?”
Wendy looked down at her hands, remembering Booth’s lips on her palm. “Sorry, I must have lost them.”
Liza sighed. “Those were expensive, child! A gift from your mama! Are you feeling okay?” She was pressing her hands against Wendy’s cheeks now, feeling her forehead and lips. “You feel clammy. Go put on your nightgown and lie down. I’ll be up with some tea in a few minutes for you. Tell those boys to vacate the nursery so that you may rest.” She tsk-tsked. “Between you and your brothers, I get no rest . . .”
Wendy slowly climbed the stairs up to the nursery, pushing open the champagne double doors that her mother had spent weeks fussing over. When she walked into the room, a wave of sound pushed its way out toward her. John, his eye covered with a black eye patch, leapt down from her dresser, a long stick in his hand. Michael, running as fast as he could on short little legs, careened into her waist.
“WENDY! We are pirates! Now you can be our captive!”
“Michael, not now,” she mumbled, pushing her way past him before thinking better of it and rustling his hair affectionately. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m not feeling well. Could you play pirates in the sitting room perhaps, or maybe the library?” John looked up at her, his hazel eyes, the exact shade of hers, simmering with annoyance.
“We were here first. Maybe you can go lie down in the library instead.”
“John, please.” Wendy wandered over to the dresser that had just been a pirate ship and gently pushed John’s display of tiny wooden soldiers to the side. “I need to get dressed. Please, can you play somewhere else?”
Michael stomped across the room and plopped heavily down on his bed, pulling Giles, adorned with a red scarf around his neck, with him.
“But we were playing here, Wendy.”
She needed desperately to be alone, thoughts of Booth and Mr. Whitfield spinning through her mind. She was nauseated and elated all at once, thinking of her first kiss and Mrs. Tatterley’s judgmental expression. “I’m exhausted, Michael. I’m not asking again.”
John walked over to Wendy and, with a cold look, slapped the books out of her hands. “She’s not even sick. She’s sad.” He tilted his head so that he could peer at her face. “Are you sad about Booth? Does he have a little crush on someone else?” His voice was so cruel that Wendy recoiled. Before she realized what she was doing, her hand slapped his cheek with a sharp crack. John stepped back in shock, his hand on his face.
“You hit me!”
Wendy was mortified. What kind of girl slapped her brother? “John, I’m sorry, forgive me . . .”
A cruel sneer crossed his face, but she saw the tears clouding his eyes. “Poor Wendy. It’s not like it would have worked out. He’s a bookseller’s son. You might as well have fallen in love with a gutter rat.”
Unable to hold back her emotions anymore, Wendy let out a cry. “Get out! Get out right now! Please! Go away!” John’s face was smug as she turned away from him.