☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It didn't take much prodding or many questions to ascertain Jimmy's date of birth. Everyone seemed to know it, including the factory floor foreman, which led Rose to believe that Jimmy spread the word on purpose, likely with the goal of receiving gifts, well wishes, and free drinks.
A quick visual spree through Mr. Gallagher's personal calendar was enough to discover the birth date of Prudence Gallagher. December, of course. Fitting, for such a cold looking woman.
Halfway through the afternoon, Mr. Gallagher left the factory to attend a meeting. Rose capitalized on his absence by revisiting the safe behind the tiger painting. Much to her disappointment, neither Jimmy's nor his mother's dates of birth were the correct combination. She even tried inverting the month and day, but the safe refused to open.
Who besides his son and his wife are his loved ones? Rose wondered to herself. His father, perhaps? A rather stone-faced uncle who taught him everything he knows? How on earth am I to find out? Such questions cannot be asked.
Rose was still pondering the combination conundrum as she prepared to leave the factory that evening. With the intention of making a discreet exit, her eyes shifted from side to side in search of Jimmy. But when she emerged from the gaping maw of the factory entrance with the horde of other workers, it was not Jimmy Gallagher who awaited her on the opposite side of the narrow street, but Daphne.
Startled, Rose stopped in her tracks, nearly causing a collision with the tall, brawny man behind her.
“Keep it movin', lass!” the man barked, stepping around her.
“My apologies…” Rose murmured. She blinked at Daphne, half expecting the image of her cousin to vanish like a mirage in the desert. How did Daphne know she'd be here? Savvy journalist or not, it was baffling that she'd been able to track Rose to the factory.
Caution in her step, Rose crossed the street and approached her cousin with a wary expression. “Hello, Daphne.”
“Hello, Rose.”
Rose shifted from one foot to the other. “What are you doing here?”
Eyes puffy, as though she hadn't slept a full night in a week's time, Daphne offered Rose a watery smile and held up a bag from Pumpernickle's Café. “I come bearing sweets,” she said, her voice wavering. “Pitiful and lacking given the circumstances, I know, but Grandmamá Violet always said there were few conflicts that couldn't be resolved by tea—”
“—sweets, and polite conversation,” Rose finished, her expression impassive. “Yes, I remember.”
Daphne's face crumpled and she released a little sound reminiscent of both a sigh and a sob. “In all actuality, I came to beg your forgiveness,” she blurted. “Rose, I did a terrible thing. An egregious, irreparable thing. I betrayed your trust. I know croissants and biscuits can never atone for my behavior, but there really is more to the story than my loose-lipped disclosure of Elton Willoughby to Mr. Mercer. And if you would permit me just a few minutes to explain, well... I think, perhaps, you may not hate me quite so much. Please? Come to my flat?”
