Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 54

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 54
“I’ve worked at this Museum since before I married, and because I was recognized for my abilities, I was able to keep my position as secretary even after marriage.”
Rosie traced the curved indent of her Brandy Glass with her fingertip, her voice steady as she continued.
“Most women have no choice but to leave their work after marriage, so I was grateful. But marriage itself did not go according to my wishes.”
The candle on the Dining Table flickered faintly.
Beatrice set down her fork without a sound, and Patrick listened intently to Rosie’s account.
“It was a match made purely for the family’s benefit—they were fallen Gentry. The beginning of tragedy. My husband hurled abuse at me every night, and sometimes struck my face. He said he never wanted the marriage either, that I had ruined his life. But our circumstances were not the same. He could handle me as he pleased, could vent his rage on me, but I had no way to resist. The moment I spoke back to him, he could throw me out onto the street.”
The air in the narrow room grew heavier. Neither Beatrice nor Patrick could bring themselves to touch the food on their plates; they only listened.
“He carried on with one woman after another, day after day, until finally one day he abandoned the house entirely. He sent me just enough money to barely survive—not enough to buy firewood in the dead of winter. I threw myself into my work even more desperately.”
Rosie’s voice fell to barely a whisper.
“But even when I tried to put my savings from secretarial work into an account, I needed my husband’s consent. I couldn’t go to a Restaurant, a Social Club, or even a Department Store without him. He could have destroyed me socially, quite literally.”
Patrick’s eyes grew dark with bitterness.
Considering that Rosie had only recently turned fifty, her youth must have been far grimmer than her present days. Even now, women were being imprisoned in cells for crying out for freedom in the streets. What must it have been like then?
“My heart withered away, day after day. But the worst part—the thing that hurt most—was that everyone called me by his surname. ‘Mrs. Bentley’…”
Rosie gave a small, rueful laugh.
“My real name is Rosie Atwood—Rosie Eleanor Atwood. But I couldn’t reclaim my erased name. When I tried to divorce him to shed that surname, the court official just scoffed at me, saying the grounds weren’t sufficient.”
“Eleanor.”
Beatrice spoke the name softly, as if struck by it anew. Patrick understood its meaning too.
It meant Shining Person. The world had stolen her light.
“So I spent all those years pretending to live with my husband. I couldn’t divorce him, and if it ever became known that he was away from home—that my legal guardian was absent—”
Even now, the thought of it rendered Rosie breathless with indignation. She lowered her eyes and let out a long sigh.
“I could have been dismissed from the Museum for conduct unbecoming a staff member.”
“It’s dreadful. You were the victim, after all.”
Beatrice sighed softly, her head bowing. Patrick, catching sight of her face, drew out his handkerchief and wordlessly pushed it toward her, then leaned back deeply into his chair.
“Those were the years I endured. But now, mercifully, things have changed. I can eat with Edward in the Cafeteria, and I can spend time with all of you like this.”
It was at that moment Patrick suddenly understood why Edward had always called her “Rosie” rather than by her married name, as the other staff members did.
He had thought it slightly odd that he used her given name instead of her surname, calling her “Mrs. Rosie,” and assumed it was simply Edward’s characteristically careless manner—but now he saw it differently.
“So much of it was suffering, but…”
Edward set down his knife and fork with a click, brightening his expression as if to shift the mood.
“You said there was some good news at the end of all that hardship, didn’t you, Rosie?”
“Well, yes. Though I’m not sure what you’ll all think of this day…”
“No need for suspense, Rosie. Just tell us.”
When Rosie offered a bitter smile, Edward waved his hand eagerly, urging her on. She hesitated, then spoke carefully.
“The truth is… my husband died in a Motor Car accident last year.”
Beatrice drew in a short, sharp breath.
“When I received word, I didn’t shed a single tear. The man had gone to the Red-light District trying to meet yet another woman while he already had an illegitimate child, and was struck down by a Motor Car. A fitting end, in a way.”
“He deserved a crueler death than that.”
Patrick’s dry comment earned an emphatic nod from Beatrice.
“And now… here’s the truly good news.”
Rosie’s lips curved upward with unmistakable relief.
“Because we were never divorced, all of his property became mine.”
“Which is why Rosie Atwood now drives a brand-new Motor Car to work every morning. Long live the Married Women’s Property Act!”
Edward raised his glass with genuine delight.
Patrick was struck with surprise, remembering her gleaming Motor Car and those handsome Goggles. So her husband’s fortune had been…?
“Your husband was quite wealthy, then?”
Beatrice, unable to contain her curiosity, asked first. Rosie raised her glass with a meaning smile.
“Let’s just say he had a considerable talent for gambling.”
“His only redeeming quality.”
Edward chuckled with amusement.
As Rosie picked up her fork with a sly expression, Edward refilled her Brandy Glass and cleared his voice.
“To Rosie Atwood, then!”
“When we’re together like this, you’re welcome to call me just Rosie.”
Rosie Atwood smiled broadly, her round cheeks flushed a rosy pink, her eyes crinkling warmly above her round spectacles—a smile of genuine kindness.
“To Rosie Atwood!”
They clinked their glasses firmly. Thump, thump. From the floor below came the sound of the Old Woman striking the ceiling, and Edward’s face fell. The four of them hunched their shoulders and stifled their laughter for a long moment.
Edward, who had been listening keenly to the sounds from below, proposed another toast with mischief dancing in his eyes.
“A bit more quietly this time—how about a toast to our gathering? I’d love it if we could keep meeting like this.”
“I’d like that!”
“What should we call ourselves? Something like the Misfits’ Gathering? After all, the four of us here are all somewhat… adrift in society.”
Misfits’ Gathering…!
Beatrice and Patrick exchanged wry looks and laughter. Yet there was no denying the truth of it.
An eccentric curator who’d smashed up the Gentlemen’s Club, two young people refusing the world’s prescribed path and determined to forge their own, and a middle-aged woman finally free to taste what liberty she craved.
As they each took stock of who they were—what they’d become—laughter seized them all at once, irresistible and complete.
Four glasses met gently at the center of the Dining Table. The clear, bright chime rang out soft and warm through the narrow upstairs room.
The Old Woman downstairs would thump irritably now and then, but the quiet laughter continued on, unhurried and unbroken.
Through the autumn night beyond the window, deepening slowly into darkness.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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