Her smile was that of a snake. I felt I had said the wrong thing, and quickly added, “And I know how you like to gossip.”

“This isn’t gossip. I’m willing to tell you to help you, but if you’d rather not hear it …”

I should have said no right away and asked her to leave again, but I couldn’t. Instead, I remained silent, which she took as her cue to tell me her sordid little story.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that he has an affinity for women and likes to drink?”

I didn’t answer.

“Well, two years ago, he became particularly friendly with the nanny they hired to look after their daughter. The daughter saw them together and told Mrs. Carrington. It nearly ended their marriage, which would be scandal enough, but they rely on income from her family, since his family cut him off. So, Mr. Carringt—” She caught herself and gave a condescending smile. “I’m sorry, I mean ‘Thomas’, would be ruined. She said that she would cut him off unless he stopped drinking. It’s also why they hired a valet. She wouldn’t trust him with another nanny in the house.”

I stared at her with her infuriating smile.

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

She acted as though she was offended. “I’m only giving you advice that could help you, but suit yourself. I know he can be quite charming, but like you said, it’s your business. Not mine.”

With that, she left.

I spent the rest of the day turning her words over in my head, and catching myself fiddling with the necklace.

Eventually, after another slow day, I closed the pharmacy and returned home.

The door to Father’s room was closed and I could hear him sleeping inside.

I retreated into my own room and proceeded to write these words.

I’m now more desperate than ever to talk to Thomas. I know it’s nothing more than gossip; cruel gossip spread by a jealous girl that was only meant to put doubt in my head.

I hope the courier comes tomorrow. I want to see him. I want him to kiss me again, and reassure me that Patricia Fleming is nothing more than the horrid liar I know her to be.

Good night.

21

The tiles of the downstairs bathroom are nice and cool on my back.

It’s six-thirty in the morning and about an hour since my last dry heave. I’ve been downing Advil to stop the hammers in my head. My mouth tastes like asphalt, and I only got about three hours of restless, drunken sleep. The worst is over, but this is the kind of hangover that costs you an entire day.

I have to get up. Caitlyn will be awake soon and I need to make breakf-uuuuuck. Let’s not think about food.