Page 47 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive was washing the breakfast bowls when a knock rattled the door.

Emil. Her heart leapt before reason clawed it back into place.

It wasn’t Emil. It couldn’t be. Not only would he have had to ring the bell at the front door, but there was no reason for him to call at such an early hour.

No reason to call at all. Most likely, it was a kind neighbor bringing up the milk from the stoop.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she slipped from the kitchenette and opened the door.

Mrs. Drake stood on the threshold, a paper clutched between her gloved talons.

“Miss Becket.”

“Good morning,” Olive said faintly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“My dear husband has entrusted me with the task of delivering notices about the rent increase.”

Olive took the proffered paper and unfolded it. Her eyes skimmed the words, then the numbers. The strength drained from her legs, and a wave of nausea surged upward. She gripped the doorframe to steady herself.

“But this…” She forced herself to look Mrs. Drake in the eye. “This is nearly double.”

“It’s quite correct,” Mrs. Drake said primly. “It’s what the market commands. We’ve indulged your mother’s...situation for long enough. We have our own household to run, Miss Becket, and kindness, while fashionable, is rarely profitable. I’m sure you understand.”

Olive flicked a glance over her shoulder. Her mother’s faint voice echoed from the bathroom, where she was helping Robbie wash his face. They hadn’t heard Mrs. Drake’s arrival. Good. They mustn't. She would fix everything herself, as she always did.

“If you could just give me some time,” she said quickly, her voice trembling. “A few weeks. I’ll take on more lessons, but—”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. The new rate is effective immediately.”

“I…I don’t have enough. Not yet.”

She gave Olive an appraising look. “Perhaps that young man who comes around could contribute. He certainly has the means for gifts, doesn’t he?”

Olive struggled to speak. “He won’t be coming around anymore.”

“What a shame. But really, dear, what did you think would happen, giving away the milk for free?”

Heat rose to Olive’s cheeks, but she bit down her retort. It would only feed Mrs. Drake’s appetite for shame. “I have ten dollars I could spare,” she said.

“Oh no, that’s not nearly enough.” Mrs. Drake pursed her lips and pretended to think. “There is another option, of course. The boy.”

“Robbie must stay in school.”

“I’m not a monster, Miss Becket. I didn’t say he should quit altogether.

” Mrs. Drake gave her an exasperated look.

“I’m offering a short arrangement until you’ve covered the difference.

My husband’s masonry could use a strong pair of hands.

Surely a few hours of honest labor would do him more good than loitering around the shops during school hours. ”

“He hasn’t done that in quite some time,” she insisted weakly. The woman’s knowledge of her family disturbed her. “He’s trying.”

“Work will give him discipline, Miss Becket. A sense of duty. And I’m offering you mercy. I’d think you’d be grateful to maintain a roof over your mother’s head.” She affected a concerned look. “When was the last time she stepped foot out the front door? Must be six months now.”

Olive’s knees shook so badly she was amazed she remained upright.

The writing was on the wall—if Olive didn’t comply, they’d be evicted.

Her mother, so kind, so fragile, would be forced from her sanctuary.

And where would they go? They had no other options.

An upset like that would unmake Anna completely.

She struggled to think, to find a solution. There weren’t any. Not yet, anyway.

But she could work harder. She could get more students.

Give more performances. And there was her father’s watch.

She could still sell it. It might take her a week or two to cobble the funds together—three at most—but she could do it.

And while she worked, she’d hunt for another place to live.

One far from Mrs. Drake’s evil eye. One where her mother could feel safe, where Robbie would be able to attend school again. It could work. She would make it work.

“Only until I can pay the rent,” she said finally, her voice thin.

Mrs. Drake’s expression was triumphant. “My husband will collect the boy in five minutes.”

The door clicked shut, and Olive’s legs gave way. She slid to the floor, the paper crumpled in her hands, and cursed Mrs. Drake for forcing her to choose.

Olive sat beside the turned-down bed, her hands limp in her lap.

The blankets were piled high, her mother a small, still statue turned toward the wall.

She hadn’t moved in hours. Her face was blank, her eyes distant.

Olive had tried everything—gentle coaxing, harsh demands—but nothing had roused her.

Olive’s bargain had broken her mother.

She couldn’t stop replaying the sound of Anna’s low, raw moan upon hearing the news. An awful, piteous sound that wrenched through Olive’s chest like a saw. Since then, not a word. Just that vast and terrible silence.

Unable to sit still another moment, she rose and paced the apartment in restless circles.

She grasped at possible solutions, but none appeared.

There had been hard days before, even awful ones, but nothing like this.

If she went to the Robinsons’ for afternoon lessons, who would watch over her mother?

Who would shield Robbie when he came home tired and bewildered?

What would seeing Anna like this do to him?

No, she would cancel the lessons. There went the desperately needed tuition money, but she would have to earn it later.

She nodded to herself, though the movement felt leaden.

Now what? Should she call a doctor? But what if they prescribed medicine she couldn’t afford?

Should she use a few precious coins to send a message to Longfellow House?

No, no. That wouldn’t work. Her friends were in Olympia, eagerly awaiting the Senate vote results.

And even if they weren’t, what could they do?

This went far beyond suffrage. It was her life unraveling at the seams. It was too much to ask. She would have to sort it out herself.

Always alone.

She rubbed the back of her neck, the muscles taut and painful. Tea, then. She could make tea. She could hum a lullaby, the one her grandmother taught her. She could hold her mother and pray.

In the tiny kitchenette, she filled the kettle and checked the clock. When would Robbie be home? A few more hours, at most. But what state would he be in? He was only a little boy. What if he’d been injured? What if the other men were cruel? What if—

There was a knock at the door.

She flinched, the kettle sloshing water onto the counter. She rushed to the door and threw it open. “Robbie?”

But it wasn’t him.

It was Emil.

Emil, looking at her with a hopeful expression.

Emil, the corners of his mouth turning downward when she found she couldn’t speak.

Emil, reaching toward her. Holding her sagging form upright. His grip the one thing tethering her to earth. His voice rumbled low against her ear, not words yet, only sound—steady and strong and real. He was there. Oh God, he was there.

“Olive.” Light hands shook her, compelling her to listen. “Olive, look at me. What’s happened?”

“I had courage,” she croaked. “But it wasn’t enough. Courage was supposed to be enough.”

Then she burst into tears.

He said nothing, just enveloped her in his arms. His hand moved slowly up and down her back. His lips brushed against her hair, again and again. The door slammed shut behind them—his foot must have kicked it closed—but she didn’t care. Let Mrs. Drake complain.

Emil was there now.

He eased her into a chair at the table, then sat beside her, never releasing her hand. His gaze drifted to the silent bed, then back to her. He looked at her with a tenderness that nearly undid her again, but there was something else there, too. A fierce, smoldering resolve.

“Tell me everything.”

She did. Haltingly at first, then in a rush.

She told him about the rent, about Mrs. Drake’s threat, about her mother’s silence, about Robbie’s predicament.

Every awful detail spilled out between her sobs and pauses.

Emil didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions.

He simply listened, his lips pinched together and storms flashing through his eyes.

When she’d used up all her words, he gave her hand a firm squeeze.

“I’m going to fix this.”

She blinked, uncertain whether she’d heard him right. “What? Emil, what can you possibly do?”

“I can do a great deal,” he said, steel creeping into his voice. “And I’ll start by telling you the one thing that matters most.”

He faced her fully, his gaze strong and sure.

“I love you, Olive Becket. And I want to marry you—as soon as you’ll have me. I don’t want to face this world without you ever again. Not when we can face it together.”

She swiped at the fresh tears coursing down her cheeks. Someone—Emil—loved her. And he wanted to take on the world for her. It was all she’d ever wanted. All she’d been too afraid to even hope for. What if it was too good to be true?

“How can you love me?” she whispered. “I’m a mess. My life is a mess.”

“And mine isn’t?” He leaned closer, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re the only thing in my life that makes sense.

I tried returning to my old life, but it no longer fits.

Because you changed me, min k?raste. You opened my world.

You showed me how to see past myself. And you, Olive Becket, taught me what courage looks like. ”

“Me? But I don’t feel courageous. I feel like I’m drowning.”