Shadows Fall Away by Kit Forbes Page A

second chance.”
    Her expression went through a series of changes I couldn’t quite place, but it was clear I’d hit a nerve.
    Mrs. Trambley replied with a sound a lot like a snarl. “The morals of the lower classes are not our own.”
    Clearly I’d been insulted. To let it go or not let it go, that was the question.
    It was probably a good thing Genie interceded before I decided.
    “The lower classes are no less moral,” she insisted. “Economic hardships force them into horrible conditions.”
    “Disreputable activities are their natural tendencies,” Phoebe replied casually. “Had you attended Mr. Wingate’s lecture on the topic of the lower classes instead of going out and actually consorting with them, you would have a much better understanding of their true nature.”
    Genie was the one showing the repressed range now. “Their true nature ? I know them far better than you or some cloistered, self-righteous matron who only visits the East End during the day!”
    Phoebe glared at her sister. “I know their true nature well enough, sister. Is it not thrown in my face every time I swallow one of Father’s treatments?”
    “Phoebe!” This time it was Mrs. Trambley who blew. The unspoken signals flashed between them again and Phoebe lowered her eyes in surrender.
    “Given the chance,” Genie insisted, a bit calmer this time, “they’d raise their families and tend their gardens just like any other decent people. But most of the men cannot make more than substance wages, whole blocks of flats have been torn down and replaced with ones they can’t afford, and the rents on the meanest and most disgusting hovels have nearly doubled over the past five years.”
    “My point exactly,” Phoebe cut in. “The men are worthless so they send their wives and daughters out onto the streets to whore for a few extra pence while they sit in the pubs and drink away what little they have.”
    Genie glared at her sister. “And yet you are the first to blame the women—women who you now insist are victims!”
    Mrs. Trambley trembled. “Victims? Those women are not victims, they are predators! They are a pestilence that cuts down even the bravest and best of men!” There was a glowing frenzy in Mrs. Trambley’s eyes. And something else, something dark and glittery. “Do you know how many of the gallant soldiers of the Crimea survived shot and shell only to be cut down by the pox from those vile creatures? Too many, daughter.” Mrs. Trambley’s hand shook as she gripped her napkin almost like it was a weapon. “You mark my words, girl, they shall be judged!” She stood abruptly.
    I remembered the whole men stand when a lady stands thing just before Mrs. Trambley stalked from the dining room.
    “Oh, do sit down,” Phoebe snapped. “You look like a hurdy-gurdyman’s monkey.”
    I sat even though I’d lost my appetite a long while back. “I’ve been called worse.”
    “I’m utterly certain you have.” Phoebe neatly bit the head off a spear of asparagus. She gave me a glare that would’ve scared the Wicked Witch of the West.
    Phoebe exited shortly thereafter, telling Sarah to bring her dessert to her room. Genie and I stayed in the dining room, helped pile up the dinner plates, and quietly ate the vanilla custard Sarah brought us.
    Once that was gone, I figured it was as good a time as any to exit the Trambley Matrix. Genie walked me to the front door.
    She stopped halfway through the hall near the staircase. “I’m sorry for the commotion,” she said softly. “I imagine you think us a band of raving lunatics.”
    “I think you’re a bunch of ladies with some very strong opinions.”
    Genie smiled and I was glad I’d held a smart-assed remark in check. She was actually kind of cute when she smiled. She needed to do it more often.
    “Before I go, could I leave a note for your father—and mother?”
    Genie eyed me suspiciously. “I suppose.” She took me to the desk in her father’s study. She put