“When?”
“When I choose.”
A small smile.
“Of course.”
The carriage door closed.
Julian stepped backward.
The wheels moved.
Eliza did not look through the rear window until the carriage turned.
He was still standing in the street.
Good.
He had not followed.
That mattered more than she expected.
Clara Bellamy lived in three rooms above a bookseller near Russell Square.
She received Eliza with one look at the trunk and said:
“Man?”
Eliza blinked.
“What?”
“Whenever a woman arrives with luggage before luncheon, there is either a death or a man.”
“Both can happen.”
“Did someone die?”
“No.”
“Man.”
Clara nodded.
“Tea.”
That was the entire welcome.
Eliza loved her immediately all over again.
She stayed eleven days.
Not three.
Clara refused payment for the sofa.
Accepted money for coal.
Insisted those were different.
During those eleven days, Beatrice visited twice.
The first time she brought the intercepted letters.
All of them.
Eliza stared at the bundle.
“Did he read any?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“I watched him put them in my hands.”
Beatrice sat beside her.
“He is unbearable about honor now.”
“Now?”
“More than usual.”
Eliza smiled.
Then opened the first.
Julian’s handwriting.
Dear Eliza,
Yorkshire is wet, Bellows insists the river moved of its own accord, and I have spent six hours listening to two men argue over a stone wall neither of them built. I miss you.
She stopped.
Beatrice looked away politely.
Eliza continued.
Some letters were ordinary.
Weather.
Tenants.
A horse Beatrice would have hated.
A book Julian found and wanted Eliza’s opinion on.
Then the sixth.
I meant what I said in the library. I do not wish you to remain in Cavendish Row indefinitely as Beatrice’s companion. When I return, I intend to ask whether you will allow me to court you openly and properly, even if Mother behaves as though I have proposed to an actress in Covent Garden.
Eliza laughed.
Then cried.
Beatrice gave her a handkerchief.
“He predicted Mother poorly.”
Eliza wiped her face.
“Worse than an actress?”
“Much.”
The seventh letter:
I have been thinking about the practical problem, which you would accuse me of turning into a ledger if you were here. You must be free to refuse me without losing livelihood or lodging. Beatrice’s school may solve part of that if she can stop purchasing books long enough to afford chairs.
Eliza stopped again.
There.
Before the expulsion.
Before the confrontation.
He had seen it.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
The eighth:
I am coming home Thursday.
He had arrived Saturday.
The water-rights dispute delayed him.
The ninth apologized.
The tenth became worried because Eliza had not answered.
The eleventh:
Something is wrong. Beatrice’s last letter was unlike her, and yours have stopped. I leave at dawn regardless of settlement.
Eliza closed her eyes.
He had not abandoned her.
That did not erase what happened.
It changed the shape.
Beatrice said quietly:
“Do you love him?”
Eliza looked at her.
“What did I say about persuasion?”
“I am not persuading.”
“You are terrible at lying.”
“I learned from Mother.”
Eliza laughed.
Then regretted it.
Beatrice’s face became serious.