“Es ist selbstverständlich, Fräulein Morgenschein,” Rachel replied smoothly. It goes without saying, Miss Morgenschein. “My father wrote that your road from Vienna to Oxfordshire was not kind. I’m glad London has you at last.”
Deena sank into a cushioned chair, reticule balanced primly on her lap. John hesitated, then sat beside her, posture too careful for thirteen. Maisie smoothed her skirt and joined them.
Rachel poured tea, hands sure, not a drop spilled. “Your arrival was prepared for with care, Lady—” her gaze touched Maisie’s face, knowing—“Miss Morgenschein.”
The cup rattled once in Maisie’s saucer.Miss Morgenschein.A name erased in Vienna, spoken here like a kept secret. For the world, she was Eleanor Spencer. But under Rachel’s look, the truth felt close enough to touch—danger and relief in the same breath.
“Please call me Maisie.”I feel like I’m a living lie. All I wanted was a life with Faivish, with Father alive, with Deena safe beside me. And instead… this.
She lowered her eyes to the rim of her teacup, where the steam blurred her vision. Father had made her promise obedience, but he hadn’t seen what it cost her. He hadn’t seen her years of silence, her letters unsent, her heart left to guess if Faivish had searched for her and found nothing.
Rachel’s voice, low and deliberate, cut through her thoughts. “Your father made it clear why you needed an opportunity,” she said, lifting her cup with practiced elegance. “The men who hunted him would not hesitate to hunt you. That is why you had to disappear from one life in order to live another. I know the feeling all too well.”
Maisie’s breath caught; she couldn’t deny it. TheBurschenschafthad already stolen her father and were the reason Faivish had left Vienna. If they—or someone like them—discovered she lived, Deena would be the next to pay the price. And where else could they go? As long as she looked after John as Eleanor Spencer, she was safe and so was he.
Rachel set her cup down and reached across the space between them, her eyes steady. “I can imagine what’s in your heart because I lived in a similar situation. This isn’t hiding, my dear. This is about integration. Acceptance. Played correctly, your presence in London will mean survival—not just for you, but for those you love.”
Maisie blinked against the sting in her eyes. Survival. It was what she had traded everything for. But oh, the ache of all she had left behind—her father’s study still echoing withBurschenschaftshouts, Deena’s small cry in the night carriage, and Faivish who probably came to look for her and to find she’d never existed…
Acceptance. The word struck hard. Lacking it had cost her Vienna,cost her love. For the past five years, survival hadn’t looked like acceptance. It looked like disappearing. Pretending. Eleanor Spencer’s careful signature written in her stead.
“I seem to live better in other people’s lives than my own, Mrs. Pearler,” she murmured, the confession too quiet to be more than a passing thought—yet her hostess had heard.
“First of all, you must call me Rachel. And second, may I make an observation on your disguise?” Rachel asked, her voice slipping into something brisker. “Your papers tell a slightly different story than the one you lived.”
Because my life is a lie. Or at least it had been—since Vienna, since the funeral, since her father’s warning about Hofstätter’s powerful family, including the nephew whose name had been spoken as if it conjured the devil himself: Baron Wolfgang von List. If London society knew who she truly was, the Baron would see to her ruin—and John’s estate with it. It certainly had been a lie through the years in Oxfordshire, hidden away, impersonating the little marquess’ late aunt.
But Rachel’s gaze caught and held Maisie’s with a steadiness that felt almost disarming. There was no performance in her manner, no cruelty hidden behind kindness. Only recognition—the look of a woman who had endured and still stood upright. Maisie understood it in an instant. Rachel Pearler was not someone to fear. She was exactly what Father had promised: sharp, loyal, and unwilling to bend. Perhaps even a friend—if Maisie could dare trust herself with one. And now that she had come to London to keep John safe, she might finally have the chance.
“We are survivors,” Rachel said softly. “We do what is necessary when the law and society close their doors to us.” For a heartbeat her lips pressed flat, a flicker of old pain breaking through her poise. “Our truths may change shape for practicality’s sake, but they remain truths nonetheless. You’ve only borrowed this new name—worn it like awinter coat. As long as it shields you and those children, it has purpose. And purpose matters more than pride.”
Maisie nodded—a small motion, but it came from somewhere real. Her heart resisted the comfort, but her mind heard the sense in it.
Perhaps I’m not as alone as I thought.
John sat stiffly beside her, his hands folded too tightly in his lap. Maisie remembered the prayer she’d overheard from his lips the night before—that he might never be sent away from her. The memory pressed against her ribs now, tender and raw. His mother was gone, his father little more than a story. And soon a school would claim him, stripping away what little sense of home he had left. He leaned into her arm—just slightly, the instinctive tilt of a child needing anchor. Maisie laid her hand over his, trying to pour steadiness through her palm when inside she felt anything but steady.
Rachel’s demeanor softened when it fell on him. “You’ve been rather brave, young sir. But you must understand—Marquess of Spencer is not an ordinary title, and you are not an ordinary boy. The law will take notice of you. The Court of Chancery will appoint guardians—one for your estates, another for your person. Neither may be of your choosing.”
John’s mouth pulled tight. “But why can’t I just stay with Maisie? She’s kind. She keeps me safe.” His voice cracked, breaking the word, and Maisie’s grip on his hand tightened like a vow.
Deena leaned forward, her wide eyes fierce with urgency. “And if he wants to stay, surely that counts for something?”
Rachel’s sigh carried both compassion and resignation. “Not enough, I fear. The guardian of his estate will almost certainly be chosen for influence and wealth. And such men may see you, John, not as a boy to be loved but as property to be managed. The guardian of your person may be different—or the same—but either can bring the other before the Lord Chancellor. And so, it will be argued over you.”
“As though I were property?” John’s voice trembled with disbelief.
Silence fell, thick and bruising. John’s small fingers curled tighter around Maisie’s. The memory of his prayer rose again in her mind, and something inside her cracked. She wanted to scoop him into her arms, shield him with her body, cry out against the men who wrote laws without ever hearing a child sob in the dark. Instead, she only held him closer, her defiance pressed into the quiet, unyielding pressure of her hand on his.
“Do try thetea,” Rachel offered at last, handing Maisie a porcelain cup ringed with violets. “I dare say it will taste familiar.”
The floral scent curled upward, and Maisie’s breath caught. The jasmine was the same her father had brought home from Rachel’s father’s trade—sharp, fragrant, memory-laced. Maisie blinked quickly and raised the cup.
“It’s jasmine tea,” Rachel said gently. “My father always claimed it was the finest. Yours certainly seemed to agree.”
“He did,” Maisie replied, her voice steady, though her fingers trembled. The taste was a memory in liquid form—sweet and bitter, like all good things lost.
Rachel leaned back, her expression warm. “I always wished we’d met sooner. My father spoke of yours so often. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you at last. And your sister.” Her eyes darted to Deena. “She’s lovely, you know. Quite the picture of your family. My father said you were the image of your mother as a child and he was inconsolable when she died. She was my father’s only living cousin.”
