Deena flushed and toyed with her sleeve, but Maisie reached over to squeeze her hand. “You are very kind.”
“Nonsense.” Rachel waved the words away, though her expression softened. “Tell me, how are you settling in? Comfortable in your new home?”
“We’ve been fortunate,” Maisie answered cautiously. “The youngmarquess inherited a fine house, and for now, we have the means to manage it.”
“Then let me tell you how youmustmanage it,” Rachel said briskly. She cleared her throat, and a footman appeared with a leather binder. Rachel passed it directly to Maisie.
“My father tells me he knew yours well,” Rachel said, turning to the young marquess. “Stonefield was a man of principle. He went to Vienna to speak on behalf of those your universities and guilds would not admit—to give voice where none was wanted. That kind of courage makes enemies. He didn’t deserve to leave England as he did.”
“No,” the boy said quietly. He swallowed hard. “It made my mother sick with grief. She died last winter while I was at school in Kent.”
Maisie’s hand stilled over the leather binder. There it was again—grief stitched into the boy’s posture, into the silence between his words. She looked at Deena, and the familiar guilt returned. Her sister deserved more than this life of pretending to be her companion. Not for lack of comforts—they had more than they ever imagined—but because they had lost their names. Their truth.
And how could fate find them, when they were hiding from it?
“My condolences,” Rachel said, her voice a gentle thread. “You’re orphaned too young.” She didn’t rush the moment. Even her silence felt deliberate, gracious. Maisie saw then what made Rachel formidable—not force, but presence.
“Thank you. I shall go to Eton soon,” the boy added, as if reciting lines rehearsed alone.
“That is good,” Rachel said. “My husband often speaks of his time at Eton. Rare for a Jew to attend, but he passed unnoticed. The friendships he made there shaped his future.”
Maisie managed a small smile. She still said nothing, too aware of the line they walked. The house was the marquess’ in name, but he had no control. Deena, the companion of a dead woman, had no legalidentity. It was all so fragile.
Rachel’s gaze didn’t waver. She spoke with a steadiness that felt almost like a hand extended across the table. “You and Deena are welcome here—Shabbat, holidays, or simply to rest. Let our fathers’ friendship continue with us.”
Maisie’s throat tightened. “I should like that very much.” The words came out quieter than she meant, and she hated how needy they sounded. Five years in Oxfordshire had kept them safe, yes—but safe was not the same as seen.
Rachel smiled, the kind that softened the sharp lines of her face. “Good. Then as your friend”—the word landed deliberately, as though Rachel knew exactly what it cost Maisie to hear it—“let me give you the tools to thrive.”
She drew a thick binder across the table. Its leather edges were worn smooth, the pages crammed with notes in several hands. “These will help you inhabit Lady Eleanor Spencer in London. My mother-in-law and I gathered what you’ll need—names, timelines, mannerisms. Enough that anyone who might have known Eleanor before she vanished into the country will find no reason to doubt you.”
Maisie opened it, the paper crackling faintly under her fingers. Lines of ink. Birth dates. Clubs. Servants’ names. The sort of details that made up a life. Her voice felt dry as she read aloud: “Born 1788. So much younger than the Marquess…”
“Yes,” Rachel said, her smile thinning. “That marriage was… complicated.”
Maisie flipped a page. “She moved to Reading? With her governess?”
Rachel poured tea as she spoke, her hand steady, her tone measured. “She withdrew. Preferred solitude. And no longer cared about the scandals.”
A strange chill traced Maisie’s ribs. This was the life she must step into—another woman’s retreat, another woman’s shame.
“She caused a scandal?” The question slipped out, hushed.
Rachel glanced toward John before answering. “She was disappointed in love. Society punished her. She chose to disappear at Greys Court. You’ll need to know it well.”
Maisie nodded. She hadn’t even been there.
“So I am to become Eleanor Spencer.” This time, she didn’t flinch—though her hands curled into her skirts under the table.
John shifted beside her, brightening with a sudden thought. “My aunt had dogs. Terriers. Mother liked them best.” His voice carried a spark Maisie hadn’t heard in weeks.
Rachel seized it. “Then learn everything about terriers. It is the small details, Maisie, that anchor a truth.”
Maisie’s chest pinched. Eleanor Spencer—a name sewn onto her like an ill-fitting gown. She had already abandoned Maisie Morgenschein once. And yet, when she looked at John’s eager face, flushed with pride at remembering, she knew she would do it again. For him, she would wear the mask.
Rachel’s eyes softened. “As Eleanor, you can stand between him and men who would use him. If you remain Maisie, they’ll sweep you both aside.”
The words fell into silence. John leaned into her arm, his small fingers knotting into her sleeve, and she laid her hand over his. His whispered prayer from last night returned to her—Please, let me stay with Maisie.
