He gave a faint nod as the clerk stepped away.
Maisie might have changed her name, but sister to a marquess?That wasn’t just a disguise. That was a reinvention.Impossible.
Alfie watched him, one brow lifted. “Not quite the reunion you were hoping for, eh?”
Felix didn’t answer. His thoughts looped, one over the next, spiraling like smoke in the still air. His heart hadn’t caught up. Not yet.
But had he imagined it? The resemblance and the flicker of something familiar?
Had longing conjured a mirage indeed? Or had fate delivered one morealmost? It didn’t matter. Whether it was Maisie or not, the moment had hooked itself into him like a barb. And it wouldn’t let go of him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The carriage wheelsrattled over the gravel, each clack crisp in the cool autumn air. Maisie watched John’s lean form beside her—his hands tucked under his thighs, posture too steady for thirteen years. Still, the way his boots shifted and tapped betrayed a nervous energy she couldn’t quite smooth.
“Maisie,” he spoke, pitched with uncertainty, “do you think they’ll have pudding every Sunday at Eton?”
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and let a soft smile touch her lips. “I should think so. Their cook must be practiced. Maybe even lemon tart.”
John’s brow furrowed, as if weighing the gravity of a lemon tart on the fate of the world. “Do you think I’ll like lemon tart? We didn’t have it—Mother didn’t care for lemon.”
Maisie brushed the thought aside gently. “If you don’t,” she started slowly, “there’ll always be bread and butter. That you do like.”
John’s slight nod held something stronger—she sensed courage blooming in him. His head tilted, wide-eyed with the next question. “Do you think the other boys get letters and sweets from their mums? If they do, can I send you letters?”
Deena snorted from across the carriage. “We’re not sending you sweets,” she said, tone firm but fond. “You’ll ruin your teeth.”
Maisie leaned in, bristling with maternal warmth. “She might beright. But yes—you can write. I promise I’ll always write back.”
Deena’s eyes softened. “Me too,” she added quietly, and Maisie caught that tug of familial companionship with such simple elegance.
John’s half-smile came slowly. His fidget eased. Maisie glimpsed Deena’s playful eye roll, but the softness in her smile couldn’t be hidden.
“We’re each other’s family,” Maisie said. She stretched out her hands, and John clambered closer to rest a gentle hug against her shoulder. “Might as well behave like one.”
They crested a rise. Eton’s sprawl unfolded below: golden stone buildings rising quietly, the river glinting as if tied with light itself.
That must be your dormitory, Maisie thought, shading her eyes. The rows of identical windows looked like puzzle pieces, waiting to be solved. “That building with all the windows—your dorms, I think.”
John pressed his nose to the glass. “It’s huge,” he breathed. “Bigger than our entire townhouse.”
Deena’s attention had drifted, her gaze fixed on a group of older boys scurrying across the quad—their shirts already smattered with grass.
“Strong and handsome, don’t you think?” Maisie teased, leaning into gentle mischief.
Deena wrinkled her nose, lips twitching as though choosing her words carefully. “They’re seventeen, nearly men,” she said, voice edged with matronly concern. “They’re being groomed for governance.”
Maisie bit backa laugh. “Already? Parliament? I suppose those grass stains must be signs of diplomatic experience.”
But Deena wasn’t playing along. Her gaze stayed fixed on the older boys outside, a quiet curiosity flickering across her face. Maisie followed her line of sight—more thoughtfully now—but her focus shifted back to John, to the boy sitting beside her trying so hard toappear unshaken.
When they arrived, Maisie was careful not to linger. Goodbyes, she’d learned, should be steady. No hesitation or lingering glances. Just enough warmth to hold onto, but not so much that it pulls the child back.
The headmaster met them with polite reserve, his words practiced, his handshake brief. Maisie crouched to John’s level, smoothing the lapel of his uniform jacket as she met his eyes.
“Write every week,” she said softly, steadying her voice. “The post here is reliable. And if you need anything, anything at all, we’ll send it straight away.”
John’s lips twitched. “And if what I need is to come home?”
