They’d stood in the same draughty corridor as Mrs. Holton shuffled papers and called names in a brisk voice.
“You here for the governess post?” Sylvie had whispered, sliding closer. “Or maid?”
“Governess,” Eliza had whispered back. “If anyone will have me.”
“Well, we’ll see that they do.” Sylvie had nodded as if thatsettled the matter, and somehow the weight of uncertainty had lifted, just a fraction.
Later that day, with their prospects no better than they’d been that morning, they’d both found their way to Miss Dot’s Lodging House For Young Ladies. There had been only one room available.
“Do you snore?” Sylvie had demanded the moment they were shown into the narrow hallway, turning to Eliza as if she’d known her forever.
Eliza had blinked. “I… I don’t believe so.”
“Good, me either. Or so my sisters said.” She’d then turned to Miss Dot, the landlady, and announced, “We’ll take it together, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”
Miss Dot had peered at them over her spectacles. “You friends, then?”
“For many years,” Sylvie had lied without blinking. “It’s a very solid acquaintance.”
And that had been that.
They’d spent their first night lying stiffly side by side on the narrow bed, blankets pulled up to their chins, strangers bound by necessity and the mutual terror of ending the day with nowhere to go. Eliza had stared into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house settling, to someone laughing downstairs, to Sylvie’s soft little huffs of breath.
On the second night, when the silence had grown too heavy, Sylvie had said into the darkness, “I still believe in happy endings, you know. Even if it’s hard to see them from here.”
Eliza had turned her head on the pillow. “Happy endings are for stories, Sylvie.”
“Stories have to come from somewhere,” her friend had said stubbornly. “Someone had to have experienced them first.”
They’d debated that point for hours, whispering so as notto disturb any other residents, as the walls were thin. Sylvie had refused to surrender her belief in something better. Eliza had refused to trust in anything she could not hold in her hands.
It had been Sylvie who had given her the final push to take the position at the Nightingales when it had arisen, and so soon after leaving her last.
“Stop worrying, all will go well,” Sylvie said.“Go. Teach their girls to curtsy and hold a fan and avoid idiots like Lord Whatever-his-name-was. And if it doesn’t work out, you can come back, Eliza. But this is for the best now, and you can forget about what nearly happened that night. I know you’ve been having nightmares, because I’ve heard you whimpering. This is a fresh start. Take it with both hands.”
Eliza shivered just thinking about what could have happened had that man not stepped in to help her.
“Always remember this is your home,” Sylvie added.
Sylvie’s words echoed in her head like a promise she wanted desperately to believe. This would always be her home, but hopefully, for a while, she could be happy somewhere else.
Eliza bent over the bed, fastening the straps of her bag. It was sad, really, that everything she owned fit inside it. Some plain shifts, two serviceable dresses, three pairs of worn gloves, as she wore them all the time, a shawl, a small packet of letters, and the very few trinkets that had belonged to her mother. She shut off that thought, because if Eliza allowed herself to think too long of the house where they’d all lived and laughed and then died, the memories would threaten to drop her to her knees.
Not today.
She took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders.
“I think Tommy will propose tonight,” Eliza said becauseit was easier to talk about Sylvie’s happiness than her own loss. “Or Mr. Stanley, I should say, if we’re being proper.”
“He’d better do it soon.” Sylvie sniffed. “I didn’t waste all that time letting him court me in the park only to be left without a ring when the nights turn cold. Now, I have your new address, so I’ll send a note with the confirmation when he does. ‘Dear Miss Eliza Downing, I am officially betrothed. You can picture me wearing a ring too fine for the likes of me.’”
“You’ll deserve every sparkle,” Eliza said, managing a genuine smile this time.
Sylvie rose and smoothed her skirts, then fussed with the bodice of Eliza’s gray dress. “Stand still. Honestly, it’s like dressing a nervous foal. Now, I’ve repaired those boring dresses of yours, so they’ll last you a while longer.”
Eliza looked down the length of her gray skirts, the fabric sturdy and plain. “Not boring,” she said. “Efficient.”
“A little lace, Eliza?—”
