Losing her parents, and in such a horrific way, had beendevastating. But they had lived some of their life. They’d found love and experienced many wonderful things, but not Henry. His life had been cruelly cut short through no fault of his own.
“I want to visit the pyramids, Lizzie, but especially the smallest one. The Pyramid of Mycerinus.”
She remembered how he’d said that during one of the last conversations they’d had. They’d often talked of their dreams and how he wanted her to go with him to Egypt. Eliza had vowed she would.
Lizzie had been the name he’d called her from the day he was old enough to talk.
She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed for what she’d lost and the life she’d had to live without the people she loved most in the world.
The tap on her door came a short while later. Eliza was still weeping. She hadn’t allowed herself to do that for a long time. Couldn’t allow it. She’d had to continue living, even as she’d wondered if not doing so was the better option for her.
Her parents had not raised her to give up when facing adversity, but there were times during those first years when grief had wanted her to do just that.
The tap sounded again.
“I will be down shortly,” Eliza called.
She heard the footsteps recede and then was alone again as she’d been for many years. Looking around the room she loved, it suddenly felt too enclosed. Eliza needed air.
Regaining her feet, she reached for the gloves she’d tugged off and saw the book. The one her father used to read her. It was on her nightstand.
Mungo,Eliza thought. No one else had seen her reading it in Nicholson’s Book Store.
But why had he purchased it for her?
Forcing down yet more emotion, she left the room,making her way back downstairs. She grabbed her outer clothing, quickly pulled it on, and then let herself silently out the door, leaving the hum of voices, still discussing how to find those poor missing girls, behind her.
The cold air was welcome on her damp, hot cheeks. Stuffing her gloved hands into her pockets, she struck out for the grass, and once there, she headed for the rotunda.
Climbing the stairs, Eliza found two people inside.
“I’m sorry?—”
“There is room for more than two people in here, Miss Downing,” Mr. Greedy said.
To her astonishment, Mavis Johns and Mr. Greedy were seated on the floor with their legs crossed—no easy feat when they were both wrapped in layers of wool and petticoats, their hands joined solemnly together as if preparing for a séance.
“I will leave you to your prayer,” Eliza said.
“Meditation, Miss Downing.” Mr. Greedy gestured calmly, entirely unbothered by the frigid conditions London was experiencing. “Come, sit. You look as if you, too, could use some relief from your thoughts.”
How was he down there at his age, folded like laundry on a scullery table?
“What is meditation?” Eliza asked instead of confessing that he had judged her state of mind accurately.
“In the old teachings, meditation was described as the quieting of a restless mind. Scholars spoke of it not as instruction but as an ancient understanding that when one gentles the turmoil of thoughts and emotion, clarity rises, and a rare, enduring peace follows.”
Enduring peace sounded lovely—and as distant as the summer months to Eliza right then.
“Sit,” Mavis barked, sounding like a drill sergeant.
Mr. Greedy patted the space beside him on the blanket.
Eliza contemplated running, and she had plenty of reasons to do so after the day she’d had. A gentle tug on her sleeve urged her downward. She yielded.
“Gloves,” Mavis barked.
She loathed taking off her gloves and anyone seeing her hand, but Mavis and Mr. Greedy weren’t looking directly at her, and it was dark and dismal out here. She tugged them off and stuffed them into her pocket.
