I don’t believe you could be a terrible person. We may not have met but I feel as though I know you, and I am rarely wrong about a person’s character. Envy consumes us all at times. I would love to tell you that all will be well but without knowing your situation, all I can promise is that there are many types of happiness. Yours may not be like your brother’s, but a different happiness will present itself and you will be just as fulfilled.
As for something you do not yet know about me: I love flowers almost as much as I love books—peonies if I have to choose just one type—and I am drawn to color. I cannot help it. I’ll often get distracted mid-conversation by the flash of a goldfinch or the pop of green and violetwhere flowers grow sneakily in corners. Last night was a riot of hues, then I stepped outside where the streets looked pallid.
Last year I journeyed two days to see the sun rise at Ramsgate. The sea was as gray as slate and just as unwelcoming until the first few rays crept over the horizon. Then the water and sky were as lovers in that first blush of romance, sending bursts of pinks and purples washing over each other. Watching color bleed into the world made my heart full. Grays softened into browns and blues and greens. You must visit, if your commitments release you. At the very least, you should stand in the middle of Waterloo Bridge—not in the traffic, mind you—and watch the sun rise over the Thames. It is magical.
Of course, enjoying a London twilight depends on which end of my day I am experiencing it. It is one thing to embrace the bustling streets as I launch into the morning. It is quite another to be dragging myself to bed at such an hour, as was the case this morning. I witnessed the sunrise briefly as I climbed into a carriage and then shut the curtains on it hoping for a few minutes’ rest. I have at least a month of these horrendous hours ahead of me.
In West Africa, they talk of zombies—corpses revived by witchcraft—and that is what I fear I’ll turn into soon. I keep reminding myself that it is a price I choose to pay.
—Booklover
Chapter Nine
He was ridiculous. Holding Booklover’s latest missive to his nose was sappy. Far from dukelike. Yet it was comforting, and as he inhaled, he was rewarded with the faintest of scents. It was a flower of some kind—orange blossoms, perhaps—and strangely familiar.
The paperwork he was supposed to be catching up on remained in his satchel as he stared out the carriage window. He rarely took note of St James’s Park on his way to Westminster. He tried to imagine how it would look through Booklover’s eyes in the wee hours of the morning. There would be fewer people. It might be safe to visit at that hour.
Walking through the park during the day was risky. One couldn’t get fifty feet without being stopped. What should have been a brisk half-hour walk from his home to Westminster Abbey had become more than two hours the one time he’d braved it, and he hadn’t even gotten halfway. Jac and Winnie had gossiped with every person they’d met. Peter’s cheeks had burned from the smile he’d been forced to maintain.
But at dawn, with a warm coat and Booklover for company, it might be delightful.
As the carriage passed Admiralty House, he spied a flowercart on the corner. He rapped on the ceiling without prior thought, and the carriage came to a stop. A footman opened the door and Peter stepped into the sun. He crossed the road to where the florist was calling out to passersby, waving a bright posy.
“Do you deliver?” Peter asked, his heartbeat quickening. He’d never bought flowers for anyone but his sisters, and he wasn’t quite ready to examine his motivations for doing so.
“Yes, milord. I deliver for the right price.”
“I’d like some of those ones.” Peter pointed to something soft and pink. “And those there.” The roses were yellow and perhaps an odd pairing with the pink, but they were colorful. “And this.” He brushed a deep red peony. “Please deliver them to the post office by Piccadilly Circus tomorrow morning, before the sun comes up. Tell them the Duke of Strafford said to forward it on immediately.” Before the florist could object to such an early hour, Peter pulled out a handful of coins, far more than the flowers were worth, and pressed them into the man’s hands.
Booklover would come home from tonight’s nighttime activity to some color.
Then he strode back to the carriage before he could rethink the action.
“So, what is it like?” Mabel asked the moment Eleanor had placed the last sort into the composing stick and handed it to Mabel to be put into the chase, ready to be inked. “You have been frustratingly reticent these past few days.”
Eleanor tried to stifle a yawn. Lady Wharton was over seventy. Eleanor had expected her chaperoning duties to be done by midnight. Instead, the dragon gossiped until dawn.
Now, it was Monday, her one regular shift atThe Times. Thepaper was printed Monday nights and sold on Tuesdays. Eleanor was hired to finish any articles the regular compositors had been too slow to set. If she had been tight-lipped that morning, it was because her brain was sluggish and she’d needed to concentrate more than usual. Mabel had found four mistakes, and Eleanor hated making mistakes. You couldn’t be the best when you made errors.“Oh, Eleanor…”
She shook herself. Working dayandnight over the next few weeks promised to be more difficult than she’d expected, but hard work was what made a person.
“Balls aren’t unlike the assemblies we attend, except the food is better, the clothing is extraordinarily beautiful, and I don’t dance. I fetch Lady Wharton’s shawl, fetch her lemonade, and entertain her when she’s bored.”
“So, a companion is no more than a personal servant?”
Eleanor shrugged and did a cursory check of her case to ensure nothing was out of place. “When Lady Wharton tires of her friends’ conversation, we take turns about the room, during which she points out the various people that inspire the characters in her novels. I doubt she’d share that with a servant. So, I guess that puts me in a strange middle place?” She flipped the lid and latched the case.
“Well, I’m sorry that it is so dull, Eleanor. I hope her novel proves as successful as Sophie anticipates to make this worth your effort.” Mabel plucked her purse from beneath her stool.
“It is worth it. At least, it will be.” The more Eleanor observed and listened, the more confident she was that thetonwould devour Lady Wharton’s novel and demand another. Sophie would deliver the most popular book of the year, and Eleanor would have the satisfaction of walking past it onbookstore shelves knowing she’d been instrumental in its success. “But the balls aren’t completely dull. The Duke of Strafford has been at one, at least.”
Lillian’s mouth dropped open. “Eleanor, how are you only telling us this now? Does his face match his character? What does a dastardly ruiner look like? I imagine ghoulish.”
“Yes. And did you give him a piece of your mind?” Mabel asked, linking arms with Lillian as they made their way through the print room.
It was heartening to hear them share her distaste for the man. Yes, hewasa villain. “I didn’t actually meet him, or even see him, but karma has come for him already. He is being hunted. Hopefully dodging fate will derail his attempt to destroy an entire industry.”
As they pushed through the double doors, Eleanor heard her name called.
