Her heart stopped, and she swallowed hard. It could be fromany number of people. There was no reason to think it was the Captain when she’d not heard from him in weeks.
Except it was the same rag-paper envelope, and his same neat handwriting. Despite everything that had happened, her heart clattered in the same chaotic way. There was no telling what the letter would contain. An apology? An explanation? A goodbye? A request to be bailed out of prison? What did she evenwantit to say?
Shethwacked the magazine harder as she took the letter. By the time she reached her room, her thigh smarted. She threwThe Ladyon the table by the door and tore open the envelope, holding her breath as she inhaled his words.
Could they?she thought, collapsing onto the sofa.Was it possible to go back in time as though the past weeks hadn’t happened?She reached for the gin bottle that had recently made its home on the coffee table.
His departure had hurt—deeply. It had been as great a loss as everything else. But it had hurt because their connection had been real. It had hurt because for the first time, she could imagine living with a man and having that add something to her life, rather than be a burden.
They could have sat together on the sofa reading quietly and taken turns making tea. They could have gone on long walks through the city talking about history and politics. She would have had someone to go to the zoo with who was as interested in the signs as they were in the animals. She could have laughed at the stories that he told out loud rather than on paper.
Never had someone hurt her as deeply as he had, and the thought of opening herself up to that same hurt was terrifying.What if he did it again? What if whatever fear had caused him to leave once caused him to leave again?
But what if they could still have a wonderful life together, and she lost an opportunity for happiness because she couldn’t face more pain?
She pressed her lips together and stared at Baskerville, looking for assurance that her decision was correct before she committed to it. He could give her none. She had to risk making a mistake.
She tugged at the ribbon on her wrist. The watered silk retained its sheen all these weeks later. That she still wore it was the answer to her question. Theywouldgo back in time. If she was willing to ask the universe to give her another shot at success, she could give him a second chance.
She crossed to her desk and rolled it open. A piece of notepaper already lay there, a pencil next to it, because the habit of him had never disappeared.
Dear Captain,
Maybe we can travel back in time. Has your science fiction shown you a way to do so? If not, should we simply move forward instead?
Sadly, I have done nothing of particular interest in recent weeks, but I have Sunday free. Perhaps after I meet my friends for lunch, I will go to the museum. It has been too long.
What will you be doing? Maybe we will pass each other without knowing. Fate has funny ways of doing that.
Life was marginally better drunk. Of course, she’d probably be a more efficient packer if she was sober, but the gin-haze dulled the pain of having to pack in the first place. Lillian and Mabel’s landlord had a spare room. It was the size of a shoebox with a shared bathroom and kitchen along with a strict no-visitors policy. But the rent was a quarter of her mortgage, and reading Lady Wharton’s manuscripts was the only guaranteed income coming. She wouldn’t be able to fund her lifestyle for much longer, so it was better to downsize now.
She clambered up off the floor and stumbled to the kitchen bench, kicking her toe against one of the trunks that had been delivered that day.
“Ow.” She groaned as she snatched the half-empty gin bottle from the bench. Her foot would hurt even more tomorrow. Best to numb it now.
With another full drink in hand, she turned to survey her progress, which was not really progress at all. There was a pile by the door of things to sell or donate, mostly composed of knickknacks, crockery, and cushions. The pile really should be bigger than it was, but every time she added a book, or a dress, or a painting, it remained on the heap for less than ten minutes before it was snatched back and thrown onto the “keep” pile.
In what world could she let go of the beautiful things that brought her so much joy? But, unless the room at Miss Penner’s Boarding House for Respectable Women had a secret door that led to a much bigger living space, most of her beautiful things would need to be given away.
She avoided looking at one corner—the space where her fonts were stored. There were dozens and dozens of them, in different styles and different sizes. The wooden boxes were stacked neatly and clearly labeled, each printed with the font stored inside it. Some of those boxes had belonged to her grandfather and great-grandfather. Generations collected this one specific thing. The corner contained decades of history, and there would be no room or use for it.
She gulped down more gin, the movement catching her off balance, and she swayed.
There was a knock at the door. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispered. Her headthunked against the wall by the window as she flattened herself against it, even though the knock had come from the hallway and not from outside her fourth-story flat.
She was not in a state to see anyone. Belatedly, she realized gin had slopped down the side of her hand. She licked it off. There was another knock. More insistent this time.
“I’m not here,” she called. For a heartbeat, there was silence, and then another knock.
“You have the wrong flat.”
Knock, knock.
“Deliveries can be left downstairs.”
Knock, knock, knock.
Eleanor huffed and marched to the door with only a slight wobble and flung it open. “There is no one ho—” Her mouth snapped shut. The duke was in front of her. What the devil was he doing here?
