Sabine bit her lip and then said, “Neither.”
The maid went away, looking unconvinced, and Sabine slipped upstairs to her own bed an hour later.
Despite Stoker’s distinction of “non-terrible,” Sabine managed to avoid his presence for the next four days. Perry’s household contributions allowed more freedom to Harley, and he managed the meals that she had formerly overseen.
It felt cowardly to stay away, not to mention duplicitous—she veritably sprinted past his half-open bedroom door when she came and went—and for all practical purposes her dog was lost to her. Bridget had taken up full-time residence in Stoker’s bed, and Sabine dare not retrieve her. But she was not yet ready to face him.
On the second day after the kiss, they received a letter, at long last, from Joseph Chance, Stoker’s second partner in business. In short, the letter apologized profusely but claimed Joseph could not possibly travel to London due to the impending birth of his and Tessa’s third child.
Sabine added the letter—which had been addressed to them both—to the other mail on Stoker’s meal tray and allowed Harley to deliver it with his supper.
On the fourth day Sabine lit on an intriguing lead in the investigation of Sir Dryden, and she was out of the house, first to snoop around the laboratories of the new Royal Polytechnic Institution in Regent Street, then to observe a charcoal kiln in Hampstead.
If Sabine missed sharing meals with Stoker, checking on his condition, and discussing her investigation, especially these two new leads, she did not miss it so much that she was prepared to actually face him. She simply wasn’t yet ready. She continued to mull over every ramification and possibility in her mind. And she still blushed at the memory of what they’d done. She would take it up with him personally very soon. Not yet, but soon.
On the fifth day after the kiss, the day she vowed she would, absolutely, without a doubt, return to Stoker’s room, Mary Boyd sent a note asking Sabine to make time for tea in her attic workshop.
The note surprised and worried Sabine, because a formal invitation from the Boyds was very rare. Sabine came and went from the Boyds’ house as she pleased, and the middle-aged couple—both of them busy artisans in their own right—did the same. They shared an evening meal four or five nights a week, but with no expectations, and Sabine could never remember making time in the middle of the day for tea, certainly not since Tessa and Willow had moved away.
Sabine allowed Perry to dress her carefully. She’d grown perhaps too familiar and casual around the Boyds. It showed lack of respect and ingratitude, especially in a home as stylish and well-appointed as Belgrave Square. Sabine rehearsed excuses or alternatives she might offer if, for some reason, Mary announced that she and Arthur had grown weary of housing a half-dead sea captain in their cellar apartment or (her greater fear) that they could no longer spare Harley the footman to assist in his care.
The date of Stoker’s arrival—some three weeks ago—weighed heavy on her mind. Was this reasonable? How long could a recuperating husband lodge in the borrowed cellar bedroom of his estranged wife? The circumstances were simply so odd. No hosts could be more generous than the Boyds, and Sabine did not wish to take advantage.
Not yet,Sabine thought, watching in the mirror as Perry piled her hair ever higher on top of her head.Not yet, not yet, not yet.The words spun in the back of her mind.
Despite Sabine’s avoidance, despite the imposition he might pose to an already generous family, she could not stop thinking it.
Not yet.
He’s not well enough. I’ve not finished collaborating with him yet. I need more time. I need—
Not. Yet.
“Thank you so much, my dear, for coming,” called Mary as Sabine climbed the winding stairwell to the attic studio.
“I don’t know why we don’t do this more often,” said Sabine, looking around the cluttered workshop of furniture, mirrors, and art. She went on, “I so rarely make time for a proper afternoon tea these days. What a treat to indulge.”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s proper, not in the clutter of the attic,” said Mary, stepping back to squint at the curved leg of an upturned chair. “But the topic at hand warrants informality. The parlor would never do. Too stuffy.”
Sabine stopped ambling, unprepared for the woman’s bluntness. “Oh dear,” she said, recovering, “that bad, is it?”
“Oh no, ’tis not bad at all,” cooed Mary, returning to the chair leg and massaging it with a cloth. “Forgive me if I’m distracted. I can’t seem to get this stain exactly right.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s too red.”
The woman wet the cloth with fresh stain from an open pot and applied it to the shiny wood, rubbing firm, circular strokes. Sabine fixed what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face and watched in miserable, impatient silence.
After what felt like an eternity, Mary Boyd said, “I’ve a letter here from Willow.” She nodded to an open envelope on the workbench behind her.
“Willow?” repeated Sabine. She stared at the letter, immediately recognizing the regal stationery of her friend’s Yorkshire castle. “Is she... well?”
“Oh yes, quite well, but she’s very worried, I’m afraid—about you. Will you sit?” Mary gestured to a sofa and Sabine wound her way through stacks of furniture and lowered herself into the seat.
“Worried about me?” There was a tea trolley beside the sofa, and Sabine began to pour. “She’s sent Perry to look after me.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “Perry. How lucky for us all.” She looked up from the chair to wink at Sabine.
