“Are you all right?” Beatrix asks.
He sighs. “Time’s up.”
“Oh.” Her heart sinks, but of course the night has to end. It always does.
His frown grows deeper. “I don’t want to go. You know that, right?”
She looks up at him. “You’d stay if you could?”
He nods.
“Then I suppose you’d better go.” She forces a smile. “So you can come back.”
As if it were her choice, a decision she has any power over.
February 3, 1814London, England
A hollow knock sounds through Beatrix’s door. She drags herself from the warm bed and quickly pulls on last night’s clothes, bracing herself for the shouting that always follows. There is only another polite knock. She fastens her dress and pulls open her door. “I’m so sorry,” she blurts to the wide-eyed girl standing on her threshold. “I’ll be out in a moment, I just need to collect my things.”
The girl pushes a breakfast tray into Beatrix’s hands, knocking her off-balance. “Room’s been paid for the week, miss.” She turns away and scurries down the stairs. Beatrix stares after her, too stunned to call her thanks.
She manages to close her door without spilling the tea. She carries the tray over to the table next to the hearth, still warm from last night’s fire. A single page is tented next to the teapot. She recognizes the shape of her name in Oliver’s blocky handwriting.Bea. A secret shared between only them. It makes her heart swell.
She unfolds the note, skims the message scrawled across the dotted page. Maybe it would answer all the questions running through her mind—making her head swim—if she could read any of it. She recognizes the numbers. A date. Is it an invitation to meet him?
Another thud sounds against Beatrix’s door, and she rushes to pull it open. The maid has returned, this time with an armful of books. “These have just arrived for you, miss.” Her round cheeks have turned rosy from another trip up the steep staircase.
Beatrix takes the stack from her. “What are these?”
The maid shrugs. “Look like books to me, miss.”
She can see that. “I mean, what are they for?”
“That’s none of my business,” the girl says. “Gentleman last nightarranged it. Strange fellow. He said to bring ’em here when they arrived, so that’s what I’m doing.”
This time, Beatrix manages a thank-you before the maid turns away.
She stacks the books carefully next to her breakfast tray.
The first is a thin tome covered in dark green cloth. She flips through the pages, filled with bold letters and single words. The next book is larger, its pages printed with drawings and short phrases. The third one has no pictures at all.
She thumbs through every book before placing it neatly in her pile, each one heavier than the last. She picks up Oliver’s note. He left it for her, even though he knows she can’t read his words.
Yet.
His letter is more than an invitation to meet him, more than a promise he will return, though the thought of both sends her heart racing. It’s a challenge.
Beatrix pulls the faded armchair out of the corner and pushes it up to the table. She sinks into it, curls her legs underneath her, and chooses the book from the top of the pile, the green one with the bold letters she is sure must saycatin it somewhere.
She pours herself a cup of tea and turns to the first page.
November 16, 1817Lancaut, England
It happened so suddenly that Beatrix knew it must have happened slowly.
Too slowly to notice, to cause alarm, to repair the damage, until the day it threatened to sink her. A single detail she should have known—has always known—until she no longer did.
She has forgotten the door to St. James’s.
