Love he would want his children to have. She stacks the books in her arms. The maids will turn over her rooms tomorrow, and Mrs. Winfield will lock the doors until someone more suitable can be hired. But tonight, they are all busy with their party. Tonight, the children have nogoverness. She smiles to herself. A golden opportunity for mischief they won’t be able to pass up.
A letter slides off the table. Beatrix stoops to pick it up, and the sender’s address catches her eye. Tintern. She flips it over in her hand. It hasn’t even been opened.
Quick footsteps sound down the hall. A maid, probably, come to make sure she’s gone. She slips the letter into her coat pocket and pulls open the library door. The hall is empty now; the servant has scurried back to the party. She closes the door behind her, locks it, and drops the key into her pocket.
Beatrix bundles the books under her coat and steps out into the cool spring evening. Oliver sits on the edge of the stone fountain in the middle of the drive. He stands when he spots her approaching.
“Everything all right?”
“There’s something I need to take care of before we go,” she says, setting off across the lawn. Oliver falls into step beside her. She pulls open her coat to show him the stack of books. “I need to put these somewhere safe for the children.”
They reach the abandoned shed at the edge of the garden, and Beatrix is glad to find it locked. “Hold these,” she says, passing the pile of books to Oliver.
He balances them against his chest, her bag still in his other hand. “This is your somewhere safe?”
She reaches into the bun twisted at the back of her head and pulls out a brass hairpin. One benefit of her unruly hair: She always has an ample supply. “Didn’t you ever have a place of your own as a child? No adults, no worries?”No whispers.
The corner of Oliver’s mouth lifts. “My friend Luke had a tree house in his backyard, growing up. We’d spend entire weekends there during the summer. We even had a secret code to get in.”
Beatrix stoops in front of the door and inserts her hairpin into the lock. “And I bet it was the best place to keep your treasures.”
“I don’t think I’d call them treasures,” he says with a grimace. “Are you picking that lock?”
“Yes,” Beatrix says. She doesn’t look up from her work.
“Why do you know how to pick a lock?”
“I made a bet with a locksmith a few years back. Drank his friend under the table, but he didn’t want to pay up. He thought I cheated, all things considered,” she says, gesturing to herself. “I bet him double or nothing he couldn’t pick a lock with my hairpin, which he gladly did. He even explained exactly how he did it.” The lock clicks and she grins up at Oliver. “He thought he won.”
Beatrix ducks her head and steps into the darkened shed. It smells of damp earth and linseed oil. There’s an old quilt in the corner and a pair of dirty teacups on the potting bench, a crumpled stack of broadsides that Beatrix is sure Victor fished out of a rubbish bin stashed beneath it.
Oliver shakes his head. “I thought the hairpin thing only worked in movies.”
Beatrix pushes the pin back into her hair. “What’s a movie?”
“It’s sort of like a play, but you watch moving pictures on a screen instead of people on a stage,” Oliver says. “They’re cheaper and more popular than going to the theater. The same movie can play all over the world.”
She takes the pile of books from him. “Something to look forward to, then.” She brushes some soil from the end of the bench and sets the books in a neat stack.
“What’s so special about those?” Oliver asks.
Beatrix picks up the drab green book and hands it to him. “They were gifts from their father.”
Oliver opens the cover. His eyes dart over the inscription. “They’ll love them.”
“I hope so,” Beatrix says. She reaches into her pocket, finds the key to the library and the unopened letter from Tintern. She shoves the envelope back into her coat.
Oliver places the book on her pile. “They will.”
She puts her key on top. “Well, that’s done. I suppose it’s time to go.” She tries to keep the quiver out of her voice. She fails miserably.
Oliver takes her hand, and it eases the hollow ache in her chest. For now, at least, she’s not alone.
Beatrix sits beside Oliver, listening to the rhythmic sound of hooves on cobblestones. London streams past the hansom cab, bleak and gray in the failing light. As if all the color has been washed from the world.
The cab slows, then stops in front of St. Paul’s. Oliver jumps out and offers Beatrix his hand. She takes it and steps from the cab with her carpetbag. “What are we doing here?”
“I’ve got someone important to talk to inside. Come on.” He takes her bag and hurries up the wide stone steps.
