Chapter Twelve #3
“My father tells me he knew yours well,” Rachel said, turning to the young marquess.
“Stonefield was a man of principle. He went to Vienna to speak on behalf of those your universities and guilds would not admit—to give voice where none was wanted. That kind of courage makes enemies. He didn’t deserve to leave England as he did. ”
“No,” the boy said quietly. He swallowed hard. “It made my mother sick with grief. She died last winter while I was at school in Kent.”
Maisie’s hand stilled over the leather binder.
There it was again—grief stitched into the boy’s posture, into the silence between his words.
She looked at Deena, and the familiar guilt returned.
Her sister deserved more than this life of pretending to be her companion.
Not for lack of comforts—they had more than they ever imagined—but because they had lost their names. Their truth.
And how could fate find them, when they were hiding from it?
“My condolences,” Rachel said, her voice a gentle thread. “You’re orphaned too young.” She didn’t rush the moment. Even her silence felt deliberate, gracious. Maisie saw then what made Rachel formidable—not force, but presence.
“Thank you. I shall go to Eton soon,” the boy added, as if reciting lines rehearsed alone.
“That is good,” Rachel said. “My husband often speaks of his time at Eton. Rare for a Jew to attend, but he passed unnoticed. The friendships he made there shaped his future.”
Maisie managed a small smile. She still said nothing, too aware of the line they walked. The house was the marquess’ in name, but he had no control. Deena, the companion of a dead woman, had no legal identity. It was all so fragile.
Rachel’s gaze didn’t waver. She spoke with a steadiness that felt almost like a hand extended across the table. “You and Deena are welcome here—Shabbat, holidays, or simply to rest. Let our fathers’ friendship continue with us.”
Maisie’s throat tightened. “I should like that very much.” The words came out quieter than she meant, and she hated how needy they sounded. Five years in Oxfordshire had kept them safe, yes—but safe was not the same as seen.
Rachel smiled, the kind that softened the sharp lines of her face. “Good. Then as your friend”—the word landed deliberately, as though Rachel knew exactly what it cost Maisie to hear it—“let me give you the tools to thrive.”
She drew a thick binder across the table.
Its leather edges were worn smooth, the pages crammed with notes in several hands.
“These will help you inhabit Lady Eleanor Spencer in London. My mother-in-law and I gathered what you’ll need—names, timelines, mannerisms. Enough that anyone who might have known Eleanor before she vanished into the country will find no reason to doubt you. ”
Maisie opened it, the paper crackling faintly under her fingers. Lines of ink. Birth dates. Clubs. Servants’ names. The sort of details that made up a life. Her voice felt dry as she read aloud: “Born 1788. So much younger than the Marquess…”
“Yes,” Rachel said, her smile thinning. “That marriage was… complicated.”
Maisie flipped a page. “She moved to Reading? With her governess?”
Rachel poured tea as she spoke, her hand steady, her tone measured. “She withdrew. Preferred solitude. And no longer cared about the scandals.”
A strange chill traced Maisie’s ribs. This was the life she must step into—another woman’s retreat, another woman’s shame.
“She caused a scandal?” The question slipped out, hushed.
Rachel glanced toward John before answering. “She was disappointed in love. Society punished her. She chose to disappear at Greys Court. You’ll need to know it well.”
Maisie nodded. She hadn’t even been there.
“So I am to become Eleanor Spencer.” This time, she didn’t flinch—though her hands curled into her skirts under the table.
John shifted beside her, brightening with a sudden thought. “My aunt had dogs. Terriers. Mother liked them best.” His voice carried a spark Maisie hadn’t heard in weeks.
Rachel seized it. “Then learn everything about terriers. It is the small details, Maisie, that anchor a truth.”
Maisie’s chest pinched. Eleanor Spencer—a name sewn onto her like an ill-fitting gown. She had already abandoned Maisie Morgenschein once. And yet, when she looked at John’s eager face, flushed with pride at remembering, she knew she would do it again. For him, she would wear the mask.
Rachel’s eyes softened. “As Eleanor, you can stand between him and men who would use him. If you remain Maisie, they’ll sweep you both aside.”
The words fell into silence. John leaned into her arm, his small fingers knotting into her sleeve, and she laid her hand over his. His whispered prayer from last night returned to her—Please, let me stay with Maisie.
Rachel’s voice broke the quiet again, gentler now, but pointed. “Do you know Debrett’s, John?”
He shook his head.
“It is the great book of titles,” Rachel explained.
“Every noble family, every estate written down as if in stone. But you will not find a single Jewish name there. Not one.” She let that truth settle.
“Titles come from land. And land is closed to us, for Jews can’t own land.
The record is silent—and silence is its own weapon. ”
John frowned, brow tight. “But the estate is mine.”
“Yes,” Rachel said softly. “By right, it is. But men like Baron von List are waiting for heirs without protection. The gossips of the ton confirmed the rumors that you may be his next target. Without an unimpeachable name beside you, he can twist the law and take what’s yours with you or without.
That is why your guardian”—she turned her gaze to Maisie—“must take on another name, a titled relation of yours. So no one dares strip you of what is yours.”
Maisie closed her eyes for an instant, steadying the storm inside her.
How badly she wanted to reject it, to cling to the truth of her own name, her own heart.
To believe she could walk openly as Faivish’s chosen so that he could find her and she could be his for life.
But John’s thin shoulders were bowed under losses no child should bear, and Deena’s life was knotted to hers.
She opened her eyes. “I will do everything I can to protect them—under Eleanor’s name but with my heart.”
“That is what goodness is, Maisie—not the life we wish for, but the life we give so others may keep theirs.” Rachel’s expression softened. “Does anyone else smell rugelach?”
Denna leapt at the opportunity but John mumbled, “What’s rug-leks?”
“Rugelach,” Deena corrected with a small laugh. “Delicious buttery pastries filled with nuts and honey paste.”
“Go to the back of the hall and see if anyone has brought them out yet,” Rachel said.
As their footsteps faded, Rachel’s tone shifted, and she leaned forward just slightly. “Now,” she said, her voice lower, purposeful. “How can I help you settle in more comfortably here in London?”
Maisie hesitated. She hadn’t intended to speak of it—but the question opened something inside. The words came unbidden. “There is someone I need to find,” she said, her voice quiet.
Rachel tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly—not out of judgment, but concern.
“A family member?”
Maisie shook her head. “No.”
Rachel didn’t press, but her gaze was steady. “A man?”
Maisie nodded once, and that one gesture cost her.
The man. The only one.
Rachel said nothing at first. Then, gently, “I understand.”
She reached for a small notepad and quill on the side table. “Give me his name. The ton has its ways. If he is here, or even rumored to be, we’ll find him.”
Maisie’s hands trembled slightly as she accepted the quill. Her throat tightened. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I have had no success finding him as Eleanor in the countryside. Perhaps here, in Town…”
“Yes.” Rachel didn’t look away. “You deserve more than survival. Let’s find your heart a future, too.”
Before Maisie could respond, Rachel turned her attention to the next topic. “And your sister? Where will she go to school?”
“I’ll teach her,” Maisie said quickly. “Everything Father taught me. A nurse.” She glanced at the door through which Deena had left with John a minute earlier with a small frown.
Everything but the surgical skill and precision she’d once known by heart.
That part of her life felt locked behind glass now visible but unreachable.
A sudden yelp startled them both. Maisie turned to see the marquess clutching his jaw, wincing, the half-eaten rugelach in his hand as he re-entered the room. Maisie sighed and placed her cup down. “Not again.”
Rachel’s brow rose. “Is everything all right?”
Maisie gave a wry smile. “The daughter of a dentist, looking after a boy who clearly needs one—and I can’t even find the man I love who could help him.”
Rachel tutted and smiled faintly. “We must remedy that. Eton waits for no one, and he can’t sit exams with a toothache.”
She walked to a small desk near the window, opened a drawer, and produced a card, handing it to Maisie.
Folsham, Collins, Fernando, Leafley
87 Harley Street
Maisie turned it over, her breath catching at the final name. It was odd and yet she couldn’t say why.
Leafley.
She swallowed. “Thank you,” she said.
Rachel’s gaze lingered with a quiet smile. “At the very least, the marquess will be well cared for.”
But Maisie heard what Rachel meant.
And for the first time in years, something inside her whispered: Maybe so will I.