Chapter Eleven #3
She couldn’t help bristling. No one accused her of poor judgment these days.
She ran thoughts and decisions over a dozen times before she voiced them, so she could do so without the risk of being criticized.
In fact, the only impulsive choice she’d made in adulthood was last night with the duke, and that was only because he was so damned infuriating that her good sense had been overwhelmed.
“I have to agree with Lillian,” Mabel said. “The longer this goes on without you knowing his suitability, the higher chance there is that you’ll be heartbroken.”
“That she’ll be murdered on her doorstep was my actual point.”
Mabel shooed Lillian away. “There is no benefit to not knowing his identity, only risk.”
But there was a risk in knowing, too. She risked being disappointed.
As long as she didn’t know who he was, he could be exactly what her imagination wanted him to be.
In real life, he might be the opposite. Or worse.
There was the risk that he’d be so much more than her imagination could fathom—enough to make her question her resolve to live life with no obligation to adapt to another person’s comfort. She wasn’t ready for that.
Lillian tapped a pencil to her lips, as she did whenever she was trying to solve a mystery. “You must have his address if you’re writing to him. We could drive by his house.”
“Absolutely not.” The words were spoken faster than they were thought.
“I will not break my agreement with him. Besides, all of our communication is filtered through the post office at Piccadilly Circus. His sister, the Tattler, set it up. I think there are runners involved because deliveries do not follow the usual postal schedule.”
Lillian slumped, but she did not look like she’d given up. She simply tapped the pencil against her thigh instead.
“We’re not asking you to meet him immediately,” Mabel said, patting Eleanor’s hand, trying to soothe the discord. “We’re simply suggesting that you put some effort into establishing a necessary understanding of who he is.”
Lillian nodded. “Yes. We must treat this like a proper mystery. We must ferret out the truth just as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle does.”
Mabel’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, we could help you write a letter.”
That was not at all Eleanor’s intention when she’d confessed this secret. Her friends were far too meddlesome. “I do not need help writing a letter, thank you.”
Mabel ignored her. “It will be fun. Lillian, pass me that pencil.”
Dear Captain,
Since we’ve determined that we are friends who can be trusted, I find myself wanting to know more about you. How do you spend your days?
“Agreed,” Mabel said to Lillian. “That’s far preferable to ‘What is your occupation?’”
Eleanor gritted her teeth. The two of them had brushed past every insistence that she could write this letter on her own. Telling them about the Captain had been a truly awful idea.
Lillian cocked her head. “What will you do if he says he’s a layabout with nothing to fill his days but your letters and playing cards?”
Eleanor shuddered. Their not-quite-liaison would be over. “He won’t. I know that much about him.”
Mabel nudged the page impatiently. “We have only a few minutes left. What next?”
Lillian crossed her arms. “Are you married?”
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “He’s not married.”
“But has he ever actually told you that?”
Eleanor ran through all of their past correspondence in her mind. She had declared her marital status, but he’d never once alluded to his. Blast.
“Why don’t we ask about his family?” Mabel suggested. “That’s less bold.”
Despite her original reluctance to reveal the secret of him, she had to admit, their interference was proving beneficial.
Warily, she penned the words: You have at least three sisters.
Do you have other family? She wasn’t sure if she wanted the answer.
Either response might alter her feelings, but curiosity was finally winning out over her need for stasis.
“Ah!” Lillian’s eyes widened. “If you had the choice between a life without coffee or a life without cheese, which would you choose?”
“That is an absurd question,” Mabel replied, rolling her eyes. “What could that possibly tell us?”
Lillian shrugged. “Someone who can’t live without coffee has a highly demanding lifestyle. Someone who can’t live without cheese is more interested in the indulgent aspects of their days.”
That was a very smart calculation. Lillian’s obsession with mystery novels had given her a talent for subterfuge that was coming in handy.
Eleanor nodded and included the question in her next sentence. “How do we uncover his age?” she asked.
Lillian paused for a moment, fingers tapping against her lips once more. “Were you around for the battle of Waterloo?”
Mabel scoffed so loudly, she drew stares from the other compositors in the room, who had, as usual, sat themselves apart from the women. “Waterloo was seventy years ago.”
“Exactly.” Lillian pointed at the letter. “Mr. Osbourne was definitely alive for Waterloo. Hell, he may even have served. The man is ancient.”
“Fair point,” Mabel replied. “So, for the purposes of ruling out Mr. Osbourne, we shall include it.”
The lunch bell clanged. “Dash,” Mabel said as she and Lillian packed up their lunch bags. “We will finish this on the way home.” She paused when she realized Eleanor had not moved.
“Go ahead,” Eleanor said. “I’ll be right there.”
Her friends exchanged surprised glances. Eleanor never dallied. She was militantly on time. But she would not be able to concentrate if she didn’t finish this now, so she ignored them and returned to the page in front of her.
Were you around for the Battle of Waterloo? I was not. The first major event that I can recall was the London International Exhibition of Industry and Art, although I was too young to remember more than the stained-glass windows.
It was the moment she’d fallen in love with color and shapes in the same way she loved words. The memory was precious and was one she wanted to share. If she wanted more information about what mattered most to him, she needed to give him the same.
I, for one, wake up each morning, feed Baskerville, and walk along the river to work.
I could take a hackney, I suppose. An extra hour’s sleep in the morning would mean an extra hour to read in the evening—when my evenings are my own again, that is.
But there is something about the pattern of dawn light on water that calls to me.
The walk gave her the centering she needed to move through the day with energy.
I have no living family, but I do have two friends who are as close as sisters. And I have my work. Some might not find that a good substitute, but I do.
I like coffee well enough—heaven knows I drink a lot of it—but I love cheese. If I had the opportunity, I’d spend a month touring the flower fields of France while stuffing myself full of it.
Yours,
Booklover
The foreman cleared his throat. She was the last person to leave the break room and was officially late.
“Apologies,” she muttered, flushing with embarrassment as she folded the letter and tucked it away. Now she would have to walk through the print room, earning the judgment of every man there who was not tardy. What had gotten into her?
Dear Booklover,
Excuse the unevenly scrawled note. The notepaper balances on my knee.
I escaped from the house, and my feet have taken me to Piccadilly Circus.
Perhaps they were searching for your conversation as an antidote to my sisters’, though your response to the letter I wrote this morning could not possibly have reached the post office yet.
There is a street vendor whose stall is so resplendent that I had no choice but to stop.
A ribbon seems like an insufficient token to distract one from a night as poor as yours.
I apologize if it feels trivial, but I believe they call this fabric watered silk and it’s what I imagine dawn light on the river looks like.
You have at least one friend who will only ever be himself with you, I promise.
Faithfully,
Captain