Chapter Sixteen
“He asked if you should meet?” Mabel’s face lit up. “That is perfect. What will you wear? Where are you going? How will you know it’s him?”
“I’m not sure; I’m not sure; and I’m not sure,” Eleanor replied. “In fact, I’m not convinced I should meet him.”
Lillian nodded. “That is sensible. At least not without reconnaissance first. You are just as likely to end up filleted and on his plate as you are finding your one true love.”
Mabel sighed. “Truly, Lillian? We’ve gone from murderer to cannibal? That’s quite a leap.”
“You can never be sure.”
Eleanor settled into the corner of the cab, calmed by the regular roll of the wheels as they traveled to The Times for their weekly shift. “And that is the problem. I’m not sure. I do not need a romantic relationship in order to be happy. My life is perfect as it is, without the complication.”
Or at least, it had been until the duke and his infernal machine interfered. The Linotype would do the things he claimed. Production timelines would shorten. Costs would decrease. Publishers would see the appeal and everything would change.
She would need to cut down her spending over the next few years. She could not run from the Linotype. It would be foolish not to prepare.
“Perhaps we should write a list for and against meeting him,” Mabel said. “Ending up on his dinner plate, however unlikely”—she shot Lillian a glare—“would definitely fall into the against column. Finding your soulmate is clearly more likely and a very solid ‘for.’”
Lillian held up her hand and checked off a finger. “You would find out what he looks like.”
“Which could be for or against,” Mabel said.
“True.”
Mabel reached over and pressed another of Lillian’s fingers down. “If he’s a gentleman, he will likely pay for your meal. You like food.”
Lillian put the finger back up. “Or Eleanor could be stuck with the bill. That must be a consideration.”
“True,” Mabel said. “That would be a shame.”
Lillian checked off another finger. “We would know for certain that it’s not Mr. Osbourne. We could rule out that possibility so that it no longer hangs over us.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “It isn’t hanging over me now.”
“Well, it’s hanging over me, but I am clearly more diligent.”
Mabel snorted. “Clearly more paranoid.” She turned back to Eleanor. “It would be an excuse to wear your green dress with the watermelon trimmings. It always makes you feel good.”
It was Lillian’s turn to scoff. “Does Eleanor need an excuse to wear her things? Remember that time we caught her parading around here in her marigold evening gown?”
Eleanor flushed. “There is nothing wrong with enjoying one’s clothes. Beautiful things should be worn, not stowed away.” She loved her marigold evening gown. One of the best things to come out of her agreement with Lady Wharton was that she had gotten to wear it last week.
Mabel tsked. “Yes, but how nice to wear beautiful things for their intended purpose—promenading with a gentleman through Kensington Gardens. It is clearly an argument for.”
Her friends’ insistence on tallying up all the reasons she should meet the Captain was having an effect opposite the one they’d intended.
It was making her chest tighten. It was making her underarms sweat.
It was as if she could feel each molecule of air that brushed her cheeks.
All her prior thoughts of what it would be like to see him in person and have him exist in her world were crowding her vision and growing larger until he was no longer charming and handsome but suffocating and grotesque in size.
“Meeting him could completely destroy the relationship we have,” she blurted out as the cab came to a stop. Before either of her friends could respond, she leapt out, sucking in the fresh air.
Her friendship with the Captain was one of the few purely lovely things she had at the moment, and she was loath to jeopardize it.
Mabel jumped from the cab and came to stand next to her. “That is an argument against, certainly.”
“So we’re at an impasse, then.” Lillian rummaged around her purse for her spectacles. “There are equal arguments for and against it.”
The arguments against felt far more pressing than the arguments for.
Otto held the door open with one hand and doffed his hat with the other. “Miss Wright. Miss Cole. Miss Thompson.”
Eleanor gave him the brightest smile she could muster.
Then, when they were out of earshot, she whispered, “I will make an excuse not to meet the Captain and maintain the status quo for as long as I can.” Assuming the status quo had not already been irreparably upset just by his suggestion.
That would be sad. More than anything, she wanted to cling to what stability she had.
Mabel sighed. “Very well, but I feel that you’re running from an opportunity for happiness.”
“Or I’m avoiding terrible failure.”
Eleanor was about to push open the door to the print room when Lillian put a hand on her arm. “It is all right to fail sometimes. You know that, don’t you?”
What kind of question was that? Of course she knew failure was inevitable at times—if you were too careless or lazy or stupid to avoid it. She had failed plenty. Eleanor, how can you know the square root of 484 and not know to put the vegetables in the oven after the chicken goes in?
She swallowed. “I don’t need a relationship. I have you, and my work, and my own flat. I’m successful and happy. Meeting the Captain was a silly idea. I should never have mentioned it.”
Lillian persisted nonetheless. “Refusing to meet him is fine, as long as you’re doing so for a sensible reason, like not being eaten, and not because you’re scared.”
The comment struck beneath the ribs better than any boxer could have. It took a moment for Eleanor to reply without coughing. “I don’t aspire to be eaten. That is all.”