April 11, 1820 London, England
Beatrix perches on the edge of her bed. She pushes the white lace curtain aside and peers out her window.
The stream of carriages has slowed. The last of the ladies wrapped in furs and the gentlemen in top hats and tailcoats hurry up the stairs, disappearing beneath the manor’s ivy-covered entrance.
On any other evening, this would be the most entertaining part of spending hours holed up in her room—watching the dinner guests come and go, wondering what their lives are like. Today, her heart sinks. None of them are Oliver.
His note from the Frost Fair said he would come today; she’s certain, even if the paper he wrote it on is long gone.
But he didn’t set a time, only told her to leave a letter with her current whereabouts at the post office.
Did she write his name properly? Had they lost it?
Had the postmaster thrown it away? The day has almost turned to evening. Almost gone.
A knock sounds on Beatrix’s door. Too early for supper, but perhaps this is the only moment a servant can get away from the kitchen to bring her meal. She pulls the door open to find Oliver, dressed in a black tailcoat of his own.
“What are you doing here?” she hisses. He can’t be upstairs. Mrs. Winfield would fire her on the spot.
Oliver frowns. “Didn’t you read my note?”
Beatrix glances down the hall in both directions, making certain it is empty. She pulls Oliver into her room and locks the door behind him. “Yes, I read your note!”
That night, in the room at the inn, was only the beginning.
After Oliver left, she spent the rest of the week practicing, squinting at the letters and copying them out, trying to make sense of them, until the light failed and her eyes ached.
She unfolded and refolded the page from the Thames until there was nothing left of it.
And every night before she fell into bed, she sounded out each letter of Oliver’s note, trying to read his words.
Until one night, she did. She read it hundreds of times, until she knew it by heart, seared the date into her memory.
Until there was nothing left of his note, either.
Then she read any scrap of paper she could get her hands on: day-old newspapers, order receipts, grocery lists. She made a game of reading all the storefronts and signs in the streets, until she found a battered copy of the first volume of Pride and Prejudice.
Novels are by far her favorite, better than the newspapers or the stories in the magazines the ladies read. Novels hold entire worlds, entire lives for her to explore. She can get lost between the pages, and when she finds herself again, hours have passed her by.
Oliver beams at her. “You read my note.”
Her heart skips. “As I recall, it didn’t say anything about you showing up in my bedroom.”
“I showed up in the hallway,” he says with that same infuriating smirk he turned on her at the Globe. He flops onto her bed in a very ungentlemanly manner. “You’re the one who dragged me into your bedroom and locked the door.”
Her face flushes with heat. He’s impossible.
“What’s next?” he asks. “Learn another language? I think if I had all the time in the world, that’s what I would do. Or learn to play an instrument. Guitar. No, piano.”
“Why not both, while you’re at it?” she asks. “In fact, you could learn all the languages and all the instruments.”
“Good idea.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’d become an insufferable know-it-all.”
Oliver shakes his head. “I couldn’t know it all. Every day there would be something new to discover.”
Beatrix sinks down onto the bed next to him. Her leg brushes against his, but he doesn’t move away. “You’d get tired of it.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But not for a very, very long time.”
“Then I suppose you’d better hope you have all the money in the world, too.”
Oliver shifts on the bed. He reaches underneath him and pulls out a book: a well-loved copy of the first volume of Frankenstein. “I’d read all the greats, too.”
She takes the book from him. “Is this considered one of them?”
He nods. “Anything by Jane Austen is a classic, or Dickens or Poe or any of the Bronte sisters. I should make you a list. You can read them as they’re published.”
“I’d like that.”
“And if you get your hands on any first editions, hold on to them,” Oliver adds.
A sharp knock sounds on the door.
Beatrix jumps to her feet. “Hide!” she hisses at Oliver, pulling him from her bed.
“Where?”
“I don’t know!” She glances around her cramped room. Her eyes land on the narrow closet in the corner. She wrenches the door open. “In here!”
The knock sounds again, louder this time.
“Miss Lancourt?”
“Just a moment,” Beatrix calls.
Oliver stifles a laugh from the closet.
“Be quiet in there,” she warns, before shutting the door in his face.
She takes a deep breath and composes her features into the stoic expression of an unmarried governess who is absolutely not hiding a man in her bedroom closet. She crosses to her door, unlocks it, and pulls it open. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Winfield requests your presence in the drawing room immediately, mistress,” Celia says. She avoids Beatrix’s two-toned gaze.
“Of course.” She spares one last glance at her closet before closing the bedroom door behind her.
She follows Celia down the back staircase, out of view of the party guests. Celia leaves her at the door to the drawing room. Beatrix smooths her skirt, lifts her chin, and steps inside. Mrs. Winfield beckons to her on sight.
Margaret and Victor stand with their mother.
Margaret watches the men and women in their fancy clothes with fascination.
Victor is more interested in the food the servants carry around the room on gleaming silver trays.
“Shall I take the children upstairs, ma’am? ” Beatrix asks when she reaches them.
Mrs. Winfield waves her off. “The children have been entertaining my guests.”
“Oh, have they?” Beatrix asks, unsure if she is expected to praise Margaret and Victor or scold them.
“Indeed.” She looks at Beatrix with eyes of ice, lifeless and cold. “They’ve been telling fairy tales.” Beatrix stiffens. Mrs. Winfield’s gaze bores into her. “Fairy tales they learned from their governess.”
“Tales to get the children to finish their studies, nothing more,” Beatrix offers. “Nonsense, really.”
“You know how I feel about those stories in my home,” Mrs. Winfield warns.
“Yes, ma’am,” Beatrix replies. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“They are true, aren’t they, miss? You said the faeries were real. You said you’ve seen them,” Margaret asks.
“You did,” Victor adds vehemently. “When I asked why your eyes were funny, you said it was so you could see the faeries.”
“They’re just silly stories.” She offers Mrs. Winfield a sheepish smile.
Margaret’s face falls.
“Please bring the children up to the nursery for the evening,” Mrs. Winfield says sharply.
“Yes, ma’am,” Beatrix says.
“And when you are finished, you may pack your things. Your services are no longer required.”
Beatrix falters. “Yes, ma’am.” She tries to keep her voice steady. “Come along, children.”
Margaret and Victor fall into line behind her, a somber and sulking row of ducks.
“Why did you say they were silly stories?” Margaret demands as she follows Beatrix up the stairs.
“Because she’s like all the other grown-ups. Now she’s going to leave us, too,” Victor exclaims behind her.
“It’s not my choice, Victor. I’d stay if I could.” He doesn’t look like he believes her.
They stop outside the nursery. Beatrix kneels on the floor. “You two need to promise me you’ll never lose your curiosity.” She drops her voice to a loud whisper. “Even if the grown-ups don’t like it.” She looks at Victor. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he says grudgingly.
“Margaret?”
Margaret’s eyes well with tears. She throws her arms around Beatrix’s neck, almost bowling her over. “I promise.”
Beatrix swallows the lump rising in her throat and extricates herself from the girl’s fierce grip. “Look after each other, won’t you?” She forces a laugh to disguise the tremble in her voice. “And be kind to your new governess.”
Victor pulls a face, but one stern look from Beatrix sets it straight. The children trudge into the nursery, and Beatrix shuts the door behind them with a soft click. She slumps against the wall and blinks away the tears burning her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Oliver stands at the top of the stairs, his top hat clutched between his hands. Beatrix pushes off the wall. She wonders how long he has been standing there. How much he saw.
“It’s not your fault.” She is the one who told those foolish stories—the one who has become attached to those children—even though she knows better. She has no one to blame but herself.
Oliver falls into step next to her. “Those kids mean a lot to you.” He follows her into her room and shuts the door behind him.
“It’s just a job,” she assures him. It was just a job.
Beatrix reaches under her bed and pulls out a small carpetbag. She crosses to the closet, the door ajar from Oliver’s escape. He watches her pack her entire existence away in a matter of minutes.
She fastens her bag and pulls on her coat and hat. “That’s everything.” She swallows back the urge to cry as she leaves her room.
Wisps of voices drift up the staircase from the dinner party.
Beatrix searches the steps. Sometimes she would come back to her room in the evening to find Margaret sitting at the top, listening to the guests tell their stories, trying to catch a glimpse of them.
Sometimes she would sit on the top step with her, and they would listen together. Tonight, there is no one.
They pass the nursery. Beatrix forces herself to keep moving. She has already said goodbye. There is nothing more she can do.
A lie, and she knows it.
She’s already been dismissed. She has nothing left to lose, nothing left for Mrs. Winfield to take. Her heart thuds against her ribs. She hands Oliver her bag. “I’ll meet you outside.” She gives him a reassuring smile and watches him disappear down the servants’ stairs.