Lady Holmes arrived looking hastily put together—she, like Livia, rose later and later as winter deepened. Her expression conveyed both the annoyance of having been yanked from bed and a burning curiosity as to why Mrs. Openshaw, of all people, had sent a messenger. Her own companion, no less.
Mrs. Watson started talking. Livia could not hear anything except the thudding of her heart. This was not the first time Mrs. Watson had come before her parents. Mere weeks ago, she had been sent by Lord Ingram to accompany Livia on a rail journey to Stern Hollow. To be sure, Sir Henry and Lady Holmes had barely paid her any mind that day. And to be sure, she’d been a rather broad woman then, with glasses and a thick Yorkshire accent.
Still, it terrified Livia that they might realize she was the same woman.
But they didn’t. And they did not take long to accede to Mrs. Openshaw’s wish to squire their daughter around France, once their initial openmouthed astonishment that anyone would single Livia out for such lavish attention had faded somewhat. Mrs. Watson accompanied Livia to her room, where they packed in record time. And before she knew it, they were sitting in a rail compartment, giggling.
The trip flew by as Livia poured out all her problems to Mrs. Watson. She arrived in London beautifully cocooned in sympathy and understanding, with hope in her heart for the first time that something good might yet come of her association with Mr. Marbleton.
Her courage faltered a little when she saw Charlotte. Oh, it was still wonderful—so very wonderful—to hold Charlotte in her arms. Still wonderful to hear the calm, measured cadence of her speech. And still wonderful to be fed plates upon plates of sandwiches and French pastry; her appetite, usually weak, now roared like a furnace, and everything tasted as scrumptious as mother’s milk must to a newborn.
But she couldn’t help a twinge—or many—of her conscience.
Earlier she’d been either too worried about whether she would manage her escape or too busy unburdening herself to Mrs. Watson, but now that she was here, she remembered very well that Charlotte was not in favor of any development between herself and Mr. Marbleton.
She would hardly have been pleased to learn that he and his family had visited their own.
When the two sisters were alone at last in the room that had been prepared for Livia, with a lively fire, fresh notebooks on the writing desk, and narcissus bulbs blooming in a glass vase, their fragrance sweet and heady, Livia asked tentatively, “I hope you don’t mind that I involved Mr. Marbleton in my scheme. Really, I meant only for him to post my letter so that it would reach you faster.”
It had thrilled her to learn that he’d taken the trouble to call in person to deliver her request. But Charlotte couldn’t have been as glad to see him.
“It was difficult to begrudge Mr. Marbleton his happiness at having been involved in this task,” answered Charlotte. “He was glowing. Incandescent.”
Livia’s cheeks warmed. It was beyond her comprehension that anyone could be delighted by her, but it made her feel . . . glowing. Incandescent, even. “But you must still disapprove.”
“I do not approve or disapprove, Livia—it isn’t my place to do so. I have concerns about the practicality of this arrangement and whether you will see suitable returns for your investment of time and sentiment.”
Livia sighed. “I wish I knew what to do.”
Charlotte was quiet for some time, staring into the fire. And then she said, “So do we all, Livia. So do we all.”
* * *
It was efficient to travel back-to-back: All Mrs. Watson needed to do the day before was to pick up her still-packed satchel, which had everything she needed for an overnight stay, and head to the railway station.
But with all that back-and-forth, she was truly tired now. In her room, with her corset cast aside, she closed the curtains and slid under the soft weight of her feather duvet. Ah, nothing like the rest that came after a job well done.
She had barely closed her eyes when an urgent knock came at her door. “Ma’am? Ma’am?”
Mr. Mears? But he never disturbed her in her hours of repose. Had she slept so long that it was already time for dinner? Her eyelids seemed firmly glued together. Only with great effort was she able to peel them apart. The small clock on her nightstand indicated that only twenty minutes had passed since she laid down.
“Yes?” she croaked.
“Her Highness the Maharani of Ajmer wishes to see you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Watson bolted upright. No, she must have heard wrong. The Maharani of Ajmer had not come to call. How did she even know where Mrs. Watson lived? And why would she, after all these years?
“Ma’am, are you at home to her?”
Mrs. Watson leaped off her bed, nearly knocking her shoulder into a bedpost, and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown. She was still tying the sash when she opened the door. “Are you sure it’s her?”
Mr. Mears looked only a little less stunned than she felt. “It’s her,” he said in a whisper.
When she didn’t say anything else—she couldn’t—he asked quietly, “Shall I say that you are not at home?”
She grimaced. “No, no, please show her to the morning parlor.”
Mr. Mears hesitated. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Watson grimaced again. “But before you do that, first send the Bannings to me.”
* * *
In her daily life, Mrs. Watson was perfectly capable of seeing to her own toilette. But this was not daily life. She was a woman of more than half a century, roused abruptly from a heavy slumber, her face pillow-creased, her hair askew, and she needed to look her very best since her wedding day.
Which, of course, took longer than she expected, as she agonized over a choice of dresses.
“Ma’am, you look good in all of them!” said Polly Banning.
Yes, she knew that. But which one made her appear closest to her twenty-five-year-old self?
A look in the mirror disabused her of such aspirations. The lines around her eyes, the slackness in her lower cheeks, the deep grooves extending down from the sides of her nose—no frock, however comely, could strip half a lifetime from her face.
She exhaled, thanked her maids, and marched down to meet her past.
But her footsteps slowed as she neared the morning parlor. What if—what if she walked in and it was as if nothing had happened and no time at all had passed? What if they rushed into each other’s arms? What if they held on tight and sobbed incoherent apologies?
Would that be so terrible?
She bit her lower lip and pushed open the door.
The afternoon parlor was the cozy, comfortable spot where she took tea and met her friends. The morning parlor, in contrast, was where she’d received Miss Charlotte, the first time the latter came to call. It was what would be deemed a proper drawing room, its walls covered by dark blue silk with tracings of silver. A large landscape surmounted the fireplace. And portraits of her late husband’s ancestors—all conveniently dead before he decided he wished to marry a former music hall performer—declared that this was the sort of home where residents had ancestors who had the means and the leisure to commemorate themselves in oil on canvas.