Page 13 of The Art of Theft
Of course they wouldn’t consultLiviaon the matter, but would argue between themselves and list each other’s inadequacies, long, long catalogues compiled from thirty-some years of resentful partnership.
All of which meant that, even if Livia expected that their desire to marry her off would eventually prevail over other concerns, she could not begin packing. Not yet. No matter how much she wished to.
She glanced out of the window of the breakfast parlor. A fog roiled, thick and all-encompassing. The doorbell rang. She started. It was a quarter after nine, a bit early for callers.
She heard footsteps going upstairs to inform her parents. After two minutes, a maid came into the breakfast parlor. “Miss, a Mrs.Collins here to see you. She says she’s Mrs. Openshaw’s companion and has a message from her.”
Livia stood up so fast she almost knocked over her chair. “Show her to the drawing room.”
The woman in widow’s weeds who walked into the drawing room was extremely respectable-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and the somewhat papery skin of a well-preserved sixty-year-old.
“You must be Miss Holmes,” she said, her accent cultured, as befitting someone who had spent significant time in the household of a duke.
Mrs. Watson.
Still, it took Livia a moment to be completely sure she was looking at the same person. Mrs. Watson, as herself, a beautiful woman of a certain age, would have been of great interest to Sir Henry. Mrs. Watson, in this role, received only a cursory glance as the latter walked in, immediately dismissed as both too old and too prim.
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 Liviaout 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 byher, 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.
