Page 23 of The Art of Theft
Here, something even more unexpected happened. She thought she still had weeks of work left, but around two o’clock in the afternoon she realized that she was approaching the end of the story, that after another ten or fifteen pages in her notebook she could very well be scrawlingfinisto mark her first complete manuscript.
And then she couldn’t write another word.
A nervous energy shot through her. She became so jittery she couldn’t stay still. Even pacing in her room made her feel caged. She kept sitting down and standing up, and rushed over to the window every time she heard a carriage pass.
At last, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Watson returned by herself.
Livia met her coming up the stairs. “Did my sister not come back with you, ma’am? And are you quite all right after your indisposition last night?”
Mrs. Watson didn’t look unwell, but she was obviously under-rested. And tense, the fine lines around her eyes etched deeper with distress. She gave Livia a game smile. “Yes, I’m all right, Miss Olivia. Miss Charlotte and I had different tasks to see to after meeting with the client. Ah, that might be her now.”
And it was indeed Charlotte, coming through the front door. She gave her hat and gloves to Mr. Mears, and they all headed up tothe afternoon parlor. “I have sent out signals for Mr. Marbleton,” she said, once she took a seat. “Now we wait and see.”
“Mr. Marbleton?” Livia exclaimed. And immediately blushed. Did Charlotte contact him forher?
“Yes, Mr. Marbleton. We will need him.”
“For what? Surely Lord Ingram isn’t in any kind of difficulty again.”
“No, but I have a friend in trouble,” said Mrs. Watson, her tone calm enough but her eyes plainly apprehensive. “We might have to go to France to help her.”
Did thisweinclude Livia? She looked from Charlotte to Mrs. Watson and back again, but neither seemed inclined to offer any clarification.
“This... this trip to France, is it imminent?” asked Livia, not feeling courageous enough to ask outright whether she would be part of it—or left behind.
France. How she longed to see France. To be anywhere, really, on a journey of freedom. But would she be in the way? It was one thing to bring up a tea tray to 18 Upper Baker Street, quite another to take part in an actual mission.
“It will be soon,” answered Mrs. Watson. “No later than the day after tomorrow.”
Again, no elucidation on what role she was to play, if any.
Charlotte was daintily eating a potted beef sandwich. Mrs. Watson gazed into her tea, her forehead creased. Livia’s deductive powers might not approach Charlotte’s in scope or trenchancy, but the situation before her was hardly opaque.
Whatever they intended to accomplish in France would be difficult, very possibly dangerous. And they didn’t know what to do with Livia. Charlotte must have left the decision to Mrs. Watson, given that they were under Mrs. Watson’s roof and that their task concerned Mrs. Watson’s friend. And Mrs. Watson was reluctanteither to tell Livia to stay put or to involve her in a perilous undertaking.
“How long will this trip last?” she asked.
She could wait, if they would be gone for only a day or two.
“A good fortnight,” said Charlotte. Livia’s heart fell. She’d kept telling herself and anyone who would listen that she planned to stay away from home for as long as possible. But that wouldn’t be wise. She shouldn’t be gone for longer than two weeks, three at the very most—not if she wanted more such excursions in the future.
If she stayed behind, Charlotte and Mrs. Watson would be away for most of her visit. On the other hand, she had very little appetite for danger and no useful skills. She didn’t even have Mrs. Watson’s reservoir of experience or Charlotte’s nerves of steel.
“I would like to go with you,” she said. “I don’t know whether I’ll be able to make any contributions, but I will do what I can. And I do know that I’ll be much happier with you in France.”
“It will be dangerous,” said Charlotte.
Mrs. Watson nodded—slowly, as if she were unwilling to admit that to herself.
Livia wiped her suddenly damp palms on her skirt. “If it isn’t too dangerous for you, it can’t be too dangerous for me.”
Charlotte took another bite of her sandwich. “It’s true that we aren’t speaking of life-threatening dangers. But we know very little about where we are going or what we will find when we get there. And given our relative inexperience as cat burglars, a stint in a French jail isn’t out of the realm of possibility.”
Livia sucked in a breath. Cat burglars?
Mrs. Watson gasped, too. “I’ve been fretting about the consequences to my friend if we don’t succeed, but not yet the consequences to ourselves. Miss Olivia, in that case, perhaps you—”
“No!” cried Livia. “In that case, I shall be that much worse off if I remained in England. I will worry until I make myself sick, especially if—especially if—”
