“I would like a recommendation,” he said. “For a church, and a barber.”
He rubbed the spot above his ear with his knuckles, where his hair was growing out. The thought of his soft curls landing on a floor, to be swept up and discarded in a dustbin, made her feel very sorry.
“Will a Catholic church do?”
He nodded. She suggested a few places, and he kissed both her hands and left. She sat alone in the bed with a ball of anxiety forming in her chest. A church. Was he eaten by guilt over what they were doing? Would he have a change of heart, and their last time just before dawn had been the last time?
She ran herself a hot bath. Her hands were shaking when she uncorked a bottle of lavender essence. An affair was not for the weak; too much second-guessing. While she soaked in the tub, she decided to pull herself together. Remember who she was, what her purpose was beyond this bedroom. No more fear.
After she had dried herself off and dressed, she went in search of some of the high-quality stationery she kept in the house, then she sat down at the vanity table and composed a letter to Mrs. Weldon. By the time she put her seal into the wax, it was almost ten o’clock.
The London fog reeked of sulfur this morning—hardly the day for a pleasurable walk. She only briefly diverted from her route and went into the telegraph office near Sloane Square. She sent two telegrams:
One to Hattie in Belgravia.
One to Alexandra.
Alexandra lived close by, in the quarter where European diplomats clustered with their families. It had been a few years, almost eight to be precise, but would she have afternoon tea with her on Monday? Apparently having tea in department stores was all the rage now! Catriona hoped her old friend would bite. Good things had happened ever since she had laid Charlie’s ghost to rest the other day. Confronting Alex could do that and more. It might actually help her advance the mad, bad scheme that was brewing at the back of her mind. Feeling quite productive, she boarded the District Railway to Acton with the letter for Mrs. Weldon in her skirt pocket. She kept herself busy afterward, and did not return to Cadogan Place until late afternoon.
Elias arrived late in the evening through the kitchen entrance.
She half expected him to stop in the doorway to the drawing room where she was pretending to read, that he would look at her with a noble and severe face and say: We will not do this again.
Instead, he came to her, sat down, took her hand, and put it on the back of his freshly shorn head.
“Say na’ymen,” he said. He sounded a little tired. The smell of the more wretched parts of the city clung to his navy jacket.
She curved her fingers around his nape. “Naymen?”
He just nodded and placed his hand over hers.
The sense of relief was so forceful, her legs felt weak for a moment. He had come back to her, he was still hers, feeling warm and alive and familiar beneath her palm.
He lifted his head. “I brought you food,” he said. “It’s in the kitchen.”
“Thank you. I don’t think I had anything today after breakfast.”
I thought so, said his grave, unsurprised expression. “What did you do today?”
A triumphant smile broke over her face. “I went out—I went back to Mrs. Weldon’s house.”
He sat up straight. “Eywah,” he said, looking impressed. “What happened?”
He seemed too interested in her excursion to comment on her cavorting around town on her own.
“I wrote her a letter,” she said. “An honest letter. First, I apologized for my sneaky ways. Then I explained that I’m trying to create a legal case Parliament can’t ignore.” Her gaze slid away. “I suppose I was still a wee bit sneaky; she feels so strongly about spiritualism that I wrote I had felt ‘guided’ to seek her out, that I sensed she could be the key to a landmark decision that would change the fate of women in Britain. The truth is, though, I do feel it; this . . . buzz right here.” She touched her breastbone.
Elias’s hand slid over hers again, and their fingers entwined seamlessly. “Did she read it?” he asked.
She grinned. “I think so, yes. Her butler nearly slammed the door into my face, but something rather odd happened—the tabby cat, you know, the one that was sleeping next to the flower pots the last time, this cat got in the way. So, while he was struggling with the tabby around his legs, I just . . . talked at him. Until he took the letter. I said I would wait right there, and if he were so kind to let me know whether Mrs. Weldon accepted it. I waited for half an hour, and the curtains were twitching . . . he came back. He said she will read it.”