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Montague Club

Six months later

“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me—”

“Half agony, half hope!” Simon sat up abruptly and rolled over on top of her, sending the novel, Persuasion , crashing to the floor of their bedroom. The bed frame creaked under the quick movement. “Ye stole the line.”

Eliza laughed and defended herself the only way she could; she tickled him. He laughed but quickly dragged her hands over her head, rendering her completely defenseless to him.

Eliza enjoyed reading every night before going to sleep.

Once, a few weeks after their wedding, Simon had asked her to read aloud to him.

She had quickly surmised that he had never read a book before.

A few well-placed questions had led her to the conclusion that he actually wasn’t very advanced at reading.

He could read inventory lists, playbills, and the occasional letter, but a longer text like a novel that required deeper insight and vocabulary was lost to him.

Not because he was incapable of learning the skill, but because he’d never had the opportunity to acquire it.

So now she read to him almost every night, and he always came to her eager to know what would happen next in whatever particular book they were reading together.

For Christmas, she had given him his own book, a short adventure novel like the kind she had passed to Jones, and he read on his own on the days he didn’t work at Montague Club.

“I borrowed it,” she explained. “ Stealing is such a dramatic word. Besides, it perfectly summed up my feelings.”

He shook his head. “Wot do ye reckon to be a fitting punishment for thievery, Mrs. Cavell?”

She smiled up at his beloved face. “I’m not certain, but if it has anything to do with that thing in your drawers pressing against my thigh, then I’m a glutton for punishment.”

He started tickling her before she could finish, and her words ended in a half scream, half laugh.

“No, wait. Please! I have something very serious to tell you.”

He released her and rolled off her but only barely. “If this is a trick…” he teased.

“It’s not a trick.” She sat up and noticed how his eyes lingered on the way her nightdress pulled tight against her bosom. She didn’t think she would ever get tired of the way he looked at her.

It was well after midnight and he’d only returned from his shift at the club a quarter hour ago.

Just long enough to strip down to his drawers and crawl into bed with her.

She had changed from reading a text she had been assigned at college on Roman history to Persuasion by Jane Austen, the book they were currently reading together.

Camille and Jacob had given them a suite in the house attached to Montague Club.

Since they spent most of their time in Paris now, the arrangement worked well.

It had three bedrooms, a drawing room, a parlor, and a study.

Daisy had one of the rooms. A nanny came during the day to help take care of Daisy when Eliza had her studies and Simon his work.

One day they would find their own home, but this suited them now.

Heni had decided that she wanted to attend a highly recommended girls’ school in the country, and she came home to her own room to live with them on holidays and breaks.

Thanks to Eliza’s inheritance, they had been able to fund several scholarships to the school for girls in Whitechapel.

She hoped to fund many more in the years to come.

She had also begun to work with August, Violet, and her sisters to open a trade school for the older children there who otherwise would be forced to become laborers.

She moved to the little writing desk she kept in their spacious bedroom and rifled through the books there until she found the leather-bound portfolio she sought.

When she turned back to him, he was lying against the pillows, one arm behind his head, watching her in obvious appreciation.

A nervous quiver flickered in her stomach.

When August had brought the file to her earlier that day, it had seemed like such a good idea, but now she wasn’t so sure.

What if he didn’t want to know? What if it had been best to leave things alone?

She padded over to the bed and sat down beside him.

“Since August is active on the board of the London Home for Young Women and the orphanage attached to it, I asked if she might use her contacts to look into the old foundling home’s records.”

He stilled and his gaze dropped to the folder in her hand.

“It took some time, but she was finally able to locate where their records had been stored.”

“What did they find?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I haven’t looked inside because I thought you might not want me to, or that you might not want to know yourself. But it’s here if you decide that you do.”

He looked at the folder she had placed on the bed for a long time before he picked it up. Then he moved with purpose and efficiency, determined to see the task through. She had seen him that way at work. Something she got to do frequently now that she had unfettered access to the club.

He pulled out a few handwritten scraps of paper. His name was on top of one and Mary’s on the other. “It says we were found in December 1855. They believe I was four months old and Mary a year and a half when we were left.”

“That means you’re twenty-three years old.”

He nodded.

“Perhaps you were born in August, then?”

“That would be a good guess.” He scanned the pages and said, “There doesn’t seem to be much of anything else. Care to look?”

She took the papers from him and he was right. The people who had found them had given statements; there was no other identifying information, but at least he knew his age.

Setting the papers and folder aside, she said, “Shall we celebrate your birthday on our wedding anniversary, or would you like your own day?”

He smiled and pulled her onto his lap. “You’ve found a way to make the best day of my life even better.”

“You are entirely too charming for words, Mr. Cavell.”

She kissed him until they both had to come up for air and he said, “Now about that punishment…”

“You’ve been threatening to turn me over your knee for ages. You’re just looking for an excuse.”

“Looks as if I’ve found it,” he growled playfully. “Now still yourself so we can be done with it. I want to know the rest of what Captain Wentworth wrote to Anne.”

She squealed and tried to get away, but it was too late. She was caught and she loved every minute of it.