She reflected on their conversation in the carriage, before Bacchus had kissed her. With her free hand, she tentatively touched her lips.
He cares for you, she carefully admitted, keeping the thought far from the paper. It was still hard to believe, hard to swallow, hard to feel, but she wanted to feel it. She’d spent her whole life wanting to be wanted. To be . . . loved.
Biting on the inside of her lower lip, building her courage, she wrote, I do. And set the pencil down.
Several seconds passed before the enchantment took hold of it again. Perhaps I could see you sooner?
Warmth bloomed in her breast. She wrote, I would love a stroll in Hyde Park.
His reply, I can be there within an hour.
It would take her an hour to get there herself. I’ll find a cab in Brookley. Her hand shook a little on the letters, and she halfheartedly chided herself for letting her excitement get the better of her. She needed to talk to him about the newspapers—she’d been very roundabout when writing to him before, unsure if someone else might read it—but she didn’t want to ruin the mood by insinuating she merely wanted to talk shop.
Bacchus took the pencil from her grip and simply scrawled, Thank you, Elsie.
In her mind, Elsie replied, I love you, Bacchus, and it startled her hand from taking the pencil up again. Her pulse galloped; she pressed suddenly cool fingers to its rhythm. She stared at the green pencil, waiting for it to move—afraid that it would, terrified that it wouldn’t. But the conversation would continue only if she wrote something, and she didn’t dare pick up the pencil with that thought echoing so loudly within her skull.
She took a deep breath, then another, to calm herself before taking the paper and folding it carefully, stowing it away in her drawer for later reading. She replaced it with fresh parchment and gingerly lay the green pencil atop it. Antsy for distraction, she moved to the small mirror on her wall and tidied her hair, pinned on her hat, and readied her reticule before finding Ogden in the sitting room.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she started carefully—he had his sketchbook in hand and was staring at the sketch of a more youthful Lily Merton. “We don’t have a lot of orders ready . . . Bacchus was hoping I could go to London to take care of some . . . affairs. Regarding the Duke of Kent.” She’d mentioned the situation to Ogden last night after the attack.
He glanced up. “Of course. I should probably work on something, shouldn’t I? Income is a fairly important matter.”
Elsie smiled. “I can’t imagine why you aren’t jumping at the chance to finish the squire’s likeness.” She shrugged. “I don’t mind the free time.”
“Your purse might mind its lightness soon enough.” He set down the sketchbook. “You’ll return late?”
“I think so.”
He nodded. “Take care.”
Offering a wave, Elsie closed the door to a crack and forced herself not to skip down the stairs, opting for the back door and taking the shortcut into town. She went to the hotel, where she found a cab just dropping off its passengers. She hailed it, announced her destination, and hopped inside. The carriage pulled away as soon as the horses were watered.
Sighing, Elsie leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling the familiar bumps of Brookley pass beneath the carriage wheels. As they pulled out of town and merged with the main road, she leaned forward and opened her reticule, counting the notes in it. She’d spent a large percentage of her life savings on her trip to Juniper Down and Reading. The rest, save some change, had been returned to her account at the bank. She had just enough for this trip.
Ogden’s earlier comment about income surfaced in her thoughts. Was it too early for her to take on spellbreaking assignments herself? Perhaps if Irene came with her . . . Of course, she’d be a married woman soon. Her finances would be taken care of, and Ogden would have one less mouth to feed until he hired her replacement. Still, Elsie itched to make her own way in the world. She adored and trusted Bacchus, but given that she had a lucrative gift, she didn’t need to be dependent on him. Or she wouldn’t need to once the bother with this “training” was finished. Then she could help him, Ogden, Reggie, Emmeline, and anyone else occupying space in her heart.
Her thoughts quickly turned to Bacchus. Soon she would be Mrs. Kelsey. It had a nice ring to it, so long as her first name was omitted. She should ask Reggie if she had a middle name! Perhaps it was her mother’s given name. Did he remember that? He hadn’t been able to find them, so perhaps not. Or maybe they had changed their names, or wandered so far that no one could find them. Who knew if they were still in Britain at all.
She frowned at the familiar ache that always accompanied thoughts of her parents, but she pushed it away. Elsie Amanda Camden. Amanda Kelsey, she tried. That sounded well. So did Elsie Elizabeth. Was that too many E’s for a name? Elsie Mary. Hmmm . . . no.
Perhaps Bacchus had a name he was fond of. Though he was just as likely to tell her Elsie Kelsey wasn’t silly at all and she should keep it. Elsie rolled her eyes. He would.
Her gaze fell to the sapphire ring on her finger, and she tilted her hand, letting it catch a wink of sunlight coming through the window. It sparked patterns across the carriage wall, like a cluster of fairies.
Did Bacchus love her? She couldn’t imagine it. She tried to picture the words coming from his lips, honest and earnest in his Bajan accent, but her mind refused to stitch the daydream together. She couldn’t be the first to admit it. What if they went years without saying it, even after they married, and she finally mustered up the courage to tell him how she felt, only for him to look at her with pity and say something ridiculous, like You’re a good woman or I’m glad, and Elsie was left feeling like a fool for the rest of her years, exposed like a half-healed wound, a stranger in her own house?
She thought of Alfred. He’d told her he loved her. Multiple times. But he’d never once meant it.
Elsie covered the ring with her other hand, snuffing its sparkles.
She dared to hope, but hoping hurt. It was only wise to keep it in check. To let no more than a thin trickle seep in until she found better footing.
But whatever Bacchus felt for her, whether it was affection and friendship or something more, she loved him. She knew it, and it hurt like she’d drunk too-hot tea that had scalded her throat. Like her heart was somehow too big and too small for her body. Like it pulsed his name, and anyone who listened would be able to hear it.
Sighing, Elsie glanced out the window just as a man on horseback rushed toward it, perpendicular to the road. A dark-brown cloak billowed behind him, and a dark mask covered his face.
Then he raised a pistol and fired.
Elsie screamed. The horses whinnied and jerked, and the carriage bucked, as though rolling over something large. It took a moment for Elsie to realize the rider had shot her driver. He must have fallen from his seat and . . . and . . . God help them, if the bullet hadn’t killed him, the trampling would have.
It felt like Elsie’s spirit had abandoned her body, leaving her skin and bones numb, like they were someone else’s. She barely registered the highwayman whisking by her window to slow the horses, but she had enough sense to push herself to the other side of the carriage, feeling for a door handle. Of course there was only one door, and the highwayman, still mounted, was already wrenching it open.
Elsie gathered herself enough to throw her reticule at him. Part of her feared he was no simple thief, but she had to try. “Take it, please! Just leave me be!”