“Must we read another chapter?” Mary sighed.

Normally, she would rather bite off her own tongue than say such a blasphemous thing. The book she was reading aloud to her sister—Villette, by Charlotte Brontë—was interesting enough, but it was difficult not to pray for an end to the current torture. Because three feet away on a bedside table, a vase of fresh-cut flowers sneered at her.

Every time she took a breath, her nose filled with the scent of roses.

Eleanor struggled to find a comfortable sitting position on her bed. “Not if you do not wish it.” She lowered her bare feet from the pillow—a necessary concession, given that her house slippers had purportedly ceased to fit sometime last week. “I confess, I have already read it. Ashington bought me the book before he left.” She smiled dreamily. “He thought it would help me pass the time until his return, the sweet dear. He really is the most thoughtful husband.”

Mary schooled herself not to react to the sound of her brother-in-law’s name. It had been this way for two exasperating days. Ashington, this. Ashington, that. Good heavens, the way her sister nattered on about her absent husband, one would think Lord Ashington hung the moon each night and single-handedly paved streets of gold.

Mary herself was less than impressed. She couldn’t help but think that a properly thoughtful husband might have timed his business trip to avoid his new wife’s final days of pregnancy.

Irritated by her own irritation, she looked down at her ink-stained fingers, rubbing at a particularly persistent spot on her thumb. She’d spent more time than usual writing in her journal since her arrival, and her fingers bore witness to her boredom, but writing in her journal was preferable to sitting here breathing in rose-scented air. “If you have already read it, you should have told me.” She felt more than a little cross. “We might have chosen to do something different.”

“But I thought you would enjoy it. It is by one of your favorite authoresses—”

“Eleanor,” Mary interrupted, her voice coming out sharper than she intended. How long had she been here in London? Two days? It felt like a year. Since her brief, ill-advised foray into the garden yesterday morning, she’d stayed safely—and miserably—inside the town house. She spent most of her time with her sister, who spent most of her time in bed. And Eleanor’s bedroom was beginning to feel as though there ought to be bars on the windows.

She looked up, not even sure why she felt so out of sorts. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Eleanor, but you shouldn’t be worrying about me. It is my job to worry about you. I am supposed to be your companion during this confinement.”

But she wasn’t proving very good at it, snapping over kind gestures, unwilling to read a perfectly pleasant book. An apology was needed, of that she was sure. But before she could find the words to beg forgiveness for her churlish behavior, her sister gave a low moan from the bed.

Mary jumped from her chair, the book and the flowers and her irritation forgotten. “Is everything all right?” She placed a hand against Eleanor’s forehead, her mind racing with all the things that could be wrong.

Ruptured spleen. Cholera.

Poisoned by the beef served at luncheon.

But one possibility needed no imaginative embellishment to send her stomach twisting: it was at least two months too early for the baby to come.

“Should I ring for a maid?” she asked, worried. “Call the doctor?”

“No, the doctor is due to stop by this afternoon anyway, and I—oomph.” Eleanor breathed out through her nose, then took up Mary’s hand and pressed it against her abdomen. “I think the baby is just feeling a bit vigorous today.”

Mary felt a violent kick beneath her palm, and gasped at the force of it.

Eleanor offered a thin smile. “He is going to be as strapping as Ashington, I fear.”

Mary hovered, afraid to keep her hand in place, afraid to pull it way. The thump came again, hard enough to startle her, even though she was anticipating it now. Good heavens, how was her sister surviving such an internal assault? It suddenly occurred to her that a ruptured spleen might not be such a far-fetched notion, after all.

She looked up at her sister, studying her face. Eleanor tried to hide her exhaustion behind a veil of happy smiles and rice powder, but the powder couldn’t hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes, or the way her shoulders hunched forward. Mary was reminded, in that moment, of how much she didn’t know. How much she would never know. She was twenty-six years old, unmarried, and only permitted this terrifying glimpse into impending motherhood because her sister had sought to share it with her.

She pulled her hand away from her sister’s stomach as the maid came in to announce the doctor’s perfectly timed arrival. She still felt shaken by the strength in that kick. She’d read enough about heroines who died in childbirth to know what was at stake here.

As they waited for the doctor to be shown up, Eleanor pursed her lips, seeming to sense the shift in her mood. “What is the matter?”

Mary shook her head. Eleanor always teased her about her vivid imagination, and she’d learned long ago to keep such thoughts to herself. “It is nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mary.” Eleanor wagged a finger at her. “I’ve always been able to sense when something is bothering you.”

“That’s because you were usually the one doing the bothering.”

“Tell me.” Eleanor wiggled her fingers. “Or I shall have to tickle it out of you as I did when we were children.”

“As if you could catch me in your condition,” Mary scoffed, softening her sarcasm with a smile. “It is just . . . aren’t you worried? About the coming birth?”

“Goodness, what a question.” Eleanor shook her head hard enough to set her diamond earbobs swinging—another gift from dear Ashington, no doubt. “Why should I be worried?”

Mary swallowed her immediate response. Not to put too fine a point on it, but why shouldn’t her sister be worried? Books were full of morbid examples of women dying, in the most terrible, gruesome ways. Childbirth was but one of the ways a heroine could meet her end. There was also gunshot, consumption, carriage accidents, summer colds . . .

Not to mention the ever-popular pox.

But those were not the sort of things one said out loud, especially not to a woman in the final stages of her confinement. “You could have twins,” Mary improvised, trying to steer her own mind away from the worst possible outcome. “Or triplets.” She leaned forward. “I recently read an article in the newspaper where a woman had four babies at once.”

Eleanor gaped up at her. “Honestly, Mary, four babies? At once? I am not a dog delivering puppies, you know. Your imagination is given too much free rein.” She rolled her eyes. “Too many books, I should say.”

“It isn’t that imaginative of an idea.” Mary flushed. “Multiples are not uncommon. We are twins, after all.” She hesitated, wanting to say more. She couldn’t tell Eleanor the full direction of her thoughts, not when her imagination—always active, thanks to reading so many gothic tales—was insisting on conjuring the specter of a future without her sister.

But she couldn’t quite leave it alone, either. She picked up her sister’s hand and squeezed it gently. “In all seriousness, aren’t you afraid of . . . complications?”

“Why must there be complications?” Eleanor looked pained by the notion. “Childbirth is a very natural process. Nothing to fear. I am young and healthy and, most importantly, determined to deliver this child with all due haste.” She looked up at the sound of the door opening, a genuine smile replacing her frown. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Merial?”

Mary turned her head to see a handsome man stepping into the room, a light dusting of gray hair peppering the dark hair at his temples. Surprise and dusty memories swept through her. Dr. Merial had been her family’s doctor when she was younger, but he’d moved his practice to London over a decade ago. She hadn’t seen him in an age.

“Dr. Merial!” she gasped.

The physician set a leather bag down on the bedside table as he smiled at Mary. “Miss Channing, what a pleasant surprise to see you again. I trust Lord and Lady Haversham are doing well?”

The mention of her brother and sister-in-law untangled Mary’s tongue and reminded her that this man was a close family friend, no matter that it had been some time since she had seen him. “Er . . . yes, Patrick and Julianne are doing very well, thank you.” She shot her sister an accusing glance. “It is just . . . that is . . . Eleanor didn’t tell me you were her doctor.”

“If you ever came to London, you would have already known it without me telling you,” Eleanor answered dryly.

“I see many patients in Mayfair,” Dr. Merial explained. “My wife’s family lives just down the street, so it is convenient to check in on Lady Ashington regularly.” He turned to Eleanor and picked up her wrist, measuring her pulse. “It is good to see you are properly following my orders for bedrest, Lady Ashington, especially after that fainting business last month.”

Eleanor shrugged meekly. “Ashington told me I must follow my doctor’s orders. And I always do what Ashington tells me.”

Mary frowned, and not because of the mention of Lord Ashington’s name again. Eleanor had fainted last month? And was under orders for bedrest? Good gracious. That was the sort of information one really ought to share with one’s companion.

“Dr. Merial,” she blurted out, as if she and Eleanor were ten years old again and telling on each other for every imagined transgression. “You should know she greeted me at the front door when I arrived and climbed the stairs to personally show me to my room. And she takes breakfast downstairs every morning.”

From the bed, Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Need I remind you, dear sister, that you are here as my companion, not my jailor?”

“Still arguing, I see.” Dr. Merial chuckled as he loosened his hold on Eleanor’s wrist. “Never did see a pair of twins less alike. Well, I suppose an occasional turn about the upper floors won’t do you any harm, Lady Ashington.” He looked sternly down at his patient. “I would not recommend you attempt the stairs without a sturdy footman to support you, however. It’s easy enough to take your breakfast abed, and given your recent fainting spells, you risk a fall too easily.” He moved on to place a hand on Eleanor’s swollen middle, pressing gently. “As we have discussed at length, you need to avoid undue excitement and surprises, at least until after the baby is born.”

“Yes, Dr. Merial,” Eleanor said meekly.

Too meekly.

Mary’s eyes narrowed. Eleanor had never been one to accept her lot in life without argument. And that meant Mary was going to need to watch her sister more closely.

Dr. Merial completed his examination and took a step back, relief evident on his face. “Well, the good news is the baby has started to turn. I don’t think you will need to worry about the possibility of a breech birth.” He picked up his bag. “In fact, I think you might need to be prepared for the possibility you may deliver early. Perhaps as early as July.”

Eleanor blushed, prompting a faint suspicion to take root. Mary began to count in her head. It had been seven months since Eleanor’s whirlwind October wedding, so hastily arranged no family from Yorkshire had even been able to attend.

An eight-month baby was not unheard of. But then . . . shouldn’t such a baby be small? It felt as if there was a cricket player batting about inside her sister’s stomach. Perhaps dear Ashington wasn’t nearly the saint her sister had painted him to be. It was a notion that nearly made her smile.

As Dr. Merial turned in the direction of the door, his gaze drifted toward the discarded book that still lay on the chair beside the bed. “Still reading, I see.” His eyes met Mary’s. “I recall you always had your nose in a book as a child, but it seems you have moved on from fairy tales. Are you enjoying Miss Brontë’s novel?”

“Yes. She is quite a gifted authoress.” Mary hesitated, given that thinking of Miss Brontë’s eventual dismal fate in childbirth made fresh worry crawl beneath her skin. “But I prefer Mrs. Gaskell as an authoress, truth be told,” she added, thinking of the novel Ruth, which she had read just last month and which was waiting abovestairs to be read again.

Of course, the heroine of that particular story had been pregnant as well, led astray by a handsome, dastardly villain. Goodness, why couldn’t a book’s heroine lead a staid, bookish life once in a while? Probably because no one would ever want to read about a character like that.

For example, she doubted anyone would ever write a biography about her.

Not unless they meant it to be an aid for insomnia.

“Mrs. Gaskell is an acquaintance of my wife’s. Mr. Dickens, as well.” Dr. Merial’s eyes met hers. “Would you like to meet them?”

The question made Mary squirm. “M-meet them?” she stammered. An image flashed through her head, of Mrs. Gaskell personally signing her cherished copy of Ruth. Or Mr. Dickens, signing her well-worn copy of Bleak House. But in spite of those exhilarating notions, other possibilities stirred in her mind. She might also collapse in a heap at Mr. Dickens’s feet, so overcome with excitement as to forget to breathe. Or she might trip over the hem of her gown and careen into Mrs. Gaskell, making her collapse in a heap at Mr. Dickens’s feet.

She suddenly realized both Eleanor and Dr. Merial were staring at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something. “I . . . ah . . . that is . . .” She flushed. Oh, good heavens.

Perhaps she might collapse in a heap right now.

“You must excuse my sister’s reaction, Dr. Merial.” Eleanor finally laughed from the bed. “You see, she quite worships books and their authors.”

Dr. Merial smiled kindly. “My wife is hosting a salon tonight, a charity event at St. Bartholomew’s Teaching Hospital. To benefit injured soldiers and see to their long-term care. A good many have settled in London since the war, and so many of them are damaged, some in ways you can’t even see. I understand Mrs. Gaskell will be reading from her latest work, and Mr. Dickens will be there as well. If you enjoy reading even half as much as I remember you did as a child, you should go.”

“Go?” Mary echoed weakly. No matter how exciting the notion of meeting someone like Mrs. Gaskell, the idea that she might well make a fool of herself made her shake her head instead. “I am afraid . . . I couldn’t.”

“Of course you could. You will,” Eleanor interjected. “You must.”

Mary shot her sister a glare that—properly interpreted—meant they would talk about this later. “I’m afraid it isn’t possible. I am here in London as your companion, and I need to be here to make sure you follow Dr. Merial’s orders. What if you faint again?”

“I don’t need you to hover over me.” Eleanor gave her head an impatient shake, setting those diamond earbobs flashing. “I’ve plenty of servants to see to my every need, and besides, I am usually asleep with the sunset these days. And stop trying to change the subject. We are talking about you, at the moment, not me. You must go. I quite insist.”

Mary spread her hands. “But I am unmarried,” she protested, knowing enough about rules and etiquette to at least understand the impossibility of it. “I don’t have a proper chaperone.”

“And whose fault is it that you are still unmarried, given that you refused to have a Season?” Eleanor shot back, her cheeks growing pink with agitation.

Dr. Merial stepped in between them, his hands raised in a conciliatory fashion. “Now, ladies, surely there is no need to argue about this. My wife would be happy to serve as chaperone, as well as provide a personal introduction to Mrs. Gaskell and Mr. Dickens. And Lady Ashington, I am sure, will promise to stay abed tonight.” He looked between them, as if the matter was decided. “Shall I send the carriage around at seven?”

“She is pleased to accept,” Eleanor answered firmly.

Dr. Merial turned back toward the door, then seemed to think of one more thing. “Oh, and Lady Ashington?” he called over one shoulder.

“Yes?”

“It is all well and good to always listen to your husband, though I have yet to meet a female who actually does, but do try to do everything I tell you as well. No more arguing with your sister.” He winked in Mary’s direction. “It isn’t good for the baby.”

Eleanor nodded meekly from her bed. “Of course.” But as soon as Dr. Merial pulled the door shut behind him, she swung her legs over the side of the mattress, her eyes rounded with excitement. “Now, first things first. We need to find you a proper dress.” She began to waddle toward the wardrobe, one hand pressed against the small of her back.

Mary trailed behind, her hands fluttering in objection. “Should you . . . ah . . . that is, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“That brown serge you are wearing is hideous,” Eleanor said, flinging open the doors to the wardrobe, “even by Yorkshire standards. My good blue silk should do for you, I think.” She pulled a cerulean swath of fabric from the depths of the overflowing closet, regarding it with pursed lips. “Thank goodness at least one of us will still fit into it.”

Mary wrung her hands, desperately wanting her sister safely back in bed. “I can’t go, Eleanor,” she countered. It wasn’t that she couldn’t imagine it. Her imagination was nothing if not vivid. She might go and have a lovely time. Meet a dozen authors and confess her secret desire to write her own stories. But none of that was going to happen. Nothing exciting ever happened, not to her. Exciting adventures were for fictional characters, not real life.

And that was why she was going to decline Dr. Merial’s kind invitation and fall asleep reading a book tonight, thank you very much.

Her sister turned, her hands full of blue silk. “Oh, and I suppose you think it would be more fun to stay home tonight and read about your favorite authors?”

Mary cringed. Drat it all, Eleanor had always been able to see into her mind.

Her sister’s brow rose high. “Or perhaps you think it would be more fun to write in your journal about all the things you aren’t doing?”

Mary gasped. “How did you know I write in a journal?”

“For heaven’s sake, your hands are always covered in ink!” Eleanor sighed in exasperation. “Honestly, Mary, can’t you see why this is important? You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding behind other people’s stories.”

“I’m not hiding. I am just . . . shy.”

“Shy?” Eleanor snorted. “I should say spineless.” She held the dress up like a threat. “You didn’t used to be this way, you know. You used to be eager for a fun adventure. Do you remember when we were nine years old and I fell in the duck pond? You told me there were fairies imprisoned at the bottom, and said they needed to be rescued. And when I tried to save them and lost my footing, you waded in and hauled me out?” She narrowed her eyes at Mary. “That girl would be brave enough to go to a literary salon.”

“I . . . that is . . .” Mary hesitated. What was she supposed to say to that? She well remembered the day Eleanor was describing, but she remembered it a bit differently. “That wasn’t a fun adventure,” she protested. “You nearly drowned.”

“That is neither here nor there. The point is that it was your idea to save the fairies. You always had good ideas, endless lists of things we might do, adventures we might find. But something changed after Eric and Father died.” Eleanor’s face grew pinched. “You lost the spark that used to define you. The spark I know is still hiding in there, somewhere.”

Mary winced, as much at the reminder of that dark time in her life as the criticism in her sister’s voice. Eric and Father. It was too much, to hear Eleanor say their names, especially so soon on the heels of seeing Dr. Merial again. She could still remember the day Dr. Merial had sat them both down, his face ashen, to tell them of Eric’s death. And then, not even a year later, he’d had to do it again, telling them of their father’s sudden, unfortunate passing.

“Don’t you want to meet a nice gentleman someday?” Eleanor went on, apparently oblivious to the dusty memories she was stirring. “Fall in love, have children? It is what Father and Eric would have wanted, you know.”

“I . . . that is . . .” But the thought wouldn’t form. Mary’s head was spinning in reverse now. Their brother, Eric, had been killed when the girls were nine, not even two months after their “adventure” in the duck pond. He’d been shot in cold blood, and for a time everyone had believed his killer was their other brother, Patrick. Then their father, the Earl of Haversham, had been poisoned to pave the way for a cousin to inherit the title. If they had been ordinary deaths—influenza, or consumption, for example—they might have been easier to understand.

To accept.

But they had been violent deaths, the stuff of nightmares, and to Mary, the world had been painted in perfect, stark relief by those experiences. Books had become her refuge, a far safer way to learn about the world.

But it was clear Eleanor thought they had become her crutch, instead.

“The point is,” Eleanor went on, “life is something you have to live, and husbands are something you have to seek. Neither falls willy-nilly into your lap. And you can’t do either of those things if you keep reading those unrealistic novels!”

“My books aren’t that unrealistic,” Mary protested weakly. “And I do intend to eventually marry.” At Eleanor’s dubious frown, she trotted out the same tired argument she always gave when her feet hesitated to follow her imagination. “I do. I just need more time.”

Time to rediscover that mysterious spark her sister was nattering on about. Time to find a husband who might have a hope of measuring up to the heroes in her books.

“More time?” Eleanor snorted. “For heaven’s sake, you’re nearly on the shelf! It’s been over fifteen years since Father and Eric died, but you still act and dress as if you are in mourning. Life isn’t a fairy tale, and you don’t need more time, Mary. You need more opportunities, and I intend to see that you take them.” She draped the dress she was holding across the wardrobe door, then placed her hand on the rounded shelf of her abdomen. “Don’t you realize this is why I asked you to come to London?”

“I am here because you need me,” Mary said slowly. Stupidly. “Your husband was called away on business, and you required a companion during your confinement.”

“Not only that.” Eleanor frowned. “I have plotted this for months, with Julianne and Patrick’s help. We knew you wouldn’t come to London for yourself, given that you refused to even have a Season.”

Mary blinked, her imagination helpfully filling in the blanks. “Julianne and Patrick helped you plan this?” she whispered. She could well imagine Eleanor meddling in the tedious chapters of her life, but it hurt more, somehow, to know that her sister-in-law and brother were tied up in all of this, too. Embarrassment bloomed as she considered what it all meant. Her family pitied her. Pitied her boring, bookish days and her looming, lonely life.

And God help her, she was beginning to see why.

“Yes.” Eleanor at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable about her confession. “We knew my confinement was our only chance to get you away from home, to help you see something of the world. You are generous to a fault, Mary. I knew you would not refuse my request, not if you thought I really needed you. But I did not ask you here to be at my beck and call. I want you to enjoy these two months with me. And this is the perfect occasion. You may never get another chance to meet Mrs. Gaskell and Mr. Dickens. You will regret it if you do not take this opportunity.”

“I know,” Mary breathed. And in spite of her irritation with the notion that her family was plotting against her, she found herself leaning toward the idea of going.

Perhaps it was her sister’s harsh words, or perhaps it was an acknowledgment of her own failings, but she felt a restless shifting inside her. No matter what Eleanor thought of her, she did want to imagine her future held something brighter than books. That she might one day be something more than a timid spinster, reading about someone else’s adventures.

“But it is my choice whether or not to go, not yours.” Mary crossed her arms about her middle. “I will agree to think on it.”

Eleanor, though, played her final, winning card. “No.” She pressed her hand against her stomach, wincing. “You will do it, no thinking allowed. Arguing about it only threatens to push me closer to a premature labor, and you heard what Dr. Merial said about that. So you are going, dear sister.” She picked up the blue silk gown again and thrust it toward Mary like a weapon. “And I won’t hear another word against it.”