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Chapter Text

        When they leave Scotland Yard that October night, it is just beginning to drizzle outside, so light that most native Londoners like herself—used to the often-dreary nature of England’s weather—might not even notice it. Truthfully, she doesn’t give the drizzle much thought as William helps her into the carriage, her mind on something entirely different from the weather.

         She swears nothing, not even a tempest, could dampen her mood in this moment.

         Eliza slips inside, and he is about to follow her, but she turns back, pauses, smiles, before leaning over to kiss him softly on the mouth. When he kisses her back, she can feel him smiling against her face, and it makes her smile too, feeling so happy she could burst.

         They have taken many carriage rides together over the years—some filled with laughter and merriment, others tense with silence—but none of them have ever felt like this before. He slips onto the seat beside her and closes the carriage door, instructing the driver to take them to her address. The carriage pulls away from the pavement with a jerk, and the movement pushes them even closer together, a laugh slipping from her lips at the unexpected bump. They’ve taken many carriage rides, but he’s never sat this close to her before, and their eyes meet before he leans in to kiss her once more.

         The carriage lurches around the corner, and she feels one of the wheels jerk, hears a puddle splash water against the side of the vehicle, but Eliza’s mind is only on William. When they pull back, he looks at her with warm eyes and a little smile, and she laughs again.

         “Well,” he says, “what is it that you find so amusing?”

         “Nothing,” she says, then: “Everything.” Grinning, she plants a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I love you.”

         His smile broadens, and he lifts her hand so he may press his lips against it. “And I love you.”

         That small brush of his lips is enough to make her skin flush with heat, and her heartbeat quickens as she comprehends their newfound closeness. After loving him silently for so many years, this situation they now find themselves in still doesn’t feel real to her. This is a dream, surely. She’ll wake up at any moment.

         But, no, it’s all very real.

         He loves her.

         She loves him.

         She smiles, turning in her seat to fix her eyes towards the front of the carriage, but she wordlessly reaches for his hand, and he gives it readily, slipping his fingers through hers. Eliza doesn’t know how she managed to hide her feelings from him—and even from herself, for a time—because now that she’s finally said the words, she thinks she could say them over and over again and never get tired of them.

         It feels wonderful to be in love.

         She’s always prided herself on being an independent woman, someone who can take care of herself and doesn’t need another person to make her life whole. But, while she doesn’t need William to complete her life, she also knows her life is much better due to his presence in it. For years now, she’s found herself—without meaning to—searching for him in every crowded room, or noticed her heart go aflutter when he enters her presence.

         For a long time, she never allowed herself to acknowledge those feelings as love, because she didn’t believe she could have him. It was easier to conceal, to push those feelings deep down, than confront the reality that she was in love with her best friend, and she didn’t know if he could love her back.

         To know now, after all this time, that her feelings are returned, that she can finally have something she’s wanted so desperately, makes her heart thrum with excitement. She doesn’t know what the future holds, and there are still logistics to work out as they navigate this new relationship, but for this moment, knowing that he loves her is enough.

         They will figure everything out, because they are determined to be together, and there’s nothing the two of them can’t accomplish if they face it as a team. She really believes that.

         They pass most of the ride in silence, but it’s not the silence that comes after an argument. Instead, it’s the sweet, companionable silence that comes when two people are content to simply be together. Impulsively, Eliza rests her head on his shoulder. She’s never done that before, and she quickly discovers she likes it a great deal.

         When the carriage turns onto her street, the drizzle has increased into a steady drip, rain fogging up the carriage windows, the drops pounding as hard and fast as her happy heart. Though it is almost four in the morning by now, and she is exhausted, she’s almost disappointed to be home.

         William pushes open the carriage door and squeezes her hand. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

         They hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella—it didn’t seem important at the time—and she frowns, watching puddles form on the cobblestones. “It’s all right,” she says. “You don’t need to get wet. I can see myself in.”

         William raises an eyebrow at her, giving her a look. She realizes it’s not antiquated chivalry that dictates his actions now, but a desire to put off the goodbye for a few more moments, and this time when he offers to help her out, she accepts.

         They walk arm-in-arm toward the door. At this late hour—or early one, depending on your point of view—the street is silent and dark, all the houses hushed as their occupants slumber, and Eliza retrieves her key. After she slips it into the lock, however, she turns back around to look at William without opening the door, her hand rising to the back of his neck. “Is it possible,” she asks, “to die from happiness?”

         He smiles, a hand slipping to her waist. “It must not be, since we’re both still standing here right now.”

         Ignorant of the steadily increasing rain, she grins and brings her mouth to his once more. It feels so good to finally be able to kiss him any time she’d like. How did she go all these years without kissing him? Now that she knows what it can be like, she doesn’t know how she’s ever lived without it.

         She pulls back to look into his eyes. “I do love you,” she says softly. “And I think now might be the right time for us.”

         She knows she has made mistakes and kept her feelings to herself, but she won’t let anything tear them apart. Not this time.

         He smiles slightly. “Well,” he says, “if a deranged man with a knife couldn’t separate us, I don’t think anything can.”

         That gets a reluctant chuckle from her, and she glances up at him shyly through her lashes. “Are you certain you can’t come inside?”

         He hesitates, his thumb running gently across her knuckles, but then he shakes his head. “As much as I wish I could, it’s very late. Tongues will wag.” But off her disappointed look, he cups her chin, tilting her face upwards to meet his eyes. “And besides, Eliza, we have all the time in the world.”

         Her mouth twitches. Though she’s disappointed, she understands. “All right. Goodnight, then. Try to get some sleep.” She gives him another quick peck before reluctantly prying herself away.

         “May I call upon you tomorrow?” he asks.

         “You better. I shall feel very ill-used if you don’t.”

         They exchange a smile, and he slowly backs away from her, but at the last moment comes back for one more brief kiss, and she laughs into his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

         She smiles at him as he starts back off towards the carriage. “As soon as work is over. I’ll be waiting.”

         He rolls his eyes, then grins. “Goodnight Eliza.”

         “Goodnight William.”

         She waits until he’s safely inside the carriage, watches as it pulls away and starts off down the street, before she sighs and pushes open the front door. When the door closes behind her, she spins around and leans against it, closing her eyes and catching her breath. She realizes her knees are trembling, and she places a hand over her stomach, counting to ten in her head in an attempt to calm down, but nothing can still the erratic thumping of her heart.

         He loves her. She loves him.

         “Where have you been?”

         She opens her eyes and gasps audibly at the unexpected voice, her eyes landing on a half-concerned, half-irritated Ivy standing at the end of the foyer. “What are you still doing here?” Eliza asks, but her housekeeper marches towards her with her hands on her hips. It’s four a.m. Shouldn’t she be home asleep?

         Ivy doesn’t answer her. “I’m not the one who was running about London in the middle of the night, Lizzie.” Ivy comes to stand in front of her, and her eyes go wide when they land on Eliza’s neck. She reaches out to tentatively touch the lower right side of Eliza’s throat. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

         “Oh. That.” Eliza’s fingers absentmindedly brush over her bandage. “A murderer held a knife to my throat.”

         She shoots Ivy a sheepish smile, but her sentence only makes her housekeeper’s face go white, and she mutters something which sounds an awful lot like “good God.” “Lizzie! Goodness. Come into the kitchen, so I can see it in the light…”

         She starts to head that way, but Eliza reaches out to clasp her hand, and Ivy looks back at her, growing progressively more and more perplexed by the moment. “Please, Ivy, I’m fine. Really, I am. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Oh, Ivy”—she sighs, biting her lower lip in an effort to contain her smile—“he loves me, Ivy.”

         “Who—the murderer?”

         She laughs and shakes her head. “No, no! William. He loves me, Ivy. He’s in love with me. Can you believe it?”

         Ivy stares at her for several seconds in silence, but then she frowns, the hands on her hips dropping to her sides. “Oh. Well, I could’ve told you that. That poor man’s been in love with you for years.”

         Eliza feels her cheeks beginning to ache, but it’s not enough to stop her from smiling. Is it possible to hurt yourself from smiling too much?

         Ivy steps closer to her, a question on her lips and the faintest glimmer of hope in her eyes. “And,” she asks, “are you in love with him, too?”

         She nods, beaming. “Yes. Yes, Ivy, I’m afraid I’m very much in love with him.”

         Her housekeeper’s lips falter into a smile, and when she looks at Eliza now, her eyes are soft and warm. Any attempts at being cross with Eliza have fallen to the wayside by this point. “Oh,” she says, voice quiet and trembling, “oh, my dear…” They smile at each other, both unable to contain their delight as they embrace.

         Eliza buries her face in Ivy’s shoulder, tears rushing to her eyes as her housekeeper hugs her tightly. After several minutes, Ivy pulls back, and when she looks at Eliza with a wobbly smile, tears glisten in her own eyes. She touches Eliza’s hair. “Oh, Eliza. Are you very happy?”

         She can’t find her voice, so she only nods in response, tears threatening to spill over. Ivy laughs out of mingled happiness and shock, squeezing her hand before releasing it. “I wish your father were here to see this. He would’ve been so glad.”

         Damn it. The mention of her father makes it impossible to keep it together, and the first tear slips down Eliza’s cheek, followed quickly by another. “You think so?”

         “Absolutely.”

         Her vision goes blurry, and Eliza blinks to fight off the tears, taking a deep breath. God, she still misses her father so much, and she knows he loved her and William more than anyone else in the world. She can practically hear his voice in her ears, saying the words he would’ve said if he were still alive: Well, it took the two of you long enough, didn’t it Lizzie? But you both were always so stubborn.

         She’s never been particularly devout, but if her father is someplace where he can see her, she hopes he’s smiling upon her.

         Ivy squeezes her forearm lightly, giving her a reassuring smile, and Eliza smiles back through her moist eyes. “Come,” Ivy says, pride filling her voice. “Let me take all those pins out of your hair, and you can tell me all about it. And don’t you dare leave out a single detail, hm?”  

Chapter Text

       Perhaps to other people, these rows of immaculate white townhouses in an upper-middle-class London neighborhood might look ordinary, even boring, following neatly one after another, but to William’s thirteen-year-old eyes, they look almost like palaces.

         Yes, the houses all look very similar, but they have their own personal touches, such as number 88 with its well-tended flowering shrubs, their blossoms vibrant orange, or the eye-catching brightness of the light blue door on number 92, painted to match their shutters. It’s nice to imagine the people inside picking out their plants or paint colors, delighting in customizing their homes.

         And the streets! The streets are so wide and clean, he’s almost overwhelmed by the room he has to roam. A well-dressed man with a briefcase and a stern brow hustles past him, looking like he is an important person off to do important things, and across the street, a woman in a dark green dress and wide-brimmed bonnet pushes a baby buggy. She stops, leans over to adjust the child’s white blanket, and then she smiles, showing her teeth, joy filling her face.

         He watches the woman for a moment, the sight making him happy and sad in equal measure, but then she turns her head towards him, having noticed his staring, and William quickens his pace, not looking back.

         He hopes that child will grow up to realize how lucky they are to live in a place like this, how lucky they are to have a mother to push them in their buggy or smile at them like that. They probably won’t, will probably—like everyone else—take it for granted, not understanding what a gift it is to have a normal house and normal parents and a normal life.

         William doesn’t know what it feels like to be normal. He hopes, someday, he might get to be.

         If he had a normal house, and a normal job, and a normal, loving family, he swears he would never take it for granted.

         But now is not the time to think about the past. He has to find Inspector Scarlet’s house.

         His acquaintance with the inspector had an unusual beginning, for he was the officer called to the scene when William was caught stealing. As he sat there and waited for his fate, he fully expected to be punished, his cheeks burning hot with shame as he thought about what he’d done. He knew it was wrong, but he’d been desperate. If he didn’t get the money to pay Mrs. Cameron by the end of the week, he would lose his bed at the boarding house, and then where would he be? Back on the streets, or—and this, in his mind, was worse—back at the workhouse.

         He would rather sleep in a jail cell than go back there.

         Except when Inspector Scarlet arrived, he hadn’t yelled at William, instead looking at the angry couple whose pockets William had tried to pick and saying: “You’ve called the police on this boy? He’s twelve years old.”

         “I’m thirteen,” William had insisted stubbornly. The statement made a reluctant smile pull at the inspector’s mouth.

         The couple insisted that he deserved to be reprimanded for his crime—after all, they said, how is a filthy little urchin supposed to become an upstanding member of society if he’s not taught about the hammer of justice?—but after the inspector promised to teach him a lesson and the couple stalked off begrudgingly, Inspector Scarlet instead bent down to William’s level and began asking him questions about his life: where he lived, where were his parents, did he want a bite to eat, etc.

         He wasn’t scary like William thought a policeman might be. He was actually sort of nice, and the conversation ended with the inspector asking William to come to his house for tea on Sunday, so they could talk further.

         William doesn’t like receiving handouts, but when Inspector Scarlet extended the offer to him…well, for a reason he can’t fully explain, William felt compelled to accept. He seemed nice enough, after all—maybe he really wanted to help. And at least he would get tea out of the deal. Hopefully, there will be cake. It’s been a long time since he’s had cake.

         Except now William doesn’t remember what Inspector Scarlet’s address is.

         He stares at the houses, none of their numbers triggering recognition, and his eyes prickle with tears. Damn it, he’s not going to cry. Not over something as stupid as this.

         Though, the thought that Inspector Scarlet will think he’s stood him up makes him feel really sad.

         “Are you lost?”

         He turns around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and sees a girl walking in his direction, accompanied by a small dog.

         The dog—a terrier of some sort—takes one look at him and starts running. Before he can wonder if the thing is going to attack him, it’s jumping up on his legs, pawing at him and barking repeatedly, tongue lolling in excitement.

         “Skip!” the girl calls. “Skip, what have I told you about jumping?”

         William frowns. The thing is cute, perhaps, but he really doesn’t want to meet Inspector Scarlet smelling like dog. “Shouldn’t you keep it on a leash?”

         “Oh, Skip is harmless!” She gestures for the little dog to come, and he immediately obeys his mistress, running back over to her with his tail wagging, circling her ankles several times before nestling in her skirts. “He usually doesn’t run up to people like that, so he must like you. I’ve heard it said dogs are good judges of character, and I can believe it, for Skip is more intelligent than many people I know.”

         Though he still believes he is in the right and this girl should keep a better eye on her pet, he can’t help but laugh a little at her last comment.  

         “So,” she says, “now that my dog’s jumped all over you, I’ll repeat my initial question. Are you lost?”

         The question makes him feel sort of self-conscious. “What was your first clue?”

         This girl looks to be a few years younger than him, perhaps ten or eleven, and her blond hair is pulled back into a braid, secured by a straw bonnet like so many ladies wear these days. The bonnet’s blue ribbons are untied, dangling at the sides of her face, and her dress is the same color, possessing a fashionably full skirt. She has a pretty, cheerful face, with lips twisted into a little smile, and he could picture her attending a tea party or strolling through the park or reading with her friends under a tree. She looks like she belongs in this neighborhood.

         William knows he most definitely does not.

         He glances down at the worn knees of his trousers, the visible scuff on his left boot. She probably thinks he’s a filthy urchin, just like that couple did.

        But the girl smiles, and says: “First off, I know everyone in this neighborhood, and I don’t know you. Secondly, you had a quizzical look on your face. Thirdly, the fact that you asked that further confirms my suspicion.”

         He stares at her for a moment, then chuckles. All right, so perhaps she isn’t judging him after all. “Yes,” he admits, “I am a bit lost. I’m looking for Inspector Henry Scarlet’s house. Do you know where that is?”

         Pink touches her cheeks, and she nods, smiling wider. “Of course! I can take you there, if you’d like.”

         “Really? Thank you.” He suddenly remembers his manners and extends his hand for her to shake, which she accepts. “I’m William Wellington. Pleased to meet you, Miss…?”

         She cuts him off. “You must call me Eliza. You said your name is Wellington, like the—?”

         “Like the Duke of?” Everyone always says that to him. If he had a sixpence for every time he heard it, he wouldn’t need to steal. “Yes, spelled exactly the same, too.”

         “Capital! I shall call you William, though. Mr. Wellington seems so formal. Might I?”

         “I suppose so.”

         “You see,” she says, “I’ve decided that we shall be friends. And friends call each other by their first names, don’t they?”

         I don’t know, he thinks, can’t say I’ve had many friends. “Don’t I get a say,” he asks instead, “as to whether we’re friends or not?”

         She smiles cheekily at him. “No.” Before he can respond, she threads her arm through his and nods toward one end of the street. “Come, Inspector Scarlet’s house is this way.”

         He walks with her in silence for a moment, the dog following obediently at his mistress’s heels. William supposes the thing is well-trained—not that he’ll tell her that. He glances cautiously at his new companion.

         She walks with a spring in her step, smiling slightly, like she knows her way around this neighborhood as well as she knows the back of her hand. There’s a confidence about her unusual in one so young. A thought comes to him. “You were walking alone when we met. Is that really a good idea?”  

         “You were walking alone,” she retorts immediately, the smile on her face remaining intact.

         “Yes, but that’s because I’m a—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unspoken word ringing in his head. That’s because I’m a man. He doesn’t finish the sentence, realizing how blunt it sounds, but from the twinkle in her eye, he thinks she’s already guessed what he meant. “London’s a busy city,” he says instead. “A lot can go wrong.” 

         “Oh, this neighborhood is perfectly safe, I assure you. And I can take care of myself.”

         He frowns. He’s suddenly reminded of the fact that this girl is still a child, still believes nothing can touch her. People always think they have their whole lives ahead of them—until something happens to them, or someone they love.

         “Bad things happen all over London,” he says, “not just in the poor neighborhoods.” He’s heard rich folks whisper about those people—how the poor and desolate have it coming, how they could get off the streets if they worked harder, how they might still be alive if they had respectable employment.

         What those people don’t realize is bad things can happen to anyone at any time, without rhyme or reason. It’s nice to tell yourself crime doesn’t happen to good people, that you can avoid tragedy if you work hard enough, but that’s only a pretty lie.

         She is a girl, so he will spare her the ugly details, though he has plenty of stories he could share if he really wanted to. “What does your father think about you gallivanting around like this?”

         She stares at him for a long moment in silence, blinking slowly, and then her face brightens with a big smile. “My father?” she repeats, stifling a giggle. “Oh, I assure you my father knows all about what I get up to.”

         He doesn’t understand what’s so funny, but he doesn’t press it any further. Someday, this girl will realize what the world is really like—with or without his help. He realizes, suddenly, that he’s not irritated by her naivete. He’s…well, envious. 

         He’s never had the luxury of childish innocence. He doesn’t know if he’s felt safe for a single day.

         William clears his throat and stares straight ahead, changing the subject. “Do you know Inspector Scarlet well?”

         She hesitates before responding. “Quite well. He’s lived on the same street for as long as I’ve been alive.”

         “What sort of man is he?”

         “A good one.” This time, there is no hesitation in her reply, and when he turns to glance at her, she is smiling to herself, seeming to be deep in thought. “Inspector Scarlet always wants to do the right thing. If he’s said he would help you, you can take him at his word.”

         William frowns. “How did you know he said he would help me?”

         She gives him an almost timid look, biting her lip. “An educated guess.”

         The self-consciousness tugs at him again, and he averts his eyes. He knows logically he shouldn’t care what she thinks of him—after all, he only met her five minutes ago—but, for some reason, he can’t stand the thought of her pitying him. “Ah, yes. I suppose I am just one in a long line of wayward youths Inspector Scarlet has given charity to.”

         “Not at all.” The girl—Eliza, she said her name was—gives him a sympathetic look. “The inspector has a soft spot for the downtrodden, yes, but he’s never brought someone home before.” Her eyes sparkle. “If he’s asked you to come all this way, he must see something special in you.”

         As they continue walking, he doesn’t say anything for several moments. Something special? In him? The thought is strange, but not unpleasant. No one has ever taken an interest in him before, not even his own father. Is it really possible that Inspector Scarlet likes him? Cares about him?

         No one has cared about William in a very long time.

         As they turn onto the next street, he dares to ask Eliza another question. “What about the family?”

         “What about them?”

         “Does he have one?”

         Eliza hesitates before answering. Though she has been cheery their entire conversation, he swears there is something almost forlorn lurking in her expression now. “His wife is dead,” she says with a hint of sadness.

         “Oh.” He feels almost bad for asking now.

         She looks up at him, and in an instant, the amusement returns to her face. She gives him a small smile, and he returns it weakly. “There is a daughter though.”

         “He mentioned her. Her name is…” He trails off, trying to conjure up the inspector’s words. “Lizzie,” William says firmly, remembering. That’s what the inspector had called her.

         “Lizzie.” The way Eliza says the name strikes him as queer. She scrunches up her nose, as if in disdain.

         “What?” he asks. “Do you not like the girl?” Inspector Scarlet seemed nice enough to him, so he has a hard time believing he could have raised a rude child. Then again, perhaps the girl is a snob. William wonders what she will have to say about her father bringing a thieving street urchin to their house. He suddenly wishes he could’ve found something nicer to wear.

         “I like her fine, though some say she is quite strange.” She giggles as Skip—William had almost forgotten the dog was there—runs past her down the pavement, up to the steps of a house. “She wants to be a detective.”

         “A detective?” He frowns. He’s never heard of a girl who wants to be a detective. “That is quite unusual.”

         “Do you object?”

         “Well…” He hesitates. He does not typically talk poorly of people he’s never met with people he only just met. “It’s not a suitable occupation for a young lady, is it?”

         “You do not give us enough credit. You’re not a woman hater, are you? That’s important for me to know if we are going to be friends.”

         “I’ve met women who are clever, certainly, but society has rules, you know. Why dream about something that’ll never happen? Besides, it’s already dangerous enough to be a woman in this world without detective work involved.”

         “I can’t argue with your last point,” she says, “but, surely, a woman should go after what she wants in this world, just as men do. Ours is not a just world, but can’t we change it?”

         He resists the urge to laugh at her innocence. “You are sweet to think so.” It’s almost funny. She really believes they can change the world—how sheltered her upbringing must have been! He knows from a lifetime of experience what this world is like. It’s cruel, and unforgiving, and he’s accepted that. Someday, she will have to do the same.

         She narrows her eyes. “As your friend, I’ll tell you I do not appreciate men talking to me as if I know nothing—but I like you, so I’ll let you off easy. This time.” Her eyes glint mischievously, and she nods in the direction of the house where Skip is waiting for them. “This is the place.” Then, she grabs his hand before he can speak. 

         The gesture surprises him, and he glances down at her hand, her fingers weaving through his as she leads him up the front steps, dragging him along behind her. William cannot recall the last time someone took his hand, and her palm is soft and warm. When she lets go of him to knock on the door, he is almost disappointed. 

         After a moment, a woman he assumes to be the housekeeper opens the door. She is wearing an apron over a light green dress, her hair pulled back out of her face, and her eyes narrow, a hand finding her hip. Much to William’s surprise, she’s not fixing the glare upon him, but upon his companion. “Where have you been?”

         Eliza smiles sheepishly. “Taking Skip for a walk.”

         This does not soften the housekeeper’s expression. He doesn’t have time to reflect on the meaning of the interaction before she says: “Lizzie, your father told you he was having a guest over today.”

         Wait. Lizzie?

         He turns to look at her in silent surprise, and Eliza shoots him a look, trying—and failing—to suppress her laughter. “But Ivy,” she says to the housekeeper while still looking at him, “Papa’s friend was lost and I found him and brought him here, so it’s really a good thing I was out, isn’t it? This is William Wellington.”

         The housekeeper—Ivy—drags her eyes away from Eliza and gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Pardon my manners. We are happy to have you here. Now, do come inside, dear. I’m sorry we couldn’t give you a more polite welcome.” She gives her young mistress a pointed look, but when Eliza smiles, it cracks her anger and she reluctantly smiles back.

         Eliza picks up her dog and grins at him. “Please come inside. For days, my father has been talking about how excited he is to have you, and Ivy was up late last night making a cake. It’s going to be very delicious, and since you’re our guest, I’ll let you have an extra-large slice.”  

         He opens his mouth, then closes it, at a loss for words.

         He’s only just met Eliza Scarlet, and already, she’s stunned him.

         Perhaps he could chide her for concealing her identity from him, accuse her of using his ignorance for her own amusement, but looking at her pleasant, smiling face, he can’t possibly be angry. He sighs, chuckles. “Thank you,” he says, before following his new friend inside.

         He already has a feeling this girl is like no one else he’s ever known.

Chapter Text

         If only Ivy and Mr. Potts showed up five minutes later.

         Eliza plays the moment over and over again in her head in the days after: the softness of the night around them, how her breaths seemed to still in her lungs, William’s hand slipping inside her own, the intensity of his expression as he looked into her eyes. She had tried to remain calm, but through it all her traitorous heart was thumping madly, feeling like it might burst out from underneath her ribs.

         Five minutes. If they’d shown up just five minutes later, what might she have said?

         As she searched for him, her heart in her throat, pulled by the force of her desperation, she thought about what she might say, what promises she might offer. She was willing to do anything, give anything to get him to stay, to alleviate this unbearable weight of loss. She would beg, cajole, bribe, plead. She would ask him to work with her again, making sure to emphasize it was with and not for. They could be partners, have both their names on the door, get a bigger office, fight side-by-side. It was a good offer, wasn’t it? It was worth staying for, wasn’t it? They could do it, couldn’t they?

         And if he still insisted on leaving, well…

         She couldn’t watch him leave knowing how much remained unsaid between them.

         She couldn’t let him leave not knowing she loved him.

         So, when she found him outside her office, she intended to make this proposal to him, to get the words out and force him to hear it. She was determined that nothing would stand in her way, not this time.

         Then he told her he wasn’t leaving.

         Instantly, the crushing weight on her chest lifted, and it felt like coming up for air after drowning, the first time all night she could breathe easily. He was staying. He wasn’t going to leave her.

         She wouldn’t be alone.

         She was ready to leave it at that, problem solved, but then he’d looked at her with eyes like that, that seemed to stare right into her soul, and he took her hand, his palm pressed against her palm.

         The following few seconds seemed to stretch out into an eternity, and she had struggled for her words. It was over now, wasn’t it? He was staying. She’d achieved what she wanted, and it was best to leave it at that. The speech she rehearsed in her mind was unnecessary now, the words of a desperate woman.

         And yet, when he looked at her like that, it made something inside her stir, and for a moment, she considered coming out with it.

         Of course, then Ivy and Mr. Potts showed up, and the moment was ruined.

         In the days that follow, Eliza can’t get it out of her mind. Would she have said it? Would she have told him that she loved him?

         Would he have said it back?

         She knows there’s nothing stopping her from walking to his home or his office this instant, knocking on his door and telling him how she really feels, how she never wanted him to leave, how she never wants to see him leave her—not now, not ever. She could tell him when she stood alone at Hattie’s engagement party, looked around and saw how happy everyone was around her, felt all that love in the air, the only thing she could think of was how desperately she wished he was by her side.

         She could get up right this second and unburden herself to him, spill out the jumbled contents of her heart, but she won’t. The rush of adrenaline she felt that night, that night she thought he was going to leave her, is gone now, leaving her only with uncertainty.

         She’s always thought of herself as brave, but she feels like a coward. How is it that she’s survived near-death experiences, confronted dangerous people who meant to harm her, relentlessly pursued the truth against all obstacles, and yet the thought of telling her best friend she’s in love with him has her too terrified to move?

         There was a moment when she might’ve told him, but it’s over now, and she’ll never know what might’ve been, what she might’ve said.

         Talk about bad timing.

         If only Ivy and Mr. Potts showed up five minutes later.

         In the days after his reinstatement, as William places years’ worth of memories back onto walls, turns his empty office into something familiar again, he keeps thinking about that moment. He tells himself not to dwell on it, that it doesn’t matter now and he’s being foolish, but it keeps popping back into his mind, unbidden, unwanted.

         He’ll try to focus on reorganizing his desk, and then Eliza’s face will appear as real as if it were before his eyes, just as she looked that night with a touch of color stealing into her cheeks, a quiver of hesitation on her lips. He tries to banish her from his thoughts, but it doesn’t work.

         She’s never been very good at doing what she was told.

         He feels a queer sort of ache in his chest, remembering that night: her eyes meeting his, his hand reaching for hers, how soft and warm her skin was to the touch. For a moment, he’d felt a strange, breathless sort of hope he never felt before, waiting to hear what she had to say, allowing himself to dare to dream that maybe, possibly, she loved him back.

         Then Ivy and Mr. Potts appeared, and the illusion shattered.

         She said she would tell him tomorrow, but he knew she wouldn’t, and she didn’t. That moment—standing on the precipice of perfect happiness—was gone, and it may never come back.

         He uncaps the whisky and pours himself a drink. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

         He could go to her right now and make her hear him, tell her all the things he’s scarcely allowed himself to think. He could tell her that he never wanted to go to Glasgow, that the thought of it had made him feel empty and hollow, because that place wasn’t his home, not anymore, and even if he went, boarded the train and watched London disappear out the window, he would’ve left his heart behind.

         He could tell her that, but he knows he won’t, and he doesn’t.

         He feels like a fucking idiot.

         He’s never been good at expressing his feelings. It doesn’t come naturally to him like it does to some people. Maybe it’s because, for most of his formative years, there was no one around to tell him they loved him. Maybe it’s because of his cruel beginning in life, how he had to harden himself, build an armor of his own making to survive. Those are possibilities, but he’s not in the habit of psychoanalyzing himself. Every time he tries, it just feels like poking a bruise.

         Perhaps this is for the best. He knows how to be Eliza’s friend. That feels safe. Getting all romantic and sentimental would’ve just jeopardized this tenuous peace they have, and make everything all confusing. And he doesn’t even know she was going to say ‘I love you.’ Maybe she doesn’t think about him in that way. After all, he did kiss her once, and she slapped him in return.

         He’ll never know what might’ve happened. The door is closed.

         Yes, he tells himself, it’s better this way. Eliza is his friend, his very best friend, and it’s better to have her as a friend than to not have her at all. Introducing romance into the equation would’ve just made everything more complicated, introduce new questions. She is too independent to bend to a man’s will, and he’s always told himself he would find an ordinary wife, have an ordinary house and ordinary children, and Eliza is many things, but she’s not ordinary.

         But, if this is really all for the best, why does he still feel so sad when he thinks about it?

         God damn it. His heart and his brain really need to stop conflicting with each other like this.  

         If only Ivy and Mr. Potts had shown up five minutes later. Five minutes—that was all they needed. Five minutes, and he might’ve said it. Five minutes, and who knows where they might be right now.

         Talk about bad timing.  

Chapter Text

        “What are you doing here?”

         Eliza narrows her eyes as she crosses the Loxtons’ drawing room, sidestepping an overturned sofa. The place is still a mess from the recent burglary—drawers open, furniture tossed aside, and pictures missing from their frames. She forces a smile onto her face. “Hello to you too, William. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

         He’s trying to look cross with her, but the ghost of a smile doesn’t go unnoticed by her, even if it only lasts for ten seconds. He looks her straight in the face, threading his fingers through his belt loops. “Why do I suspect you’re not here to exchange pleasantries and talk about the weather?”  

         “Indeed, I’m not.” Coming to stand beside him, she fixes her eyes on William’s companion, smiling politely at young Fitzroy, loyally accompanying his superior in their survey of the premises. “Morning, Detective Fitzroy. A pleasure to see you again.”

         “You as well, Miss Scarlet.”

         William shoots him a look. “Don’t engage her in conversation, Detective. Miss Scarlet won’t be staying long.” The younger officer lowers his gaze and shuts his mouth, shooting her an apologetic glance. “So,” William asks her, “what exactly are you doing here?”

         “Mrs. Loxton hired me.”

         “There’s no need for that. We have this under control.”

         “Perhaps, but Mrs. Loxton is missing some valuable items she would like back presently, and she thought anything was worth trying. Besides, what is a private detective’s fee to one of the wealthiest couples in Bloomsbury?”

         Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Loxton are quite well-known—both for Mr. Loxton’s successful career in manufacturing and for the couple’s extensive art collection. Though most of the pieces reside in their country estate, their particular favorite works have places of honor at their London townhouse, where they might be properly admired by friends and fellow collectors.

         Before William can respond, Eliza’s eyes rove around the room, landing on their desired object: the empty gilt frame hanging over where the sofa should be. It’s the center of the wall, the focal point of the room. With the golden frame and light filtering in through the curtains, it naturally catches her eye, even without anything in it. “I suppose that’s where the Renoir was.”

         Her eyes flick back to William, and he hesitates in his reply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

         She breezes past his comment, knowing she’s correct. She’ll give him credit, for his expression gave nothing away, but after all these years of knowing each other, she’s difficult to fool. She knows him too well. “If I were an avid art lover like Mr. and Mrs. Loxton, I would want my latest treasure to have the place of honor in my home. Renoir spent the past summer in Guernsey, you see, where Mr. and Mrs. Loxton are also fond of vacationing. He wanted to capture the natural beauty there, and one day when he was painting along the beach, Mr. and Mrs. Loxton happened to be attending a swimming excursion with friends at the same time. He included their group in a painting, and they bought it from him immediately. For a pretty penny, too.” She raises an eyebrow at William. “I forget the exact name of the picture. Care to refresh my memory?”

         “Bathers at Moulin Huet,” Fitzroy interjects, earning him a biting glare from William. Fitzroy steps backward and shuts his mouth, while Eliza’s eyes gleam in triumph.

         “Clearly,” she continues, “the painting was the burglar’s object. Because, despite what they wanted you to think with the overturned furniture, the only items missing of value are the Renoir and several other paintings by fellow well-known impressionists. I suspect it’s someone known to the family, for they only told their closest acquaintances in the art world about their latest acquisition.”

         “You don’t know that,” William counters. “Perhaps they happened upon the painting and thought it might be worth something.”

         “Yes, but if it was only money they were after, why not take”—she points at the end tables—“those silver candlesticks, or”—she points above their heads—“that crystal chandelier? I suspect when you go upstairs, you will find Mrs. Loxton’s jewelry box and the stash of money under Mr. Loxton’s mattress also untouched.”

         She has to suppress a grin at the annoyed look he gives her in return. With a sigh, he turns to Fitzroy. “Detective, go upstairs and take a thorough inventory of everything in Mr. and Mrs. Loxton’s bedroom.”

         “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Fitzroy gives her one last polite smile, which she returns, before he scampers up the stairs to the bedrooms.

         She watches him go, his figure fleeing up the staircase, feeling quite satisfied with herself. “Fine,” William is saying to her. “So, you’re right about the painting, but Eliza, you need to tell Mrs. Loxton to sit back and let us—”

         She effectively interrupts him when she closes the distance between the two of them, looking up at him with upturned lips, mischief in her eyes. She places her hand on the back of his neck. “William, I haven’t seen you in three days. Fitzroy will be gone for at least a quarter-hour, if not longer. Do you really want to spend that time arguing?”

         He stares at her for a moment, then glances towards the staircase, and though he’s trying to be serious, she can see he’s intrigued by her proposition. “And,” he asks in a quiet voice, “what exactly do you suggest?”

         “A more enjoyable use for our time.”

         “Like?”

         “You are a smart man. I think you know.” 

         They both lean in at the same time, lips meeting in the middle, and she pulls his mouth harder onto hers, his hand falling to the small of her back. She smiles against his skin, relishing the feel of his kiss, the familiarity of his scent.

         Though she enjoys a good verbal sparring match as much as the next person, she’s discovered during their courtship that there are other activities just as pleasant.

         “Hmm,” he whispers. “Three days is far too long.”

         “In that, we are in agreement.”

         After a few more quick pecks, they reluctantly pull apart, remaining with their foreheads pressed together. “How are you?” he asks her with none of his earlier irritation, hand rubbing up and down her back absentmindedly.

         “Quite well. And you?”

         “Better now.”

         “I’m glad to hear it.” She pauses, before adding: “I miss you when you are not around.”

         The words make his eyes brighten with pleasure. “Well, it’s always good to know that one is wanted.”

         She frowns in mock annoyance. “Aren’t you going to say that you missed me, or are you too busy being full of yourself?”

         The jest in his expression falters, and he looks at her with a little smile, eyes made warm from love. “You know that I missed you.” The words make her smile as well. 

         Their romantic feelings serve as effective distractions, but luckily, Fitzroy’s voice precedes his return to the room, and they both move back, resuming their positions of professional distance. “Sir,” Fitzroy is saying, “the jewelry and money are exactly where Miss Scarlet said they would be, but there’s another painting missing from the frame over the bed. Do we know which one that is?”

         William opens his mouth, but she answers first. “A painting of the Thames by Alfred Sisley,” she says, then adding off William’s confused look: “Mrs. Loxton told me. Her husband is particularly fond of water. Running his business is quite stressful, and looking at the painting relaxes him enough to fall asleep.”

         “Well,” is his sarcastic response, “haven’t you done your research?”

         “I have. Perhaps we can put our heads together to achieve our desired result. After all, Mrs. Loxton is anxious to have these paintings back.”

         “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

         She smiles at him and adjusts her hold on her handbag. “Very well. I shall take my leave of you, then. Good day, William. Good day, Detective Fitzroy.”

         “Good day, Miss Scarlet,” the latter responds, his back to her as he examines the edge of the Renoir’s gilded frame. While he is distracted, she smirks and presses a kiss to the corner of William’s mouth, fast and feather-light.

         “Perhaps once I’ve solved this case,” she whispers, “you’ll have enough time in your schedule to pencil me in for dinner.”

         He chuckles quietly, glancing at Fitzroy out of the corner of his eye to ensure the detective isn’t looking. Indeed, he seems thoroughly engrossed in his task, back facing them both. “Dinner I can agree to,” William tells her, “but I intend to solve this case.”

         “Hmm, we’ll see about that. I suppose we are destined to be adversaries until this case is resolved, which means that shall be the last kiss you receive from me for the time being.”

         “I think I’ll manage.”

         She steals one last glance at him over her shoulder as she leaves the Loxtons’ drawing room, finding his eyes firmly on her retreating form. He shakes his head and smiles at her.

         As she steps back out into the sunny afternoon, she can’t help but laugh to herself, raising a hand to her mouth. He can try, but she doesn’t think he’ll be able to stay away from her for very long.

         He never does.

Chapter Text

        It is the first snowfall of the season: the white crystals dancing toward earth in the morning breeze, the sky concealed by the clouds, the snow so fresh that most of the streets have not been cleared yet, and it is practically impossible to take out one’s carriage. This time tomorrow morning, the pure white snow will surely be grey and dirty from thousands, if not millions, of boots trudging through it on their way to work or school, and cabs will rattle down the street once more, their wheels slick from ice, but today London looks as perfect as a snow globe, the world untouched and clean.

         Despite the world’s beauty, William wakes up in a bad mood.

         He feels as if a shadow has passed over him, and he doesn’t know how to properly describe the emotion he feels. It’s disappointment, maybe, not quite heartbreak. Because while he and Maria McNally were seeing each other for the last three months, he certainly didn’t love her. Her decision to end their relationship will elicit no tears from him, and he will certainly not get on his hands and knees and beg her to take him back.

         Still, when she showed up to their scheduled meeting twenty minutes late the day before, a big smile on her face as she told him that she and her family were moving back to Belfast before the winter was over, it made him feel vaguely ill-used. Perhaps he has no right to feel that way. After all, he willingly entered the relationship knowing it was never going to be anything serious, and it’s not like he ever would’ve married her or anything. But he thought that Maria liked him, and let’s be honest, it doesn’t feel good when someone is beaming and excited as they’re breaking up with you.

         When he started seeing Maria, he knew she was trying to get back at her parents, conservative Irish Catholics who believed that girls ought to stay at home and listen more than they spoke, running around town and stealing kisses with him being her teenage rebellion. He had his own selfish motives for seeing Maria, too. She is a talkative, vivacious, and pretty girl who always made him feel good, foisting compliments and smiles upon him, and after a childhood spent feeling worthless most of the time, it felt nice to be adored. He became almost addicted to her praise, eager for the next stroke to his ego, and she was happy to oblige. 

         But it wasn’t until yesterday that he learned Maria had a secret agenda. Three years ago, when the family left Belfast, they also left behind the neighborhood boy Maria fancied her whole life, and so she was determined to convince her parents to move back there. When asking nicely and then begging did not get her very far, she decided she must do whatever she had to do to convince her family that London was a corrupting influence, so they would have no choice but to seek the familiar comforts of their native country.

         William was, therefore, a means to an end.

         She could’ve at least told him what she was doing. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t have deterred him from pursuing her—he’s not a saint, and far from immune to the temptations of carnal love—but now he feels stupid, like he spent three months trying to impress a pretty girl who really was only using him for his body.

         He always knew their relationship would end, but he at least thought she actually liked him. Really, she would’ve accepted any half-decent bloke willing to give her the time of day. He was just the first one to bite. 

         That wintry morning, William rises from bed and dresses to leave the house with no particular destination in mind, just needing some sort of occupation. He starts walking through the winter white, cheeks turning pink from cold, and he’s halfway there by the time he realizes he’s headed towards Maria’s house, not having noticed where his feet were instinctively taking him.

         No, he corrects himself. He’s not going to see Maria. He’s going to the Scarlets’ house.

         Though their house is less than a block away from hers, it couldn’t feel more different, because while the McNally house is a place of austerity and secrecy, the Scarlet house teems with chaos and life. While Maria’s parents have never so much as offered him a cup of tea, he’s had dinner with Henry and Eliza too many times to count. While Maria would only let him come inside when her parents weren’t home, then shuffle him out through the servants’ door, Henry and Eliza have welcomed him to their drawing room, always greeting his visits with smiles as warm as their reception. 

         He walks past the McNally house without stopping. Perhaps Maria will see him go by from her window, but let her. He’s not going to let a fear of seeing her stop him from visiting his friends. Why shouldn’t he continue to live his life with people who actually value his company?

         He’s on the first step when the curtains are thrown back from one of the front windows, and then the window opens with a clatter, William lifting his head just as Eliza sticks her own out the window. “William!”

         The obvious excitement in her voice almost makes him smile, and he gives her a look, examining how she’s poked her blond head out into the snow without so much as a scarf or hat. “What are you doing?” he calls out to her. “You’ll freeze!”

         Eliza doesn’t answer him. “Don’t move!” she says. “I’ll be out in a minute! Just let me fetch my coat!”

         The window slams shut again before he can respond, and he rolls his eyes with a smile, burying his hands in his pockets.

         Not even two minutes later, she opens the front door and bounds down the steps toward him. Though she is now properly attired for the cold weather, she’s missed one of the buttons on her coat, and her dark blue scarf bounces around her neck untied. “Let’s go, quickly! Ivy has kept me hostage in the house to work on embroidery, but God William, embroidery is so dull, and a perfectly good snow day shouldn’t be spent inside, don’t you think?”

         She offers him her arm, and he takes it with a small smile, allowing her to lead him down the pavement away from her house. “Hello to you too, Eliza. How are you doing today? I am quite well, thank you for asking. Now, where are we going, exactly?”

         She rolls her eyes playfully. “Save me the sarcasm,” she says, before shrugging and answering his question. “I don’t know. Just for a walk, I suppose. I’ll go anywhere as long as there is no embroidery.”

         “To the park, then?”

         “Perfect.”

         On their walk, the snowfall is steadily increasing, and the streets are empty save for an occasional woman walking her dog or a man hustling on his way to work. Eliza keeps the conversation going, chatting about what happened at school that week or the Wilkie Collins novel she’s currently reading, and though such subjects aren’t of particular interest to William, he is content to listen to her, letting her animated chatter distract his preoccupied mind and breathe cheer back into his morning.

         When they reach their destination, no one is in the park, the white-capped trees weighed down, the paths clogged with snow. He is about to tell her to watch her step, lest she slip, but before he can speak Eliza is already walking ahead of him, calling out for him over her shoulder to hurry up.

         A quiet laugh slips from his mouth. Then, he rolls his eyes and follows her.

         They walk the length of the park in companionable silence, and Eliza smiles, pointing her face toward the heavens. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

         “Eliza, it’s freezing.”

         “You think so? I find it refreshing.”

         She turns her face towards him, and a snowflake lands on the bow of her lip, dissolving at the heat of her skin. “I think,” he says, “you have a snowflake on your face.”

         Her nose scrunches up. “Really, where?”

         “Right”—he presses his finger to the spot—“here.”

         He wipes the water droplet away with his thumb, and she stares up at him, the cold making her face pleasantly flushed, pink rising to the apples of her cheeks, and he holds his thumb on her lip for a moment too long, then retracts it quickly.

         She tears her eyes away from him, staring at her boots as they crunch through the snow. “You know, I saw you here the other week. With Maria McNally.”

         The sound of her name makes him feel even colder than the snow. He swallows, his bad mood flooding back to him in an instant. “Oh?”

         If Eliza notices the change in him, she doesn’t let it stop her, continuing to prattle on. “Yes! I waved to you, and called your name, but you didn’t respond—didn’t even nod at me or anything! And don’t tell me you didn’t see me, William, because I’ll call you a liar. You looked right at me.”

         He puffs, breath trailing upwards toward the sky, and drops her arm. “Eliza, I don’t want to talk about this.”

         “But—”

         “I mean it.”

         She gives him a petulant look and, sighing, he sticks his hands back in his coat pockets and quickens his pace to walk ahead of her. She yells his name at his back, but he doesn’t turn around.

         That’s the thing about his friendship with Eliza: when they get on, they really get on, and he thinks he’s laughed harder and smiled more with her than he has with anyone, but sometimes, she’ll say something that gets under his skin, and she can never seem to let it go, burrowing deeper and deeper. She never leaves well enough alone.

         Still, he thinks, frowning, she’s not entirely wrong. He did see her that day when he was walking with Maria, but he pretended not to. He doesn’t know why, exactly—a foolish need to impress Maria, maybe, to make her think that she had his full attention.

         And he knows Maria doesn’t like Eliza.

         She never said it in so many words, but when she came up in conversation, Maria would get this little scrunched-up look and toss her hair. She would say something like, “oh, is that Mr. Scarlet’s daughter, the one with the unnatural interest in corpses? What an odd girl,” and William would feel his cheeks color with embarrassment, and change the conversation to something he knew Maria would find more pleasing.

         Now, he feels heat rush to his face again, but this time, the embarrassment is self-inflicted. He should’ve known then that Maria wasn’t the kind of girl he thought she was, because anyone who really liked him could’ve at least pretended to be interested in the people he called his friends, but he’d been so blind, changing himself because he was desperate for a girl to think he was worth something. What was he thinking? That’s not who he is. And the William girls like Maria want isn’t the sort of person he wants to be.

         He’s thoroughly ashamed of how he’s acted.

         That’s what he’s thinking when he’s startled by a frozen object hitting him square in the back.

         Slowly, he turns on his heel, and Eliza bursts into laughter, using one hand to cover her mouth and shaking the remaining snow off the other one. “Sorry,” she gasps between giggles, “but I needed to get your attention.”

         “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

         “Maybe,” she says, despite all the evidence as to her guilt.

         William narrows his eyes and fights his urge to smile. “Eliza, has anyone ever told you it’s very unladylike to—”

         He’s effectively interrupted when she packs another handful of snow into a ball and lobs it at his chest.

         Snow drips down the front of his coat, and Eliza bursts into a fresh round of laughter. He laughs, too, shaking his head at her. “Oh,” he says, “you’ll pay for that!”

         Eliza opens her mouth to retort, but before she can, he gathers up as much snow as he can fit in one fist, forms a ball, and throws it at her. She attempts to dodge his aim and the snowball hits her square in the left hip. “William! Ivy will kill me if I come home with a wet dress—”

         In reply, he throws another snowball, which hits her in the shoulder.

         She looks up at him with a dropped jaw, and for a moment he wonders if she’s really mad at him, but she breaks out laughing once more, breathless from shock and mirth. “I’m going to get you! I swear I will!”

         He tries to make an escape, but she chases after him, and soon they are both laughing hard enough to make their sides hurt, barely feeling the cold. He loses count of how many snowballs they throw at each other, and when they trudge back to her house thirty minutes later, they are both struggling for breath, looking flushed and thoroughly, thoroughly soaked, snow seeping through their coats, gloves, and hats, wet hair plastered to their foreheads. 

         Ivy takes one look at them and gives them a long lecture, reminding them that they are not children anymore and a snowball fight is entirely inappropriate for a lady of sixteen and a young man of nineteen, but then with a sigh, she offers them hot chocolate and warm seats in front of the fire, and despite the verbal lashing, neither William nor Eliza seem to have many regrets for their actions. 

         As they settle down before the fire, each now with a warm drink and blankets Ivy fetched for them, they exchange a glance and—without saying a single word—both burst into fits of giggles again. 

Chapter Text

         The house is warm on this late August afternoon, and even with all the windows open, the fresh air brings no reprieve from the last burst of summer weather. Not that Eliza notices the weather much. Her mind is someplace else, her eyes scanning the room, and occasionally she absentmindedly raises a hand to tug the collar of her dress away from her skin, made sticky from heat.

         “Are you going to stare at that wall all day?”

         She turns her head at the sound of Ivy’s voice, having been so lost in thought that she did not hear her housekeeper enter the drawing room to collect her tea tray. “Sorry. I was just deep in thought.”

         “Evidently. You barely touched this tea. You’re not ill, are you?”

         “No.”

         Ivy lifts the tray and turns to go, but then pauses, giving her mistress a look, as if she’s silently debating whether to say something or not. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

         “About what?”

         “About marrying Inspector Wellington.”

         Eliza doesn’t hesitate to give her vehement denial. “No, of course not.”

         She twirls her engagement ring around her finger, the jewel capturing the light and casting prisms across the carpet. Sometimes, it’s still strange to think about: she’s actually going to marry him. She’s loved him for years—many of those years spent loving in silence, believing they had no chance of ever being together—so sometimes she’ll find herself pausing randomly, staring at her left hand as the realization hits her all over again. How is it possible she’s getting everything she’s ever wanted, the man she loves and the career she loves at the same time? It doesn’t feel real.

         She frowns, remembering the original cause of her contemplation, and straightens her ring. “I was thinking of the wedding,” she admits to Ivy, “but that’s not what was troubling me. I’m going through with it.” Nothing short of death could keep her from meeting him at that altar.

         A small smile comes to Ivy’s face. “Good. You know too many people’s hopes are resting on this day—I would hate to see you pull a runner after all this time.”

         Eliza laughs softly. “You don’t have to worry about that.” She glances around the room and sighs, shoulders sinking. “It’s always looked like this,” she says, but whether she’s speaking to Ivy or herself, she doesn’t know. “For as long as I can remember.”

         “Your mother did most of the decorating. Your father told me once he did not have the heart to change the things she had touched—not that reorganizing was the type of thing that interested him in the first place.”

         Eliza attempts to smile, but can’t. “No, I daresay he would not have known where to begin.”

         Lavinia Scarlet was more of the homemaking type. She had what some might call the feminine touch—a kind, soft-spoken woman, who understood all things domestic. She was an avid reader, an expert knitter, and a good hostess, though if she had her way, she would rather pass a night alone with only her husband and child for company rather than a house full of guests. Mrs. Scarlet was wholly devoted to her husband, as was he to her. Her dream had always been to have many children, but her delicate health and several early pregnancy losses meant Eliza was her only baby.

         The thought makes her heart stir. She doesn’t talk about her mother as much as she talks about her father. It’s been so long, sometimes she can almost convince herself the memories were a dream she conjured up, but she remembers. Mrs. Scarlet cherished the only child that remained to her, even if her daughter was a strong-willed child who rarely sat still. She can remember how her mother used to bend down to her level, gently whispering to her to behave, fixing her messy hair or cleaning her dirty hem with an encouraging smile. Sometimes Eliza swears she can feel the ghost of her mother’s lips on her cheek, hear their stifled giggles and shared jokes.

         Her mother was an easy person to love, the kind of woman who made those around her feel special.

         As she looks about the room for the umpteenth time today, Eliza’s eyes land haphazardly on her familiar surroundings: carpet, tables, chairs, rug. Her mother picked all of these items, delighted at designing her own home. In her mind, Eliza can imagine her mother as she must’ve looked when she was still Miss Lavinia Thomas, twenty-three years old, newly-engaged and excited about her future as she skipped from room to room with a smile on her face and Henry Scarlet’s ring on her finger. Back then, she probably imagined she would get married and raise a gaggle of children in this house, with many sons and daughters of her own. She probably thought she and Henry would grow old together and live to see grandchildren be born.

         She wouldn’t have known it then, but those dreams would never come to pass.

         A lump rises in Eliza’s throat as she takes it all in. She was born in this house. She ran down its hallways and her father used to track her height on the doorframe. She and her mother danced around the drawing room and sat by the window waiting for her father to come home from work. This is the only home she’s ever known. Now, she is going to leave it forever.

         It sounds stupidly sentimental, but it almost feels like a betrayal—to leave this home her parents loved so much, that they would still be living in had the universe been kinder.

         Ivy gives her a wistful smile. “Your father would be very happy for you and William. And though your mother never met him, I think she would gladly accept anyone who loved you, because she wanted you to be happy. She loved you very much. They both did.”

         Eliza looks up to meet her gaze, her lower lip wobbling. “Thank you.”

         The two women lock eyes for a moment, but then they both turn away, no more needing to be said. They know what the other is thinking. Ivy clears her throat. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.” Eliza nods in silent recognition.

         After she hears the faint sound of the kitchen door shutting behind Ivy, she sniffs, then begins to walk up the stairs to her bedroom.

         Light spills in from the open windows, the curtains flapping as a breeze blows through. She crosses the threshold and stops, looking around, arms crossed over her chest. Even though her father has been dead for years, Eliza hasn’t moved her things into the master bedroom—it almost seems like an intrusion to occupy his inner sanctum, like he might walk in at any moment and ask for it back. Besides, her childhood bedroom makes her happy enough. It’s snug and familiar, a place she always felt safe.

         She doesn’t realize her eyes have filled with tears until she feels them begin to stick to her lashes, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand. She is sad to leave this place, but she reminds herself that it’s for a good reason. The thought of William causes her to smile faintly through her wet eyes. She will build another home with him, and they will be happy. That’s what her parents would’ve wanted, isn’t it?

         She stands there for a while longer—unaware of time passing due to her depth of contemplation—until she hears the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs and someone calling her name. “Eliza?”

         She stands up a little straighter, her mind back on the present moment, and turns her head just as William cautiously pushes open the door. She forces a smile to her face, arms still crossed over her chest.

         “Ivy let me in,” he explains without her having to ask. “Is something the matter?”

         “No, I was just thinking. You may come in.” It’s only then she remembers they agreed to go to dinner, and she scrunches up her nose, feeling silly for forgetting. “The time’s gotten away from me.”

         He opens the door wider and steps inside. Now that they are face-to-face, she can see a brief flash of concern cross his features. Though she is not crying, she recognizes her eyes are probably red. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

         Eliza shakes her head. “I am fine. Only thinking about how much I have to do.”

         “Well, we can leave work behind for the night and go to dinner.”

         “It’s not work-related.” She looks up at him and he walks forward to stand beside her, barely an inch between their flesh.

         For a moment, she feels a little burst of panic, seeing him stand here in her bedroom, his body so close to hers. To have a man in such an intimate space is a breach of all societal etiquette, a sure way to get tongues wagging. She’s known him for many years, and he’s never been in her bedroom—never even walked up to the second floor of her house, now that she thinks about it. But then she feels her muscles relax, and she exhales quietly. They are going to be married in three weeks. Why does it matter if he’s in her bedroom? Soon, they’ll share one.

         She feels color come to her cheeks involuntarily as her mind drifts to that particular aspect of marriage. She doesn’t have long to wait now, and such a thought is strange and exhilarating at once.

         She turns to look at him and smiles as he places a hand lightly on her arm. “It’s daunting,” she says, “to be faced with packing up the home you’ve lived in for nearly thirty years.”

         He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never lived anywhere for that long.”

         She frowns, feeling like such a fool. “I’m sorry.” She realizes now what a thoughtless comment it was. When she was a child with two parents and a house and no problems bigger than her mother chastising her for having a dirty skirt, he was in the workhouse, probably going to sleep on a thin mattress with an empty belly and bruised face.

         She suddenly feels almost selfish—being so upset about a house. At least she had a house, had parents. She’s been lucky, all things considered.

         “Don’t apologize,” he insists. “I knew what you meant.” William squeezes her arm, a silent assurance he’s not angry. “You were born here. I understand.”

         She nods, and when he opens his arms to her, she doesn’t hesitate to press her head against his chest and let him hug her. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

         It’s only a house, she tells herself. What they have together is more important.

         Once she’s recovered her senses and fetched her hat, they say goodbye to Ivy and head off towards dinner. “Do you mind walking for a while?” he asks her, and she voices her agreement. It might be nice to clear her head.

         They start off in companionable silence, his hand in hers as they walk down the pavement. After a few blocks, his voice pulls her from her thoughts. “You know,” he begins to say, and she lifts her head, dragging her eyes from her feet to his face. He looks like he’s been deep in thought as much as her. “I have no sentimental attachment to my home.”

         Eliza’s heart beats faster in her chest. “What do you mean?”

         She has a suspicion she already knows the answer, but she needs to hear the words out of his mouth.

         He gives her a slight shrug. “Perhaps…perhaps instead of you coming to live with me, I could come to live with you.”

         At first, she can’t speak. “You would do that for me?”

         “If you don’t mind.”

         “Don’t mind?” She opens and closes her mouth, struggling for the right words to convey her feelings. She stops in the middle of the pavement and chooses to express her admiration in a different way by kissing him on the mouth. “Thank you. You”—she pauses, collecting herself—“you have no idea how much this means to me.”

         The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he squeezes her hand. “You’re welcome.” He raises an eyebrow, sighs. “Besides, I am quite fond of that house, too. It is, after all, where I first kissed you.”

         She lets out a small snort and shakes her head. A memory of that fateful day flashes through her mind and she laughs, remembering her tears and her open palm connecting with his face. “Don’t remind me,” she mumbles, which makes him smirk.

         In all seriousness, they’ve shared many good moments together in that house. She remembers the first time she saw him, the afternoons they spent together as teenagers teasing and laughing and stealing glances. She remembers the night in her kitchen when she thought he might kiss her and when she realized—startled—that she wouldn’t mind if he did.  Now, they will make many more years of memories inside those walls.

         Her stomach flutters. Perhaps someday they may even have a child of their own who will be born inside that house, whose height they will measure on the door. It’s so strange to think about what the future might have planned for them.

         She doesn’t know where life might lead, but she’s not scared of the unknowns. It’ll be an adventure for certain.  

         She pulls back and smiles playfully at him. “Perhaps,” she says, “if you behave yourself, I shall even let you have half the bedroom closet.”

         “How generous of you.”

         She pauses, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand before she says, completely serious now: “Though, I think I will still have to move some things around. When we’re married, we ought to have the master bedroom, don’t you think?”

         Surprise registers on his face. “You’re sure?” He knows that was her mother and father’s room, knows she has not touched it.

         “I’m certain.” Though she will never forget them, she cannot live in fear of disturbing her mother and father’s ghosts. They would want her to move on, to forge a life and home of her very own.

         So, that’s exactly what she’ll do. With William.

         She looks up at him, and when she smiles, he smiles back. “I love you.”

         “I love you, too.” Though she’s heard the words many times before, they still make her feel warm.

         For almost thirty years, that house has been her home.

         Now, it shall be theirs.

Chapter Text

         He creeps into the darkened house after eleven o’clock, the night quiet and still on this cool Tuesday evening at the beginning of spring. He doesn’t expect anyone to be awake, and the lack of lights burning in the downstairs windows seems to confirm his assumption. William shuts and locks the front door behind him, inhaling deeply once he reaches the sanctuary of home.

         His day was long and arduous, the unexpected apprehension of a murderer he’s spent the last three weeks looking for keeping him at Scotland Yard long past the usual hour. After the questioning was over and the fellow locked up until morning, the other officers wanted to celebrate at their favorite haunt, but when they asked if he wanted to join them, William refused. In the past, he would have accepted readily, but tonight, tiredness—and a desire to see his wife—lured him home.

         Some of his younger subordinates had teased him in the friendly way men often do, chuckling and inquiring when he got so soft, but well, William thinks if they were married, and if they had a wife they loved as much as he loves Eliza, they would understand. 

         Eliza. The thought of her is even more enticing than usual. He hopes she is not upset with him for being gone so long. Tonight, there is nothing he wants more in the world than to crawl in bed beside her, hold her in his arms, and sleep. With her familiar warmth beside him, he thinks he might sleep better than he has in ages.

         He’s careful in his ascent of the stairs—if she’s asleep, he doesn’t want to wake her, for that surely won’t do him any favors—but when he reaches the top floor, already removing his tie, he sees their bedroom is still dark. A thin sliver of golden light spills out from the washroom and across the hardwood floor.

         He cautiously approaches the door and peers inside. The air of the washroom is fragrant with lavender oil, but his senses are otherwise engaged. His wife sits at the edge of the bathtub with her back to him, one hand dipping into the water to check the temperature, the other holding her towel in place at her front. Her hair is pulled back off her neck, a few tendrils falling loose from the bun, her head bent over the tub. His eyes trace the curves of her shoulder blades, the bones of her spine, the smooth, white skin of her neck, bathed yellow in the light...

         He suddenly wants more than anything to kiss her right there, to press his lips to the base of her neck and pull her against him.

         He approaches her from behind, as light of foot as can be, but Eliza lifts her head, not looking as she says: “I can hear you coming, William.”

         He sighs and she turns her head slowly. She looks at him over her shoulder, and when their eyes meet, a smirk tugs at her mouth, which forces him to smile back. “What gave me away?”

         “I am quite adept at distinguishing your movements.”

         “Did I disturb you?”

         “No.” She looks at him through her lashes, still smiling. “I missed you at dinner.”

         He explains everything that’s happened to her, and she nods, making sounds of laughter or agreement or surprise in the right places. Her hand skims the top of the water, and once he’s finished, the tub is filled to the appropriate spot.

         “So,” she says, with a long pause after the first word, “I suppose you’ll want to be off to bed then.”

         “Yes.” His eyes flick to the bathtub. “Unless there’s something else you suggest.”

         For a moment, neither of them says anything, and she stands up, still clutching her towel. “Well, you did leave me alone all evening. You could make it up to me.” Eliza arches a brow. “There’s room for two, don’t you think?”

         He answers her by dropping his tie on the floor and shrugging off his jacket. A moment later, her towel joins them there, soon followed by the rest of his clothes.

         The bathtub is a tight squeeze, but that’s not a problem. Once they’ve gotten themselves situated, he leans against the back of the tub, she half in his lap, her back pressed up against his chest. Eliza rests her head against his shoulder, and he lowers his face, his arms snaking around her waist as he drinks her in. She moves her hands to rest on top of his under the water.   

         “How,” he asks, admiring her relaxed countenance, her elongated neck, “was your day?”

         She humphs. “Well, you know how I spent the last week and a half on my case from Lady Aubrey, trying to determine if her husband was having an affair with the housemaid or not? It turns out the housemaid has been carrying on with the footman, not her employer, and as for his lordship, his lying about his whereabouts and the missing money his wife thought he was using to buy gifts for his mistress? I discovered he actually has an affinity for model trains and has been spending a great deal of money on them, which is what he was really keeping from his wife.”

         “That is quite unfortunate. And how did Lady Aubrey take it?”

         “She was relieved her husband is not a philanderer, but dismayed when she uncovered the extent of his collection hidden in their cellar.”

         William can’t help but chuckle at that, and she laughs too, her body vibrating against his from the force of their shared mirth. 

         “Well,” he says, smiling, “you were able to put a disquieted wife’s mind at rest, so I’d call that a job well done.”

         “I suppose so, though I hoped for something more exciting than toy trains.”  

         Once his amusement quiets, he tilts his head to examine her, arms tightening around her under the water. She really is beautiful—beautiful, and brilliant. Though they are newlyweds no longer, sometimes it still strikes him. He spent so many years longing, believing he could never have her, and now here she is, curled up against him in their bathtub. It feels like it should be too good to be true, but it isn’t, and the thought fills him with silent appreciation.

         And, well, as she resituates herself against him, the wiggling of her body stirs up thoughts of a different nature.

         Eliza’s voice pulls him back to reality. “Too hot for you?”

         He lifts his head. “What?”

         “The bathwater? Is it too hot?”

         “Oh. Not at all.”

         They lounge there in silence for several moments—the water, indeed, feeling pleasantly warm—and she lowers her face into his neck. He lifts one hand to trail up and down her arm, goose-pimples rising on her skin at his touch, and she murmurs a small noise of contentment. Impulsively, he pulls a pin from her hair, sending blond tresses down to her wet shoulders.

         She looks up, her brow creased. “What was that for?”

         “I like your hair like this.”

         “I wasn’t going to wash it tonight.”

         He ignores her protests, one hand immersing itself in her hair, followed by the other. He does love it when her hair is down. He is the only man who gets to see her like this, and he feels gladdened by his secret knowledge.

         “William! You’re going to ruin my hair.” Her lips form protests as he removes her remaining pins, but her eyes sparkle, letting him know they are half-hearted at best.

         His hands are deep in her hair, and he raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you want me to stop?”

         She hesitates, her eyes meeting his, then moves forward to catch his lips.

         He leans forward in his eagerness, splashing water against the washroom floor, and now it is her back pressed against the edge of the tub, his body against hers. One hand remains tangled in her hair, the other trailing up and down her naked spine, and she laughs quietly into his mouth, cupping his cheek.

         This bathtub has served them well up until this point, but now he’s starting to wonder if perhaps it is a tad too small.

         He is the one to pull back first, and he wets his lips, trying his best to look contemplative when he says: “Hmm, I suppose I am quite tired after all. Perhaps we should dry ourselves off and head to bed.”

         Her mouth curls into a smile, and she tilts her head, not wanting him to see her grin. “Yes,” she says, “I think that is a very sensible idea.” 

Chapter Text

       The baby has large, blue eyes framed by delicate golden lashes, the same hue as the hair on its head. The cheeks are kissed by two flushes of pink, and the plump lips part to make way for a clenched fist, the child sucking contentedly on its knuckles. In fact, the baby hasn’t cried for the entire hour Eliza has been bouncing him around William’s office at Scotland Yard—the child simply clutches the front of her dress with one chubby hand, gaze wandering around the room with a surprising amount of curiosity.

         “You know,” she whispers to the child, “you are awfully well-behaved.” You cannot even tell this little cherub just survived being kidnapped.

         The baby’s parents—Mr. Brampton, a successful tradesman, and Mrs. Brampton, a stay-at-home mother to their infant son and two daughters, aged seven and three—reported their youngest child missing six days ago. Little Charlie was kidnapped from his nursery in the night, the window smashed. Though the Yard was on the case, Mr. Brampton also solicited her services, anxious to ensure their son’s safe return.

         It could’ve gone much worse, Eliza thinks. Luckily, she and William realized the man who came to the Bramptons three days before the kidnapping under the guise of tuning the piano held no affiliation with the music shop he claimed to work for. A search of the man’s address thus turned up the missing Brampton baby, who was—thankfully—unharmed.

         She turns her attention back to the child, a trail of spittle dangling from its mouth to its chin. “Now, look at you.” She picks up a handkerchief from William’s desk and gently wipes the child’s chin clean, smiling at him. “There, all gone!”

         She doesn’t talk to him in the sing-song voice that other women use with babies, instead speaking in her normal tone as she would to any adult. When she was little, her father spoke to her like that, and she always appreciated it—it made her feel important, and helped to build her library of knowledge. She deposits the handkerchief and the baby giggles loudly as she brushes his chin with her thumb.

         “Oh! You think that’s funny, hm?” The baby smiles toothlessly at her, and her heart does a little flip involuntarily. She frowns, trying to ignore it.

         (And she is absolutely not imagining what it would look like if those blond ringlets were a darker hue, or if those blue eyes matched the eyes of a certain someone. No, that would be absurd.)

         The door opens, and she tears her eyes away from her infant charge as William steps into the office, closing the door softly behind him. “The Bramptons are on their way here.”

         His eyes trail from her face down towards the baby in her arms, and—though it’s only there for half a second—she swears there’s longing in his face.

         She pretends not to notice. “All right, then.” She looks down at the child as she adjusts her hold on him and brushes a blond curl from his face. “Ready to see your mama and papa?” The child gurgles, as if to agree.

         It’s hard not to smile at the sight of a happy baby, and they both do, but when they look at each other again, there’s another emotion lurking in his eyes, and Eliza’s stomach flutters. “Do you mind holding him for a while? My arms are tired.”

         He voices his agreement, and the baby is passed from his arms to hers. William has him in a shoulder hold, and he looks at her over the child’s head. “He wasn’t too unruly for you, I hope?”

         “Not at all. He seems to be a quite agreeable child.”

         “Good.”

         Her gaze drifts towards the baby, now resting his head on her lover’s shoulder, and her stomach does that thing again. He does look especially handsome holding a baby—not that she’s noticed, or anything—and if he looks down at little Charlie Brampton with such affection, imagine if...

         Eliza shakes her head and looks away quickly, clearing her throat. “So, did you find out why he did it?”

         “Apparently, he and his wife tried to conceive for years with no success. Kidnapping the Brampton baby was his way of giving her a child by other, more unnatural means.”

         “Well, that is unfortunate.”

         “It is, but not just cause to steal a child.” 

         “Of course not. I feel sorry for her, though.” Now, the poor woman will have no child and no husband. It must be very hard: to want something so desperately, and fear you might never have it.

         She’s familiar with the feeling.

         They are effectively interrupted when one of the constables knocks on the door, poking his head in to let them know the Bramptons are in the lobby, and William thanks him before turning to her. “Well, ready to reunite a child with its parents?”

         “Let’s.”

         When Mr. and Mrs. Brampton see them coming, they both immediately burst from their chairs, Mrs. Brampton’s face twisting with oncoming tears, her husband rushing forward in his haste to get to his son. They look as if this is the first time they’ve breathed easily in days. “Charlie! Oh, he’s all right. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

         Eliza watches as William gingerly passes the infant back to his father, careful to support the head as he does so, and Mr. Brampton beams as he cuddles his son, his wife hurrying over in tears, dropping a kiss to her baby’s head. Little Charlie smiles, coos, and it’s enough to tug at anyone’s heart.

         “Thank you,” Mr. Brampton says again, tears coming to his eyes, too. “Thank you both. My wife and I are more grateful to you than words can explain.”

         “You brought Charlie back to us,” Mrs. Brampton chimes in. “We are forever in your debt.” Charlie turns towards them and grins, as if silently sharing his own appreciation. 

         The Bramptons thank them several more times, smiling and crying all at once, and the family reunion is truly a touching scene. Could there be any happier family in London today than theirs? She can almost picture what it might look like when they return to their townhouse this evening, how Charlie’s sisters might rush out to greet them and the whole family will collapse into a heap, hugging and kissing each other from their shared joy at being reunited. As the Bramptons walk out the front door, Charlie turns his head to glance at them one last time over his father’s shoulder. 

         Her eyes are still on their fleeing forms as William looks at her, placing a comforting hand on her back. “We did a good thing today,” he says, and she gives him a smile that doesn’t brighten her eyes. Indeed, reuniting a family is a commendable feat. 

         So, Eliza doesn’t understand why she doesn’t feel happy. 

         On the ride back to her house, they hardly speak. Eliza watches London pass by outside the carriage, her mind still stuck on today’s events: the Brampton baby. The guilty man’s poor wife. Mr. and Mrs. Brampton’s joy and relief. Charlie’s eyes staring at her.

         After several minutes of silence, William pierces her solitude. “Everything all right?” he asks, reaching for her hand.

         She turns to look at him and smiles, accepting his offered hand and squeezing gently. “Fine.”

        He pretends to believe her. 

         When they arrive, she asks him to come in for tea, and they settle down on the drawing room sofa. Once Ivy’s brought the tray and left them, he offers to pour, and Eliza places her elbow on the arm of the sofa, leaning her head on her hand as she watches him.

         She and William have been together for three and a half months, and while they’ve been great months, there are still things they haven’t talked about yet—or, well, one big thing. Eliza knows they need to discuss it, but she’s continually put it off, and after today, she doesn’t think she can delay anymore.

         William doesn’t raise his head as he asks her: “Still two sugars?”

         “You want children.”

         He stops, hand still hovering over her cup, and then he looks up at her, surprise registering on his face at her sudden declaration. “Excuse me?”

         “You want children.” It should be a question, but it’s not. Eliza already knows the answer.

         He opens and closes his mouth several times before speaking. “Well…not now, but…someday, I suppose…”

         “But you want them?”

         He exhales through his nose, dropping the tongs back into the sugar bowl. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting this conversation, not today, and he silently passes her cup to her before leaning back against the cushions. She holds the warm cup between her two palms, but doesn’t move to take a sip.

         “Yes,” he finally admits with a sigh. “Yes, Eliza, I want children.”

         Several seconds pass in silence. Indeed, this is something she already knew about him. She’s seen him glance at cute babies passing by in their strollers, heard the congratulations he’s given his colleagues when they become fathers. And she thinks he deserves a child. Eliza firmly believes he would be a good parent.

         She just doesn’t know if she would be.

         When she still hasn’t said anything, William clears his throat, then quietly asks: “Do you want children?”

         He asked her that once before, before they were a couple, and at the time Eliza had brushed him off, not giving him a straight answer. This time, she knows she has to answer the question, but it’s not an easy one. She turns her head to look at him, lips forming a frown. “I don’t know if I can have one.”

         He blinks, appearing confused. “Physically, you mean? Eliza, there’s no reason to—”

         “That’s not what I meant.”

         Growing up, girls at school always used to talk about the number of children they wanted, the names they’d already picked out, but Eliza never partook in those discussions. While other girls wanted to be mothers, she wanted to be a detective. She doesn’t know if those two things can intersect.

         With a sigh, she deposits her teacup on the table, suddenly having no thirst. “Detectives,” she tells William, “aren’t mothers.”

         When she chose her path in life, she knew it would be difficult and require sacrifices. She knows countless mothers, and she knows a handful of career women, but she doesn’t know any who are both, and she can’t give up her job—not for William, and not for a hypothetical family. Maybe it’s selfish of her, but it’s how she truly feels. She can’t sit at home all day and let men fight for her. That’s not her way. 

         So, she supposes that means she won’t ever have a baby.

         And if William leaves her for that…well, she’ll have to live with the choice she’s made.

         He doesn’t speak at first. “And detectives weren’t women, either, but you didn’t let that stop you.”

         She keeps her eyes trained on her lap, and she hears him sigh, feels him shift closer to her on the sofa. “Eliza”—he touches her knee—“will you look at me, please?”

         Reluctantly, she does as she is told, and he tilts his head, looking at her with a soft-eyed expression. Well, he hasn’t gotten angry and stormed off, so she supposes that is a good sign. “Do you,” he asks slowly, “not want to have children?”

         She shakes her head. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get it at all. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

         “Then what are you saying?”

         “That it doesn’t matter whether I want it or not. I’m saying it’s not possible!”

         Never in her life has she voiced such a sentiment, and it seems to surprise him as much as it surprises her.

         Mothers are supposed to stay home with their babies, to nurse them and care for them and see to their every need, and detectives have busy jobs that often don’t come with a set schedule, requiring them to sometimes drop everything at a moment’s notice to chase a lead or apprehend a suspect. They are two lifestyles that do not work easily together, and besides, men don’t want the mothers of their children running about doing this, that, and the other. Eliza knows this, and that’s the reason she’s never allowed herself to reflect on William’s question.

         She can’t be a mother and be a detective, so why bother? Even if she decides she wants a baby, she can’t have one.

         She knows becoming a father is William’s dream, and she can’t ask him to give it up. That’s not fair. So, that means—even though they love each other—she’ll never be able to make him happy.

         Eliza covers her face with her hands, suddenly feeling her throat tighten.  

         He takes her lightly by the arm, whispering her name.

         Reluctantly, she meets his gaze, her eyes burning with the threat of oncoming tears, and he grabs her hand, running his thumb across her palm in a back-and-forth gesture. “So, this is about your job?”

         She nods, not trusting herself to speak. If she does, she might cry, and she doesn’t want to cry in front of him, not now.

         “Eliza, do you”—he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing the sentence—“do you think I would force you to do something you don’t want to do?”

         She blinks, as if it’s a trick question. “Well, no—”

         “So, then what’s the problem?” When she doesn’t answer after several moments, he continues: “I know being a detective is important to you. I understand that. And I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye on everything, but we’ve managed to work it out so far, haven’t we? We could manage the details.”

         She doesn’t say anything, and he inches closer, clasping her hand between both of his. “Eliza, I know...I know being a detective is all you ever wanted. But don’t you know by now that what I want is to be with you? I don’t want to marry and have children with someone else. Someday, I want to have them with you. And I won’t ask you to give up your dream if you don’t ask me to give up mine.” 

         Tears make her vision go blurry, but this time, her emotion is for a different reason. “You wouldn’t resent me if I still wanted to work?” 

        “I knew what I was getting myself into when I told you I loved you, Eliza. I would be an idiot to expect you to change now.”

         Her heart clenches, and she swallows, chin trembling as she glances at him. “...You really mean everything you said?” She doesn’t know why, but she’s sort of taken aback, in the best possible way. Does he really love her that much? 

         “I do.” He squeezes her hand, giving her a small smile. “Besides, the Eliza Scarlet I know has never let anyone tell her she can’t do something. Just think about it for a moment, all right? If you knew for a fact that you could be both a mother and a detective, would you want to be? Close your eyes and imagine it.”

         She can tell from the look on his face that this is not a rhetorical question, and so with a sigh, she does as she is asked.

         Well, if they had a child, it would definitely be loved.

         That’s important. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people who shouldn’t have become parents, who treat their child like a stranger or even a nuisance. She wouldn’t want to be the sort of person to foist a child off on a team of nannies…but maybe they could hire a nursery maid, to watch the child during the day? That way, they could both still go to work. Maybe...

         She tries to imagine it: walking up the front steps, unlocking her door at the end of a long day, and being greeted by a flurry of laughter and cries of “Mama!” When she was a girl, she was always so excited to see her father when he got home from work, racing every day to meet him at the door, and she imagines a little boy or a little girl, or maybe one of each, running towards her and throwing their arms about her neck to welcome her home. Perhaps one could be blond, like Eliza and her late mother, and one could be dark-haired, like William or her father. Yes, she would like that.

         When she opens her eyes, they are dry, and she turns to look at William, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I can picture it. Can you?”

         “Mmhm.” He lifts her hand to kiss it, and she can tell from his vacant eye and wistful smile that his mind is someplace else. “When I was young and living at Mrs. Cameron’s boarding house, there was this family who lived across the street. I know it sounds stupid, but I used to watch them sometimes.”

         “Really?” He’s never told her this. 

         “Really. I was…lonely, I suppose. One night, while I was lying in bed, I could hear them laughing outside the window, so I sat up and watched them walk up their front steps—mother, father, two sons, and a daughter. They were completely ordinary in every way, but that’s what fascinated me about them. From where I was, I had a perfect view of their front door, and sometimes they would leave their curtains open, so I would catch a glimpse of them sitting down to dinner together. They did every night. And I remember thinking”—he trails off and she squeezes his hand, silently encouraging him to keep going—“I remember thinking how nice it was, that they always seemed happy to see each other. And I wished someone would be that happy to see me. Ever since then, whenever I imagined having a family, I always imagined it as being exactly like theirs.”

         The mental image is enough to elicit a smile from her. “Well,” she says, sighing, “I don’t know if I could manage three pregnancies, but…two, I think, I could do.”

         He glances at her, a flash of hope igniting his eyes. “You think so?”

         “Yes. I...I think that would be nice.”

         She, too, knows what it feels like to be lonely. Her mother died when she was so young, and though her childhood suffering doesn’t compare to his, she does remember how it felt to have no brother or sister to play with, how many nights she wished her mother was there to stroke her hair and read to her like she used to. And when her father died, she’d felt as if her heart might break, no mother or sibling to share in her grief and tell her everything would be all right.

         It would be nice, Eliza thinks, to have a real family again. A family who eats dinner together and asks each other about their day and kisses each other goodnight. And she would feel better knowing that—if something ever did happen to her, or William, or both of them—at least their child wouldn’t be left alone in the world like the two of them once were. At least they would have somebody there.

         She’s never allowed herself to think about such a future, but now that she has—the “I love you’s” and the baby giggles and the little arms outstretched for a hug—she thinks it’s a future worth fighting for, even if it will take effort. She knows how to go after what she wants. What's stopping her this time? 

         She steals a glance at William, and when she smiles at him, he smiles back.

         And besides, he’s right: she’s not the type of woman to let anything stand in her way. 

Chapter Text

         As the train whizzes through the Cumbrian hills, the outside world appears bright and verdant, the blue sky kissed by wisps of white. William can’t help but pause from reading today’s crime section to glance outside the window, the spring day proving difficult to resist. The dark green trees…the rushing water…the rocky cliff face…the county’s rural beauty is nothing like London. Were it not for the train barreling down towards its final destination of Euston Station, the land might seem untouched by man, a silent spring world. Could anyone look at this lush landscape and not be a little bit enchanted?

         Well, seemingly Eliza could, for she sinks back into her seat next to him with an audible sigh, loud enough to pierce his solitude.

         When he turns to look at her, she’s sitting with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes roving about the train car in search of amusement. When they finally land on William’s face, she pouts at him like a bored child. “This train,” she pronounces, “is so dull.”

         He resists the urge to smile and roll his eyes. “Didn’t you bring a book?”

         “Two, but I already finished both Phantom Fortune and Called Back on the way to Carlisle.”

         “Hmm,” William replies, turning back towards the paper. “I suppose you have a problem then…” A problem that’s not his to solve.

         But before he can read another word, Eliza scoots closer to him, murmuring his name as she grabs for him, her hand on the crook of his elbow, and he glances up at her with a wrinkled brow and a rising amount of annoyance. “Can’t you talk to me about something?” she asks. “Please?”

         There is no sound in the train car save for the low whispers of their two voices, all of the other passengers preoccupied with newspapers, novels, or late morning naps. Across from William and Eliza, a middle-aged man sits with his head back and his mouth agape, a snore slipping out every few minutes or so, and next to him a woman in brown—his wife, presumably—is halfway through the latest edition of Longman’s. When she raises her face, she gives the two of them a slight smile before turning back to her magazine.

         William looks at Eliza. “What do you wish to talk about?”

         “I don’t know.”

         Now, it’s his turn to sigh, and he places down the newspaper, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Can’t you just sit there quietly? Some people claim silent contemplation does wonders for the mind. Perhaps you should try that.”  

         “I already did, but my mind keeps wandering back to how bored I am.”

         He closes his eyes and takes a breath. She’s really not making this easy for him. “Here,” he says, offering her half the newspaper. “Read this.”

         Eliza’s eyes dart toward the half he’s holding. “Might I have the crime section?”

         William opens his mouth, then closes it. Fine, it’s not worth it. He’s had a headache all morning long, and he’s not in the mood for an argument. He forks over the crime section without another word.

         Her eyes brighten as she accepts, and he smiles slightly, thinking perhaps he’ll finally get some silence, but he’s only made it halfway through an article on Parliament’s latest proposed reforms when Eliza gasps loud enough to turn several heads in their direction.

         “William, look!” She leans into him before he can respond, holding up the paper so he might see the headline she’s currently pointing at. “It’s about us!” She clears her throat, then begins reading: “After three weeks on the run, Mr. Roderick Marks, 42, wanted in connection with last month’s robbery at Wilcox’s Bank, London, was apprehended in Carlisle yesterday, the 12th of March. Mr. Marks—who was reportedly hiding in Carlisle under an assumed name—was apprehended at last thanks to the diligent efforts of Detective Inspector William Wellington of Scotland Yard and Miss Eliza Scarlet, a private investigator in London. See? Diligent efforts!”

         The clear excitement in her voice makes a smile tug at his lips, and even though he’s trying to be serious, there’s something about her joy that’s contagious. “Our names look rather nice next to each other’s in black and white.”

         “Don’t they? I think perhaps I’ll hang this one.”

         “Hell, I’ll buy you the frame.”

         He doesn’t realize how close their faces are until they both look up in the same moment, her mouth a breath from his as they turn their heads away from the paper, their eyes finding each other. For a moment, with Eliza looking at him like that with her little smile and radiant complexion, he has an indecent thought about how they might celebrate their success.

         But William sits back, retakes his section of the paper, and clears his throat. Such a thought is indelicate, inappropriate, and—surely on her part—unwanted. “So,” he asks nonchalantly, “anything else interesting in there?”

         By the time the train reaches West Yorkshire, Eliza has regaled him with a summary of every article in the crime section, and they still have many more miles until they reach London. As afternoon arrives, Eliza’s lashes begin to flutter, and she blinks against the light in a vain effort to keep her eyes open, while William finds himself stifling a yawn of his own. They’ve been up since early this morning, and he can feel tiredness creeping up on him, extending its hand.

         He looks over at Eliza as she leans her elbow on the side of the seat, her chin finding her hand. “You could shut your eyes for a few hours,” he tells her. “I’ll wake you when we get close.”

         “I’m not”—she accidentally cuts herself off with a yawn—“tired.”

         The sight of her with her drooping eyelids and the tiny ‘o’ of her mouth is endearing enough to make him smile. “Mmhm, sure you aren’t.”

         “Well”—another yawn—“perhaps I’ll rest my eyes for a few minutes.”

         “I thought you might say that.”

         By the time a railway employee comes around with the refreshment baskets, Eliza is fast asleep, her cheek pressed against her hand, her chest rising and falling with the rhythms of her quiet breaths. Every once in a while, William finds himself glancing over at her, his eyes instinctually dragging from the newspaper or window towards her, a small smile overcoming his mouth as he admires her peaceful countenance. Thank God she doesn’t snore like that fellow across from them! She’s a much cuter sleeper than that.

         When the employee comes around again, William’s almost finished the paper, and he doesn’t notice at first how Eliza stirs in her sleep, how her hand slips out from underneath her chin, until her head falls to the left side and lands on his shoulder.

         He stops, startled. Is she really…? He glances over, and yes, her head is resting on his shoulder, the weight of it warm and not exactly unwelcome, her hair brushing against his neck, light and ticklish as a feather.

         He should probably wake her. He knows he should. After all, they’re in public, and people will probably stare, and though they’re good friends and all, it’s improper for her to sleep on top of him like this, far too intimate, too private…

         William knows these things, and he raises a hand towards her right shoulder, two fingers extending as he intends to gently rouse her with a poke, but he stops just short, glancing once more at her sleeping face, at her closed lids and pink lips. The hand retracts.

         Has he ever seen her sleep before? He doesn’t think so. He tilts his head, listening to the sound of her breathing, counting each inhale and exhale silently to himself. She has worked very hard this week, he tells himself. Surely, she deserves a respite? And at least if she’s asleep, she can’t talk, and he’ll have some peace and quiet at last.

         Yes, he tells himself, that’s his only motivation. It’s not like he wants to watch her sleep or anything. And he certainly doesn’t like how it feels to have her head on his shoulder like this.

         Someone clears their throat, and he looks up to find the woman across from them is no longer reading her Longman’s, the magazine as neatly folded as her hands in her lap. Instead of admonishing them for their public display of affection, the woman smiles, her eyes landing on Eliza’s face before going back up to meet William’s. “She looks rather content,” the woman remarks.

         William glances at Eliza, and he watches her stir in her sleep, burrowing her face further into the fabric of his coat. One of her hands reaches up to grab onto him by his sleeve, right above the elbow, and the gesture makes his chest fill with warmth. Even while she’s unconscious, there’s a forcefulness in her manner, but the tight grip of her hand on his arm doesn’t bother him in the slightest. “Yes,” he says to the woman. “Thank God.”

         The mystery woman’s smile widens, and she looks at Eliza once more before turning back to him with a polite gaze and raised brow. “And how long,” she asks, “have the two of you been married?”

         The question catches him off guard, yanking him from his affectionate state of mind and back into the reality of his situation. “Oh…” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and he glances between the sleeping woman on his shoulder to the questioning woman across from him and back again. “Oh, we’re—”

         He intends to deny it, but the words die in his throat, and the woman is looking at him curiously now, her eyes narrowed. After a moment’s hesitation, William wets his lips and says: “Only recently.”

         It’s a harmless lie, really, and the woman’s face morphs back into one of polite interest, a smile transforming her lips. “Oh, a honeymoon trip! How lovely! You’ve been to the Lakes, I suppose?”

         William has never been to the Lake District, doesn’t know what there is to do there, and has never read a word of Wordsworth or Coleridge, but he replies in the affirmative.

         This seems to please the woman. “How lovely! The Lakes are so beautiful for a honeymoon trip. I always wanted dear Harry here to take me—only took twenty years, but it was worth every moment of the wait. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, I detect a Scottish accent in your voice. Did you and your bride make it as far as your motherland?”

         Though the Lakes have no emotional effect on him, this question does, stirring some hint of nostalgia in his chest. He hasn’t been back to Scotland in years, and his childhood memories of Glasgow consist more of dreary workhouse walls and crowded streets stinking of sewage than romantic sojourns to the theatre or Botanic Gardens, but there’s something about what this woman suggests that makes him long for a different memory. That place isn’t his home, not anymore, but he indulges in fantasies of taking Eliza there. Of walking arm-in-arm through Glasgow’s cobblestone streets. Traversing up the hill to the gothic facades of Stirling Castle, or watching the mist roll in over the shores of Loch Lomond. It would feel different if she were there with him. Would give him something to think of other than pain.

         The woman is still waiting for an answer, and he gives her a tight-lipped smile. “Not this time,” he says. “But someday. Maybe.”

         The woman’s husband’s awakening from his long nap effectively ends their conversation, and William turns back to the window, watching the green hills of West Yorkshire pass by in a blur. Beside him, Eliza exhales softly through her nose, her puffs of breath hot against his neck, and he looks down at her, daring to brush a wisp of hair away from her forehead, his fingers lingering for an extra moment on her temple.

         He’s starting to think he doesn’t care if they never reach London.

Chapter Text

        William promises to pick her up for dinner at seven sharp, and he is not a moment late.

        Indeed, Eliza is still fumbling with the clasp of her necklace and checking her hair in the looking glass when Ivy knocks on her bedroom door to announce that Inspector Wellington has arrived and is currently waiting for her in the drawing room. Eliza promises she will be right there.

        Once the door shuts behind Ivy, Eliza releases a held breath. She takes one last look at herself in the looking glass, and she doesn’t find the sight lacking, if she might say so herself. The evening dress she chose is one of her newer ones, Prussian blue silk with short sleeves dripping down her shoulders and a tight, well-shaped bodice, in accordance with the latest fashions. It shows perhaps a tad more bust than she’s typically comfortable with, but that is the style for evening dresses nowadays, and she hopes William will like it.

        Eliza adjusts her gloves and bites her lip. She would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the spark he gets in his eye when he sees her in something particularly alluring. There’s such a pleasant rush of power that comes with knowing one is desired—especially when the one who desires you is someone whose good opinion means so much.

        And she definitely wants to please William tonight. Seeing as this is their first official date.

        In some ways, tonight is no different from many other nights they’ve spent together. They’ll have dinner together, talk about their days, perhaps take a walk or have a nightcap. They’ve done all those things too many times to count. What’s different is this time they will be more than friends. She’s excited and nervous in equal measure.

        Will he greet her with a kiss? Hold her hand? Squeeze her knee underneath the table? Eliza has witnessed many couples in love, seen their starry-eyed looks and mischievous glances and stolen kisses. While she’s never been a major proponent of physical affection—the idea of people watching her in what’s supposed to be a private moment makes her vaguely uncomfortable, and perhaps self-conscious—the memory of William’s lips on hers the night they admitted their feelings does have a certain allure.

        Perhaps she understands better now how two people can feel like they’re the only ones, even when there are dozens of people around them.

        When she quietly pushes open the drawing room door, he is sitting on the sofa, facing away from her, foot tapping nervously in anticipation, and he doesn’t hear her enter at first. Eliza clears her throat, and he whirls around and to his feet.

        Their eyes meet from across the room, and William lowers his head, a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward. “Hello.”

        Something in her chest flutters. “Hello,” she says, stealing a glance at him. He looks handsome tonight: dark jacket, dark trousers, dark waistcoat. As Eliza steps cautiously towards him, there is no sound save for the faint ticking of the clock in the hall, and her rapidly-beating heart pulsating in her ears.

        She stops just short, absentmindedly reaching for her mother’s wedding ring, tucked safely underneath her glove, and William’s eyes rove her form. When he doesn’t say anything at first, Eliza glances at her shoes, forcing a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

        His eyes instantly snap up to her face. “On the contrary. I find your dress…quite adequate.”

        Eliza holds his gaze for a moment, a playful scowl furrowing her brow, but then he chuckles, and she can’t help but do the same. She shakes her head in mock annoyance. “Is that the best you can do? Quite adequate?”

        She closes the last bit of distance between them, and there are no laughs or teases now as she angles her face up towards his, their eyes locking. William gives her a soft sort of half-smile. “What adjective would you prefer? Astonishing? Spectacular? Ravishing?”

        “Any or all of those would be acceptable, as well as elegant, divine, ethereal…which ones am I forgetting?”

        “Well, rest assured, they all apply to you.”

        He speaks the words with no jest, and Eliza suppresses her urge to grin. No, she’ll tease him a bit longer. “You know,” she says, “I’m quite disappointed. Not only do you not know how to properly compliment my appearance, but you didn’t bring me a bouquet of flowers to express your ardor. It seems your shortcomings as a lover are already apparent.”

        “And what should I bring with me next time? Daisies? Carnations? A dozen red roses perhaps?”

        “Bold of you to assume there will be a next time.”

        “Well, Miss Scarlet,” he says, “you are a minx.” But there’s a brightness in his expression that lets her know he’s enjoying this as much as she is.

        He reaches for her hand and slips it lightly inside his own, his thumb making an arc across the back of her hand, seeming to puncture her glove with the unexpected warmth of his touch. “Though,” he says, “perhaps I am not such an utter failure as a lover, seeing as I have managed to secure us a desirable dinner reservation.”

        “Oh? Where?”

        “Verrey’s.”  

        Eliza raises an eyebrow. Verrey’s is one of the most popular dining establishments in the city, tucked quietly away in the heart of Soho, offering the finest French cuisine, an impeccable wine selection, and an ambiance fitting for romance. “I’m impressed. Perhaps there is hope for you, after all.”

        “I’d like to think so.” He gives her a look. “Now, might I have the privilege of holding your hand, Miss Scarlet, or are you too fine a lady for that?”

        She can’t hold back her smile now, and she clasps his hand tightly in her own in a silent act of acceptance. “Well, I suppose, Inspector.”

        As they walk hand-in-hand down the hall, their games fall to the wayside, Eliza’s mind firmly on the pleasant feeling of his fingers looped through hers rather than any teases or gibes. William has nice hands. She’s never really thought about it before, but they are: warm, strong hands, the kind you want to comfort you when you are in distress, and though they’re a bit rough from years of writing reports and brandishing firearms, she would rather hold the warm, rough hand of a man who works hard for his living, rather than the smooth, soft hand of someone who’s never fought for anything in his life.

        “You know,” she says, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, “I think I could get used to this. Holding your hand.”

        When they reach the foyer, he fetches her coat from the hook without her having to ask, and she bites back her smile as she turns around, slips her arms into the sleeves. “Well,” he says as he adjusts her coat on her shoulders, one of his hands at the edge of her neck, “you might hold my hand anytime you like.”

        When she turns to face him, her breath catches in her throat, and his face is mere inches from hers, hovering invitingly. She steadies herself and glances up at him through her lashes. “There is,” she says slowly, “one more thing you forgot.”

        “And what’s that?”

        “This,” she says, before pressing her lips against his.

        The kiss is slow, gentle yet firm, and William kisses her back immediately, his hands grabbing onto her by her coat as her body presses lightly against his. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in, savoring this moment.

        And though Eliza has had many a pleasant evening out with William before, this one is shaping up to be the most pleasant of all.

        When they pull apart, they exchange a look, and his thumb glides across her cheek. “Well, then. Shall we go?”

        The corners of her lips raise, and anticipation warms her cheeks. “Let’s. I do hope you’ve enlisted a particularly romantic means of transportation. A gilded carriage, perhaps, pulled by three white horses.”

        William lets out a quiet sigh of frustration. “A hackney will have to suffice.” He pulls open the door and gestures for her to go first.

        Eliza’s eyes don’t leave him as she steps outside into the brisk night, pulling her coat tighter over her chest. The air is cool but invigorating, and something akin to hope tugs at her. The night is young and filled with possibility.

        And when William closes the door behind them and joins her on the front step, the first thing she does is take his hand.

Chapter Text

        For as long as he can remember, William has always been a man of routine.

        Perhaps it stems from his childhood in the workhouse, where every minute of every day was rigorously scheduled. Even after all these years, he still knows the timetable by heart. Rise at six. Breakfast at half past. Start work at seven. Luncheon at noon. Leave work at six. Dinner until seven. Bed at eight. The same thing over and over again day after day, month after month, for years. When the bell rang, you had to hurry, and if you happened to lay abed for an extra fifteen minutes or stumble into work late because someone stole one of your socks and it was the only pair you had…well, after your punishment, you would think twice before being late again.  

        Ever since then, he’s always felt the need to have a plan. Other people might enjoy having days with nothing to do, might find it peaceful or freeing, but it makes him uncomfortable, even after all this time, like at any moment the old foreman who tormented his childhood might reappear, call him lazy and give him a welt to remember it by.

        So, yes, William has always had his routines. Luckily, they are not so rigorous now, but it’s a hard habit to break. He likes to rise at the same time. Go to the same places. Talk to the same people. His routines have changed with him over the years, but the one thing that stays the same is he must have one.

        But, of course, when he married Eliza, she disrupted his routine completely.

        Eliza is, let’s say, restless. She doesn’t like to do the same things, doesn’t like to sit still, is always on the lookout for the next big thing, the next great adventure. Trying to make plans with her can prove difficult because she has a tendency to forget about the dinner reservations you’ve made or the play you’ve bought tickets to see. It’s not because she doesn’t care, but between the making of the plans and the actual plans themselves, she has a thousand other things to think about, and they get sort of lost up there in that brilliant, vexing brain of hers.

        The point is, Eliza is a difficult woman to plan around. You never know what you’re going to get with her. Plus, she’s not a morning person. William doesn’t know if he’s ever seen her up at six a.m. Maybe for a case, but that’s the only thing that could potentially get her up at that hour.

        It was an adjustment in those early days of marriage, now that his entire days revolved around Eliza in a way they didn’t before, but the good thing is William’s start in life taught him how to be resourceful, and he’s adapted to his change in circumstance.

        Now, his daily routine looks something like this.

        At six, the soft tendrils of early morning light awaken him, and he rolls over, stretches, readjusting to consciousness. He looks over, and Eliza is still sleeping, by all means dead to the world, her hair falling in her face and her cheek smushed against the pillow. Even though he now wakes up next to her on a daily basis, it still makes something rise in his chest, his newfound good fortune still feeling hard to believe. He kisses her on the temple and gets up to get dressed.

        By the time he enters the kitchen, Ivy will be up too—she’s even more of an early riser than he is—and the coffee will already be on. Ivy will usually scoff good-naturedly and say something like, “That girl has never met a sunrise she couldn’t sleep through.”

        Over breakfast, he peruses the paper and possibly chats to Ivy about something. The time before Eliza wakes is really the only time they have alone together, and when they have their longest, most in-depth conversations—though, he must admit, they often still talk about Eliza.

        (What can he say? Their mutual affection for her runs deep.)

        He always hears Eliza before he sees her, recognizes her familiar footfalls on the stairs, and then she will appear in the kitchen doorway, looking pretty but not as perky as usual. Her full personality doesn’t kick in until eight a.m.

        “Good morning,” Eliza will say, breezing past Ivy to take a piece of fruit from the bowl before coming to steal half of William’s paper. He’s learned to read the crime section first. It’s Eliza’s favorite part, and if he’s not finished it before she gets her hands on it…well, then he’s probably not going to get a chance to finish.

        “Why,” Ivy will say more often than not, “won’t you eat a solid breakfast? You can’t subsist on coffee and apples.”

        “Can’t I?” Eliza will say more often than not, often punctuated with a bite. She always wins that argument, but Ivy will harass her later about luncheon, so it all evens out.

        Then, he and Eliza will head off to work together.

        Sometimes they take a hackney if it’s particularly cold or rainy, but William prefers the walk, and he thinks Eliza feels the same. He likes to have her arm in his, to match her stride. He could probably take their morning route blindfolded at this point: left, then right, then left again. Past the park and the produce stand and the flower seller on the corner of East and Market. There’ll be the boy on his paper route and Mrs. Chesterfield pushing her baby in the pram and old Dr. Harley on his morning constitutional. The man usually stops them to talk about whatever he’s read that morning in the Times. He’s a very chatty sort.

        But—by and large—William and Eliza have the walk from their house to Eliza’s office to talk about whatever they’d like. “Any exciting plans for the day?” she’ll say.

        “Have to redo the report the constable screwed up,” he’ll say, or, “Need to go with Fitzroy to interview someone in Soho. You?” To which Eliza usually responds with something incredibly dangerous sounding, like “looking into a series of stabbings” or “taking a cab to Whitechapel to visit an opium den.”

        “You’re going to bring someone with you, right?” he’ll ask, usually with a raised brow, and Eliza will wave him off.

        “Of course. Don’t worry about me.”

        (He’ll worry, of course.)

        Then, when they arrive at the door to her office, Eliza reaches for her keys and turns around to face him, a smile toying with her lips. “Dinner at seven-thirty?”

        “Always,” he’ll say.

        “All right. Have a good day.”

        In response, he catches her mouth and answers her with a kiss.

        They have a bad habit of lingering over the threshold for too long. It’s usually his fault. When he has a particularly busy day ahead, sometimes it’s tempting to put off the goodbye, to stand in the doorway and keep thinking about how lovely his wife looks in her dark blue coat or how much he wants to brush that stray hair behind her ear, rather than what he has to do.

        “You’re horrible,” Eliza will say to him when he goes in for his third goodbye kiss, but she doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t hear her complaining.

        They’ll finally depart with an “I love you” and a promise to see each other that evening, and Eliza will head into her office while William heads off to work. Sometimes, he will steal one last glance at her over his shoulder. You know, if she looks particularly cute.

        (Or, you know, every day. He can’t help it that his wife is the prettiest woman in London. Or that she looks exceptional from the rear.)

        Sometimes, he spends the rest of his walk thinking about her. And sometimes, when William arrives at the Yard, Fitzroy or one of the sergeants will comment about his faint smile, looking at him with a knowing glance, usually accompanied by a head tilt or wry smirk. William will school his face into his most intimidating look and tell them to get back to work.

        Most mornings are like that, more or less, since he married Eliza. In some ways, it can be strange to fit another person into your life, to factor them into every plan, to work around their quirks, cater to their preferences. For the first thirty-two years of his life, William didn’t have anyone to please but himself, no one else he needed to think of when he was deciding what to do. But after a lonely childhood and slightly less lonely bachelorhood, he wouldn’t go back to those days. A life is nicer when there’s someone to share it with.

        Perhaps Eliza hates waking up early and constantly needs to be reminded of plans, but he thinks, to be honest, the routine he’s developed since marrying her is his favorite yet. William doesn’t know if he’ll ever get tired of seeing Eliza every morning. He’s been married to her for six months, and the wonder hasn’t ceased yet.

        He kind of hopes it never will.

Chapter Text

         She discovers the ring by accident.

         It all starts when she begins to notice William is acting differently around her. It’s so subtle most people wouldn’t notice, but Eliza has the trained mind of a detective and the understanding that comes with many years of acquaintance to recommend her. She knows William’s behavior, and it’s not typical for him to give her one-word answers, or to sometimes be unable to meet her eyes. He is definitely hiding something from her.

         She just doesn’t know what.

         So, on this ordinary Tuesday afternoon in April, when they are drinking tea in his office and he looks like his mind is someplace else, she places her cup on the desk, hiding her concern behind a playful smile. “Is something wrong? You are not the type to pass up an opportunity to disagree with me. Are you ill?”

         “Hmm?” He looks up at her and it takes him a moment to comprehend what she’s said. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just work. A lot on my mind.”

         She nods and pretends to believe him. “Of course.” Except the smile he gives her doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

         They’re interrupted when the door opens and one of the constables comes to bother him with something. William mutters that he’ll be right there and gives her an apologetic look. “Sorry, this won’t take long.”

         She watches him walk out the door, listens to its soft click as it closes behind him, and then immediately springs to her feet.

         Eliza knows something is bothering him, and she doesn’t understand why he won’t tell her what it is. For a moment, her heart clenches with fear. Is it possible he’s been unfaithful? No, she dismisses the thought as soon as it arrives. He’s given her no reason to doubt his devotion, and though he was far from a monk before they began seeing each other, he’s always been a loyal man. Infidelity is not the issue here.

         There could be something wrong, though. Perhaps he’s received bad news? Perhaps it is something at work as he claims, but if so, she wonders why he is being so evasive about it. Is it something he thinks will upset her? Doesn’t want her involved with? Is he physically unwell? All these possibilities come to mind with no answers.

         So, she does the logical thing.

         Look through his desk for clues, of course.

         She doesn’t want to invade his privacy, but well, she is worried about him. And what if her eyes just happen to fall on the papers on his desk and catch a word here or there? She flips through a couple of documents but finds nothing more than his barely legible notes on seemingly routine cases. Her eyes land on the suit jacket he’s left draped over the back of his desk chair, and she picks it up, sticks her hand in one pocket, then the other. It’s in the second pocket that she feels something small and hard, and when she pulls her hand out, she’s holding a box.

         It only takes one look for her to know what kind of box it is.

         Instantly, she feels as if all the breath has fled her lungs, and her chest tightens. She doesn’t know why she is so surprised, but she is. Her fingers shake as she flips open the lid.

         The ring is a solitaire with an oval-cut jewel set in an eight-prong head, no larger than a carat or two, with the vibrant, scarlet hue of a ruby, or perhaps a garnet. As for the band, it’s gold, slim, and shiny, and Eliza can’t help but think how perfect it would look next to her late mother’s wedding ring. Though the setting is simple, it doesn’t detract from the ring’s beauty, only enhances it, allowing the natural elegance of the stone to shine. It is redder than blood and brighter than fire, catching sunbeams when she holds it up to the light. Tilt it this way, it shimmers like a red-gold flame. Hold it that way, and you’ll see your own reflection lurking in the dark red depths. One could stare at it for hours, waiting to see what it might do next. It’s not large or ostentatious, but it is interesting, fiery. Like her.

         William really does know her so well.  

         Quickly, she places the ring back into the box and shoves the box back into his pocket, her hands trembling with anxiety. She gropes for her chair and sits back down, closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths.

         He’s going to ask her to marry him.

         She lets out a choked laugh—whether out of shock or excitement or both, she doesn’t know. They’ve been courting for almost six months now, so perhaps she should’ve expected this, but the realization still knocks her back, and she covers her mouth with her hand, trying to process this new development.

         Eliza used to tell herself she would never get married. She thought it too much of a gamble. After all, how many unfortunate women agree to tie their lives to a man who later turns out to be uncaring or even abusive, and suddenly they are ignored or stuck in a constant state of pregnancy or even locked away in an insane asylum, with no way out of their misery? Though a man can end his marriage for any reason, a woman must prove cruelty, desertion, bigamy, or some other serious offense—and even if she does secure a divorce, her rights to see her children aren’t guaranteed. It’s not hard to see why she never wanted to enter such an arrangement.

         Of course, William had to muddle everything.

         A slight smile comes to her lips. She does love him, and she knows he loves her, knows it as certainly as she knows that the sky is blue or that the sun rises in the east. She trusts him with her heart, knows he would never betray her.

         William is many things—argumentative, stubborn, occasionally frustrating—but he is not cruel, and she believes he wants her to be happy, just as she wants the same for him. And she knows he would never hurt her or be unfaithful to her or lock her up in an insane asylum. A jail cell, perhaps…She smiles at the absurdness of the memory.

         Eliza bites her lip, her stomach in knots. There are certain benefits to being married. They would be together all the days of their lives, and there would be no more ‘goodbyes’ at the end of the night, no more reluctant partings on the front step. Nothing short of death would be able to part them. And though an unwise marriage can result in unhappiness, a wise one can bring the exact opposite.

         Her eyes fall to her mother’s wedding ring, glinting on her right hand.

         Though Eliza’s mother has been dead a long time, she remembers the love her parents had for one another, the little glances Henry and Lavinia Scarlet would steal when they thought no one was looking, the kisses they exchanged before he left for work, their shared jokes and laughter. They were very happy together. When Lavinia was alive, their home radiated happiness in a way it hasn’t since.

         Sometimes, she wants that back: the sort of golden, incandescent happiness that can only come from a love like that.

         Tears rush to her eyes, and she blinks rapidly to fight them off. Damn it. She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. She’s had her fair share of triumphs and sorrows, and though so many things have changed in her life, William has been her cornerstone for almost two decades. When she receives good news, he’s the first person she wants to tell, and when she needs comfort, he’s the one she wants to console her and tell her everything will be all right. She is in love with him. She has been for a long time, and she always will be.

         She knows she’s a strong, independent-minded woman who could go it alone, not the type to rely on another person to make her life whole. But the thing is she doesn’t want to be alone, not when she could be with him.

         So, if he is going to ask her that question…she thinks she knows her answer.

         She sits up a little straighter in her chair, blinking the last tears away from her eyes. There is another small problem: he doesn’t know that she knows.

         He is probably going to ask soon, right? He must have thought about this for a while if he’s bought the ring and everything. Should she tell him that she knows about his intentions? But Eliza shakes her head. No, she can’t ruin his moment. He’s probably worked hard on planning this, and if he finds out that she spoiled the surprise, he will be understandably annoyed.

         But God, she hopes he will ask soon, because she thinks the suspense might kill her. How is she going to act like everything is fine and normal when she is carrying this secret knowledge? She finds herself wondering when he is going to ask and where he is going to do it and even though she tells herself to relax, to let it go, she can’t.

         She’s about to get engaged.

         Her thoughts are interrupted when he opens the door. “Sorry,” he says as he rejoins her in the office. “That didn’t take too long, did it?”

         Now, Eliza’s the one who forces a smile. “No,” she says, “not at all.”

         Eliza is hiding something from him.

         When William comes back to his office that Tuesday, he’s only been gone for ten minutes, and yet her entire demeanor has changed. She suddenly seems distant, and he can tell from the look on her face that she’s thinking very hard about something. She mumbles some excuse about how she has to go home, and before he can even rise to kiss her goodbye, she’s bidding him farewell and rushing out the door.

         For a second, he wonders if she’s changed her mind about him, but he dismisses the thought. Surely, you can’t stop loving someone in only ten minutes—and God knows Eliza is so stubborn, she is not easily swayed by anything. After she leaves, he tries to focus on his work, but his mind keeps drifting back to her, and that’s when he notices one of his files is askew. He tries to picture how he left everything earlier in the day, and though he cannot be certain, he swears it’s been moved.

         It's not unlike her to snoop in his business. He half-sighs, half-laughs. He can’t think of anything in his case files she would find upsetting, but perhaps she’s been working on one of these cases herself, and she doesn’t want to tell him about it?

         Whatever it is, he wants to get the truth out of her. He doesn’t like secrets between them—not anymore. And though he loves her very much, if she is involved in one of his cases, he needs the details, because this is his livelihood, damn it, and he needs to have all the facts.

         He calls on her the next day, uninvited. When he enters the drawing room, she rises from the sofa to greet him, and her smile seems genuine, albeit slightly uneasy. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

         His nerves increase. That wasn’t the warm welcome he was hoping for. “Do I need an invitation to visit you, Eliza?”

         When he crosses the room, he doesn’t go in to kiss her, and he can tell she takes notice.

         Her gaze flicks from his eyes to his lips and back, and she holds her smile, though it trembles. “No, I suppose not. You are always welcome. Please, sit down. Should I call for tea?”

         “That won’t be necessary.”

         They sit on opposite sides of the sofa, and the air is thick with tension. She’s not looking at him, wringing her hands over her lap, and he can’t stand the silence, needs to just say it and be done with it. He clears his throat. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.” She lifts her head quickly, eyes wide and alert. “Did you go through my desk yesterday?”

         She stares at him, blinking slowly, looking thrown by the question. He can see her swallow, taking what feels like a long time to answer, though it’s probably mere seconds. “That’s what this is about?”

         Now, he is confused too. “What else would it be about?”

         She doesn’t answer.

         Sighing, he moves closer to her on the sofa, reaching tentatively to take her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she slips her fingers through his. “I don’t know which one of the cases you were looking into,” he says, “but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me. This is my career, Eliza, and I need to know what is going on. If you’re chasing some lead, the least you can do is tell me about it.”

         He's expecting her to justify herself, to offer up some excuse, but she doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, she laughs.

         It’s not a hearty chuckle, more like a breathless laugh of shock, and he frowns. “What?”

         “William, I…I wasn’t looking at your case files.” She pauses, frowning. “Well, I did look at them, but my objective wasn’t to discover any work information. I was”—a flush touches her cheeks, and she inhales—“I was looking at them because I thought you were behaving differently and I wanted to know what you were hiding from me.”

         “But I’m not—” he cuts himself off when she gives him a pointed look, and the realization sinks in. Oh.

         She bites her lower lip, and she doesn’t have to say anything. He knows she’s seen it. He mentally curses himself for not thinking of a better hiding place.

         He’s known for quite some time now that he wants to marry her.

         When William used to picture his future life, he thought of the same things most men did: a tranquil domestic life, a few children, and a wife who would be there to greet him at the end of the day with a smile on her face and dinner on the table. Then, there was Eliza. Though she is headstrong, and maddening, and far from submissive, these past few years have helped him realize…

         Well, no future would feel right if she wasn’t in it.

         So, he bought the ring. It sat in his bedside drawer for a few days until he finally put it in his pocket, waiting for the right moment to arise. There were several times he thought about asking. There was that springtime Sunday afternoon when they were walking arm-in-arm and the sunlight glinted golden in her hair, or that ordinary Thursday evening when they were sitting together after dinner and she looked at him with a smile that was so lovely, he knew he wanted to see that smile every day forever. Still, something held him back.

         He only plans to ask this question once, and while he knows Eliza isn’t the hopeless romantic type who has long planned out how she wants to be proposed to, he still wanted to make it a special moment. This is the most important question he will ever ask, and how she answers will determine the trajectory for the rest of their lives.  

         Except now she’s found the ring, and he feels his whole body go cold.

         He opens and closes his mouth, struggling for words. “If you’d prefer,” he says slowly, “we can agree to pretend you never saw anything.”

         She glances away for a moment, closes her eyes and takes a breath. When she turns back and lifts her head to look at him, the corners of her eyes shine. “I am so sorry.”

         Now, he’s confused. “What for?”

         “For ruining your surprise.”

         His shoulders relax. Oh, is that all?

         But Eliza looks genuinely upset, shaking her head. “I am an idiot! My impatience has ruined everything, and I know you’re probably upset with me, and I really am sorry. I just—I knew something was different and I didn’t—I wanted to make sure—”

         He cuts her off mid-ramble. “Eliza.”

         She stops speaking, glancing down at their interwoven fingers, and he holds her hand tighter. “I’m not upset with you. Only upset with myself that I couldn’t summon the courage to ask weeks ago.” He tries to smile, adding: “Like a sentimental fool, I wanted to plan something romantic.”

         The corners of her mouth turn up reluctantly. “I don’t care how you ask,” she says. “Being a very determined woman, I’ve already decided on my answer, you see. And nothing you do or say now can change my mind.”

         “Determined,” he asks, “or stubborn?”

         “Hmm, depends on who you ask.”

         They share a look, no one saying anything for a few moments, and he squeezes her hand, growing serious. “I know,” he starts to say, “that you could receive better offers—”

         She starts to protest. “William—”

         “No, let me finish. I know I came from nothing, Eliza, and I will never be wealthy, or powerful. I can’t promise you that work will always be stable, or that we’ll never argue, but I can promise to do right by you, and take care of you.” She opens her mouth, but he continues, knowing what she’ll say: “I know you can take of yourself, and I don’t expect you to leave your job. It’s just important to me to know I could provide for you, if something happened. Whatever happens, I want to be there for you.”

         She closes her mouth, doesn’t even make a quip about the fragility of his masculinity. “For the record, I don’t care about how much money you have or where you came from. That doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me is that you’re a good man.”

         He feels himself smile. After all these years, it’s still good to know she sees that in him.

         A little smirk comes to her face. “If you have a question, now’s the time to ask it.”

         “I’m afraid I’m not skilled at grand gestures or speeches.”

         “That’s all right. I only expect”—she looks away, pretending to consider—“hmm, a bended knee, a dozen roses, and all the usual declarations: ‘I shall die if you refuse me,’ ‘please do me the honor,’ etc.”

         He shakes his head in quiet amusement. “Must everything be a negotiation with you?”

         “Only where you are concerned.”

         Their eyes meet, and he releases her hand to slip his inside his jacket pocket, fingers coming into contact with the box’s smooth velvet lid. Wordlessly, he rises from the sofa and drops onto bended knee before her, Eliza looking down at him with a held breath, teeth digging into her lower lip as she bites back her smile. When he reaches for her left hand, she gives it willingly.

         He has given thought to what he might say, but never settled on one speech, everything seeming inadequate, incapable of expressing his true depth of feeling. He will have to speak from the heart. “Eliza, I know it hasn’t always been simple between us, and the world is very uncertain, but I know that I don’t want to lose you. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but being the headstrong woman you are, you forced your way into my heart, and nothing has been the same since.”

         She laughs and shakes her head at him, but her eyes go glassy from unshed tears.

         “We’ve both survived our fair share of challenges, but that’s the thing about you and me: we don’t give up. Not on ourselves, and not on each other. And I would go through every horrible thing again if that’s what I had to do to end up here with you.”

         Eliza’s eyes shimmer in the drawing room light, as bright as the smile on her face. “For someone who can’t make speeches, you are doing a remarkable job so far.”

         When he looks into her eyes, he has to pause, to take a deep breath and collect himself. Though William is not easily made emotional, seeing her—this woman he loves so much, smiling at him like that, when he’s about to ask her to spend the rest of her life with him—threatens his composure. “We’ve known each other for almost twenty years, and in those years, we’ve been many things to each other: confidantes, co-conspirators, rivals, and best friends. But now, I want us to be more than all that. I want to be your husband, and I want you to be my wife. So, Eliza, will you—?”

         “Yes.”

         The word slips out of her mouth before he can finish speaking, and he frowns, though he is not really mad. “You can’t answer the question when I haven’t asked it yet.”

         “Well, you were taking too long, and I’m very impatient.”

         They exchange a slight smile, and despite the teasing in both their voices, he can see the veil of tears that’s settled over her eyes. The sight makes emotion tug at his own throat. When he squeezes her hand, she squeezes back, a silent reassurance to each other that they’re here, and never going anywhere.

         “So,” he says with deliberate slowness, both to enjoy the look of anticipation on her face, and to savor this moment, this pivotal question, “Eliza Scarlet, will you marry me?”

         He’s barely got the last word out when she surges forward to catch his lips.

        Her hands are on his cheeks, and his arm is around her waist, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Her mouth is strong and insistent on his, and when he pulls her closer into him, her embrace is strong enough to make them both careen to the floor, him on his back with her on top. And she is saying “yes,” over and over, breathless and eager, “yes, of course, I will,” and he doesn’t know if he’s ever been as happy as he is right now.

         Eliza laughs against his face, and William pulls back to look at her, resisting the urge to smile. “Must you,” he asks, “always interrupt me?”

        She is undoubtedly crying now, the first tear slipping down her cheek, followed by another, but she makes no move to wipe them away, instead laughing through her wet eyes. “Always.”

        He realizes then that he hasn’t put the ring on her, and he pulls back with a muffled curse, fumbling for the box. The ring slips easily over her knuckle, the perfect fit.

         She cannot contain her grin now, and when their eyes meet again, his chest fills with warmth. He smiles at her, touching her hair, trying to store this moment away from future remembrance. She is so beautiful. His future wife.

         “God,” he mutters, “I love you.”

        In response, Eliza shakes her head, smiling madly before kissing him again, and that is answer enough.

Chapter Text

         The numbers swim before her eyes, her vision starting to go blurry after twenty minutes of uninterrupted staring. The numbers seem to melt on her slate, dripping like they’re under a strong August sun, and Eliza sighs mostly to herself, her legs stretched out on the sofa even though she’s still wearing her boots, and she knows Ivy will lecture her later.

         “You know,” William says, his voice piercing her contemplation, “staring at that arithmetic won’t solve it.”

         Eliza glances up at him, biting back her grin. She knows that, but what eleven-year-old girl wants to practice her arithmetic when there are so many things in the world that are infinitely more amusing? “Perhaps,” she tells William, “I will tell the teacher that I couldn’t do my schoolwork because Skip ate it.”

         He lets out a soft chuckle, and Skip—currently stretched out on the rug—lifts his head, his ears pricking up at the sound of his name. When he determines that his mistress doesn’t really want anything, he places his head back down on his paws, his eyes once again fluttering closed.

         “I don’t think,” William retorts, “a terrier can swallow a slate, but nice try.”

         He is currently seated in the chair, flipping through the crime section of the newspaper while they wait for Mr. Scarlet to return home from work, Eliza’s father having invited William over for supper. With Ivy in the kitchen, it is just the two of them in the drawing room—well, and Skip, but he is already back to snoring, his tail twitching as if in his dream he’s about to pounce on a squirrel.

         Eliza discards her slate on the coffee table, dropping her feet onto the carpet as she raises herself into a sitting position. “Won’t you talk to me?” she asks William.

         He lifts his head, giving her a quizzical look. “What about?”

         “Anything.”

         A conversation with him will be so much better than arithmetic. Though he is only three years older than her, fourteen-year-old William seems so interesting to her, so compelling, the only new thing that’s come into her life for ages. And when one is only eleven, fourteen seems almost grown up. Eliza wishes she were fourteen. Maybe then, people would take her seriously.

         She sits up a little straighter. “We could play a game.”

         William raises a brow. “A game?”

         “Twenty questions.”

         “Are you serious?”

         “Completely. I am so deathly bored.” Off his stoic look, she gives her cutest, most imploring smile. “Please?”

         With a sigh, William discards the newspaper, and Eliza makes room for him on the sofa, where he soon joins her. “Fine,” he says, “but I’ll start.”

         “Perfect. Don’t make it too easy.”

         “I promise, I’ll show no mercy.” His eyes rove the room, and after several moments, a smirk rises to his lips. “Got it.”

         Eliza—being naturally inquisitive—has never in her life had trouble coming up with questions, but it is rather difficult to limit herself to only twenty, and William’s answers prove to be less-than-helpful. The object is neither human nor animal, black nor white, expensive nor cheap, and by the end of her questions, Eliza can feel her frustration rising.

         “Do you give up?” he asks her, with a look akin to satisfaction.

         “I bet you’ve chosen something terribly obscure. It’s not fair, really.”

         “Remember, this whole thing was your idea.” Eliza only responds with a huff, but her breath hitches when he unexpectedly takes her hand, lifting it up. His hand is softer than she expected, and warmer, and Eliza is terribly confused until he taps her ring with his pointer finger. “There. That’s it.”

         Eliza—not usually speechless—finds that her words fail her.

         If her surprise shows on her face, William doesn’t comment on it. “I’m surprised you didn’t get it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take that thing off.”

         Quickly, Eliza pulls her hand away, folding both hands in her lap, and that’s when confusion makes William’s brows knit together. “Have I offended you?”

         “No,” she insists, suddenly unable to look at him. “No, I’m not mad at you.” Indeed, he couldn’t have known. He couldn’t have known such a harmless comment would hurt her so much.

         When she lifts her head to glance at him again, William looks genuinely concerned, and moisture pools in the corners of Eliza’s eyes. “It was my mother’s wedding ring,” she says, scarcely above a whisper.

         The realization spreads across his face, turning his cheeks pale. “Ahh.”

         They sit there in silence for several moments, and Eliza touches the ring, feeling the cold metal underneath the pad of her finger. In this instance, its coldness feels unexpectedly sharp, biting, painful. 

         She slipped this ring onto her finger the day of her mother’s funeral, and William is correct: she’s hardly ever taken it off, except maybe for washing or sleeping. Perhaps it was selfish of her to take the ring, to not let her mother be buried with such an intimate item, but Eliza had wanted something to keep with her, something tangible, something she could look at to remind herself that it wasn’t all a dream, that she really had a mother once.

         She blinks to fight the tears threatening her eyes. It’s hard: to be a girl without a mother.

         William breaks the silence. “What was she like?” Off Eliza’s hesitation, he adds quickly: “That is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

         Eliza twirls the ring around her finger, takes a deep breath through her nose. “Well, she was beautiful.” Effortlessly beautiful. Golden-haired, bright-eyed, as stunning in cotton as she was in silk, with a laugh that filled every room with its warmth. “And she was kind. Not like me.”

         “You are kind,” William insists.

         But she’s not, not like her mother was. “I can be,” Eliza retorts weakly, “but she was kind, all the time. It was easy for her. She was kind with every breath she breathed.” Eliza’s mother never lost her temper. She must’ve been angry, of course—every person was sometimes—but it never showed on her face, Mrs. Scarlet always giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, never raising her voice. Whenever she reprimanded Eliza, she always did it with a soft smile and an even softer tone.

         “She had the best laugh,” Eliza continues. “It was like bells. Papa was so happy when she was here—no one could make him smile like she could. And when she would read me bedtime stories, she would do different voices for all the characters, and she had such warm hands. They were the best to hold.”

         As she speaks, William sits there, listening, nodding along every once in a while in silent encouragement, and the words feel surprisingly good to say. Eliza doesn’t bring up her mother very much. She knows it makes her father sad. “And she”—Eliza’s voice falters, and she takes a deep breath—“she always wore this flowery perfume, but I…I’m starting to forget what it smelled like.”

         It was her mother’s signature scent, but now, Eliza can’t recall whether it was rose or gardenia. It kills that she is uncertain, that she can’t remember the smell which clung to her mother’s hair and her clothes and her skin, which she used to inhale every evening when her mother hugged her goodnight. Will she eventually forget all the other things, too? Will her mother become nothing more than a ghost?

         William doesn’t respond at first, and Eliza stares at her hand, sniffling, until he says, quietly: “I’m starting to forget what color my mother’s eyes were.”

         Eliza’s head snaps up, but now William is not looking at her, his eyes fixated on an empty patch of space, glazed over from the memory. “Sometimes, when I try to picture her in my mind, I swear they were brown, but other times I think no, they must’ve been hazel. I’m not really sure. That…that bothers me. How can I not know my own mother’s eyes?” There’s a faint tremor in his voice Eliza has never heard from him before.

         William doesn’t like to talk about his past. She’s gathered bits and pieces of it—collected from overheard conversations between her father and Ivy, pieces of gossip from the neighbors, and her own educated guesses—but there’s so much Eliza doesn’t know about the life he had before he met them. That part of his life has always been closed off to her, behind a wall she couldn’t scale—until now.

         Eliza wets her lips, treading carefully. She is curious, but not cruel. “How old were you,” she asks tentatively, “when she died?”

         “Five.”

         “I was six. When mine died.” She pauses, then says: “What was she like? That is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

         Reluctantly, William meets her eyes again, his own now marred by sadness. “She was beautiful, too,” he begins, and Eliza nods, encouraging him to keep going. “Long, dark hair. Soft lips. But she was thin—too thin. She hardly ate. She always smiled the same: small, tentative, like she was afraid to show her teeth. She had a gap between her two front ones, and I think she didn’t like it, because my father told her it made her look stupid. But I didn’t think it did—make her look stupid, I mean.”

         Eliza’s stomach twists. The thought of a man saying that—not only to his own wife, but in front of his little boy too—makes her feel both sad and angry.

         William keeps talking. “She used to hum under her breath, and she daydreamed a lot. Sometimes, when I had trouble sleeping, I would crawl into bed with her, and she would tell me about all these exciting places we would go together someday—London and Bath, New York and Paris, Switzerland, and Egypt—even though I think deep down, we both knew we never would. She would stroke my hair. And she would call me “darling,” which I pretended to hate.”

         Eliza doesn’t say it, but sometimes, her mother would call her that, too. No one has called her “darling” in a long time.  

         William shakes his head. “She was beautiful and gentle, and good, but there was this…this sadness about her. She never told me she was sad, but I knew, somehow. It seemed to weigh her down. I don’t think I ever saw her happy. Not really.”

         “I’m sure that’s not true.” Eliza hesitates, then ventures to add: “I’m sure she was happy to have you.”

         Their eyes meet, and William gives her a weak smile, which only raises one corner of his mouth. “I know she loved me. It’s just…whenever I think about her, it, well, it almost makes me sort of sad, and angry. She was a good person, and she deserved more than she got. So much more.”

         Eliza knows exactly what he means. The memory of her mother—bright in the depths of her mind—almost seems to burn, and she recoils from it like one might recoil from a flame. Her mother didn’t deserve to die. She was so good. Why was it that bad people could get so many years on Earth, and people like her mother, or William’s, were taken so soon, when they were still so young, and they hadn’t done anything wrong, and their children still needed them?

         “It’s not fair,” she whispers, mostly to herself.

         William answers anyway. “It’s not. But life’s not fair, Eliza.”

         Eliza has no retort, no clever argument to combat what he says. The room is quiet, still, and the only sounds she can distinguish are those of Skip’s soft breathing as he slumbers peacefully on the floor.

         Impulsively, she reaches out, takes William’s hand, threads his fingers through her own, her mother’s wedding ring pressing against his palm. When he looks up, she gives him a sad smile. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” she says in a quiet, almost timid voice. She knows it was probably hard for him to say it. It was hard for her.

         William returns her smile, squeezing her hand lightly before releasing it. “You’re welcome.”

         She wants to say something more, though she’s not sure what, but then the moment is disrupted by the sound of the front door opening, the sound of her father’s voice. “William? Lizzie? I’m sorry I’m late!”

         From his spot on the rug, Skip lifts his head, barks. William turns away from her, his face resuming its usual expression, and he calls to Eliza’s father, letting him know they’re both in the drawing room. He stands up from the sofa. Her father’s footsteps sound down the hallway. The moment passes.

         Eliza remains where she is, twisting her mother’s wedding ring around her finger, over and over. Her arithmetic couldn’t be further from mind.

         They don’t talk about their mothers for the rest of the evening, and it is a long while before they ever speak of them again. But someday, many years in the future, she will look back on that conversation, that moment, with a newfound clarity.

         And she will realize that it was the first time she really felt that she and William Wellington deeply, truly, strongly understood one another.

Chapter Text

         “Are you thinking about Mrs. Wellington?”

         The sound of Fitzroy’s voice wrenches William from his contemplation, and he lifts his head, focusing his eyes on his protégé’s face. Fitzroy is standing across from his desk, looking at William with a slight smile, his arms filled with the stack of files they’ve been pawing through for their current case. Truthfully, William hadn’t even heard Fitzroy come into his office, too lost in his own thoughts to notice.

         He shakes his head and clears his throat, putting down the pen he’s been absentmindedly bouncing on his notebook. “No. Why do you ask?”

         “Because you haven’t been listening to anything I say, and you had this little smile on your face, like you were thinking of something pleasant.”

         “Not at all. I was just…deep in thought.”

         In truth, he was thinking of Eliza—not that he’ll tell Fitzroy that. He said goodbye to her at home only a few hours ago, and already he’s been counting down the minutes until he can see her again.

         He’s been thinking about her a lot recently. Eliza’s always plagued his thoughts and interfered with his work, of course, but now she’s distracting him in a new way. It makes him sound like a lovestruck child, but sometimes when he sits down and tries to focus, he’ll find his mind drifting in an altogether different direction. He’ll start wondering what she’s doing, if she’s well, anxious for the next time he’ll get to see her, and then suddenly, an hour or two has passed by without him being as productive as he ought to be.

         And sometimes, without meaning to, he finds himself thinking about how wonderfully, impossibly, ecstatically happy she’s made him.

         Fitzroy nods, but he still has that slight smile, indicating he doesn’t fully believe him. “So, what I was saying, sir, is I have those files on the Peabody case you asked for. I tabbed the parts I found of particular interest. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I’ve taken the liberty to organize them in alphabetical order.”

         “Thank you, Detective.” William extends his hand and accepts the files from Fitzroy, thumbing through them with a searching eye. He’s been working this case for the past week, and—as far as William’s concerned—Peabody’s guilt is pretty obvious. The man has not done a good job at covering his tracks, what with his poor lies, nervous tics, and other suspicious behaviors. The case is doing little to hold William’s wavering attention.

         He sighs and places the files down on his desk, looking up to meet Fitzroy’s eager countenance. The detective’s obvious desire for William’s approval is almost as transparent as John Peabody’s nonsensical alibi.

         William gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Nice work, Detective.”

         “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you like it.”

         “Perhaps you might join me this afternoon to present our findings to the superintendent. Three o’clock?”

         “Really?” Fitzroy’s smile broadens into a grin, his face brightened by pleasure. “Thank you, sir! I promise I won’t let you down.”

         His protégé is profuse in his thanks, and William brushes him off, telling him to start preparing for their meeting. Truthfully, he isn’t giving Fitzroy this responsibility out of the goodness of his heart. He knows he’s prepared. The young man may not be the toughest, may not have the scariest glare or the strongest punch, but he’s exceptionally organized, and his memory is rather impressive. He can recount the details of a case file as easily as he can recall the plot of an obscure Russian novel he read five years ago—that is, to say, he can recount it very well. 

         Still, William can’t help but wince a bit when Fitzroy, blinded by his excitement, turns to go and nearly collides into Eliza, who has just walked through the door to William’s office.

         “Detective Fitzroy!” She steps back and brushes off the front of her dress, unbothered by the less-than-courteous greeting. “Where are you running off to today?”

         Fitzroy bows his head, color coming to his cheeks, but even his embarrassment can’t dampen his delight. “Sorry, Mrs. Wellington. I must prepare for a very important meeting with the superintendent. Inspector Wellington and I are going to present our findings in the Peabody case today. It’s going to be perfect.”

         “Well, I am glad to hear it.”

         Fitzroy starts to move for the door, but then he pauses, looking back over his shoulder to examine Eliza with a swoop of the eyes. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs. Wellington, you look…well, different.”

         “Oh?” Eliza stands up straighter and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, adjusting her hold on her handbag. “How so?”

         Seeing her discomfort, Fitzroy rushes to clarify his statement lest he cause offense. “A good different, ma’am! You look very nice today. Almost like”—he smiles at her—“well, almost like you’re glowing.”

         Eliza and William exchange a glance, but don’t say anything. Fitzroy—not noticing the look, or at least not commenting on it—bids them both good day before going on about his business, shutting the door behind him.

         Once his footfalls fade away, Eliza lets out an audible breath, and William looks at her. “He’s right, you know. You do look very nice today.”

         Her eyes brighten at his words, and a small smile touches her mouth. “Thank you.”

         Indeed, she does look radiant, and not just because of how tidily she’s arranged her hair or her dress’s flattering burgundy red hue. She’s been looking so pale lately, but today, the slightest touch of pink has returned to the apples of her cheeks, and her eyes shine from her good mood. She looks lovely, and William suddenly wants to kiss her very badly.

         Eliza places down her handbag and unbuttons her coat before crossing the room towards him. “Do you think he suspects?”

         William shakes his head. “Not a thing.”

         “Good.”

         He stands to meet her at the side of the desk and opens his arms, greeting his wife with a hug and chaste peck. She smiles up at him, and he leans against his desk, rubbing his thumb over her cheek. “How are you?” he asks. “Still sick?”

         She shakes her head at his concern, and he takes her hand in his, squeezing lightly. “I am quite well,” she insists. “I feel much like my normal self, but I won’t get my hopes up. I know this is likely a temporary reprieve.”

         “Well, for your sake, I hope it lasts.”

         “I shall take what I can get. Anyway, I didn’t want to disrupt your work. I just wanted to tell you I may be late for dinner tonight.”

         “And why is that?”

         “I’m chasing a lead.”

         Instinctively, his hand grips hers a little tighter, and he lowers his voice even though no one is around to hear. “Is that wise?”

         She rolls her eyes and huffs in response. “You worry about me too much.”

         “Isn’t it a husband’s job to worry about his wife? Especially now?” He always worries about Eliza. Yes, she is a capable woman, and he knows she probably won’t listen to his advice anyway, but he sleeps easier at night when he knows she is safe. She’s dearer to him than anyone else, and he has already lost enough for one lifetime. He couldn’t live with himself if something happened to her.

         She tilts her head back to look him dead in the eye and smirks. He returns the latter gesture and places his hands on her hips, pulling her closer to him until their bodies are pressed together. “Hmm,” she says, her arms going around his torso, “if you are this difficult now, I can hardly imagine what you’ll be like before this is through.”

         “Difficult?” He scoffs good-naturedly. “I think I am quite good to you.”

         The right corner of her mouth ticks upward, transforming her smirk into a smile. “I suppose you are.”

         He returns her smile, but after a moment, hers falters. She presses her lips together, giving him a serious look. “I think Ivy knows.”

         His own smile drops. “She does?”

         “She hasn’t said anything outright, but I know she is suspicious, at the very least. She knows me too well, and I think she can tell I’m keeping something from her. She made a veiled comment to me this morning. I scoffed and acted like I didn’t know what she was implying, but I don’t think I’ll be able to hold her off for much longer.”

         “Hmm.” He’s silent for a moment, considering. It isn't easy to keep a secret from one’s housekeeper, even ones that haven’t been with a family as long as Ivy has. It’s basically a job that encourages involvement in one’s private affairs. “Well, we knew we couldn’t keep it between ourselves for very long. And we weren’t exactly discreet after you told me.”

         The memory warms him. He remembers their stolen glances, their little smiles, the private joy that came from their shared secret, only for themselves to know. Those first few days were almost dreamlike in quality. Even Ivy’s presence was not enough to stifle their glee.

         Eliza’s eyes gleam. “I suppose not. And looking at my breakfast yesterday made me turn green. We haven’t been that subtle.” They exchange a look, both knowing it to be true. With their odd behavior as of late, it is remarkable no one else has noticed. They both could be better liars, but the circumstances make it understandable.

         This is, after all, their first baby.

         It took them three years of marriage to conceive their long-awaited, much-wanted child, and sometimes when they catch each other’s eyes, they can’t help but smile at each other, giddy from their shared secret. The knowledge was made sweeter from the waiting. It is good to receive something you wanted, and better yet to receive something you wanted but started to believe you’d never have.

         Though the news of their impending parenthood thrilled them both, they agreed to keep the news to themselves for a few weeks, at least until Eliza reached her second trimester. Though all looks well so far, and the midwife has assured them there is no reason to suspect they should have anything but a healthy child come spring, these early days are so tenuous. At any moment, their happiness might be taken away. A loss would be painful enough without the whole world having to know.

         Eliza tilts her head and looks up at him with a sly smile. “You know,” she says, “you are quite good with Fitzroy. I know you like to pretend that you’re tough, William Wellington, but I know you really care about that boy.” He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, she adds: “That’s why I know you’re going to be a very good father.”

         The words tug at his heart. “You think so?”

         “I know so.” She glances up at him through her lashes, and William thinks that Fitzroy is right: she does have a certain glow about her these days. “You’ll try to be the disciplinarian, and go on about filial and wifely obedience, but our child is going to have you wrapped around their finger. I speak from experience. I know no act of unruliness is enough to change your devotion.”

         He can’t help but chuckle. “I suppose I have years of experience putting up with headaches when caused by someone I love.” His words make her laugh too.

         In the privacy of his office, he allows his hand to rest over her lower abdomen—still flat as ever, betraying no outward sign of her condition, despite how often he finds himself glancing in hopeful impatience—and she smiles at the tenderness of the gesture. “You know,” he says, “we’ve kept many secrets from each other in our lives, but rarely have we shared one. I quite like it.” It is much better to be included in her scheme rather than on the other side of it. There is something so connecting, so intimate about it, having this little secret tying them further together.

         “Me too. Especially a secret of this nature.” Eliza pauses and looks down, placing her hand on top of his, and it’s several moments before she speaks again: “I know we should probably tell Ivy, but I think there’s someone else we should tell first.”

         “Who?”

         “My father.”

         The answer takes him by surprise, and when their eyes meet again, she bites her lip, looking hesitant. “I know it sounds stupid, and it’s not like he can hear us anyway, but it is his grandchild, and I thought—”

         William cuts her off. “I think it’s a good idea.”

         She raises her head, surprise crossing her face. “Really?”

         “Of course. We’ll go on Sunday.”

         It seems only fitting, after all. Henry Scarlet was the means of bringing them together, and if he were still alive, he would undoubtedly be the first to know their news. William can imagine how his eyes would’ve lit up, how he might’ve clasped his hands together and rushed to give them congratulatory hugs. He probably would’ve been an adoring grandfather, the type to give the child sweets before dinner and regale them with entertaining yet age-inappropriate tales of the crimes he solved. For a moment, in spite of all his happiness, William longs for that alternate life. 

         They both loved Henry, and it would feel wrong not to share their joy with him. It’s not the way William wishes they could do it, of course, but it will have to do.

         Eliza’s lower lip wobbles as a veil of tears descend over her eyes. Being with child has made her more emotional, but she grins through her tears, throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”

         William hugs her back, burying his face in her hair. “You’re welcome.”

         He misses Henry. He will always miss Henry. But he still has a lot to be grateful for. When Eliza pulls back, looking up at him with a teary-eyed smile, he kisses her softly on the temple, thinking about how glad he is to have her as his wife. 

         When they go to visit Henry’s grave on Sunday, William intends to thank him. After all, if it hadn’t been for him, he never would’ve had the happiness he does now.

Chapter Text

            Thunder crashes on this Saturday in late November, rain pounding on the windows as the grey afternoon transforms into a black evening. It is just cold enough for the rain not to freeze, but still cold enough to be unpleasant. The wind audibly whistles through the trees, the world shaking as if in rage.

            It’s warm inside the drawing room, however, with a fire roaring in the hearth. Eliza sinks lower into her seat on the sofa with a soft, content sigh. After a long week of work and the struggles that come with being twenty weeks pregnant, she is grateful for a night at home.

            She turns the page, her eyes scanning her copy of Beeton’s Christmas Annual. One of her clients had mentioned there was a delightful detective story in this year’s edition. The first from a new author, it features an intelligent yet emotionally detached sleuth and his genial—albeit less genius—companion. Indeed, the story is quite intriguing. It took a turn she wasn’t expecting, and she’s eager to see where it will go next.

            As she continues reading, William returns to the drawing room, brandishing two mugs of tea. Eliza smiles at her husband as she takes hers from him. “Thank you.”

            He places his cup down on the table and sits beside her on the sofa, reaching over to give her knee a quick squeeze. Before she can even ask, he offers her a pillow. Though this trimester of pregnancy is much easier than the first, her expanding womb does cause a decent amount of back pain, and the pillows help.

            She shoots him a grateful smile. “What would I do without you?”

            “Have a painful back, most like,” he says dryly, but then he returns her smile. “You’re welcome.”

            “Though, I suppose if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be in pain in the first place.”

            “Don’t see it as me giving you back pain. See it as me giving you a baby.”

            “Aren’t I the one giving you the baby? I’m doing all the hard work.”

            He rolls his eyes playfully. “I can never win with you.”

            She stifles a laugh and sips her tea, leaning further into her pillow, mind returning to her reading material. “What do you know about Utah, William?” she asks, not looking up from her magazine.

            “What was that?”

            “Utah—you know, in the United States?”

            He shrugs. “Can’t say I’ve ever given Utah or its people much thought. Why do you ask?”

            “Because Holmes and Watson have just uncovered that their murder victim was a Mormon polygamist from Utah. Did you know Brigham Young had fifty-something wives and just as many children? I don’t recall the exact number, but I read about him once years ago, and I could hardly believe it.”

            “What does a man need fifty wives for? Imagine if I had fifty of you. I’d go to an early grave.” This time, she does laugh, and he asks: “Who, exactly, are Holmes and Watson anyhow?”

            “The detectives in this story—well, Holmes is the detective, and Watson is his associate. Everyone is talking about it. It’s rather good.”

            William leans back on the sofa, and Eliza closes her magazine, holding her place with her thumb. Though William isn’t saying anything, or even looking at her, she can sense his emotions. The week at work has been bad—several murders of young women in Soho, and scarcely any leads to go on. She can tell it’s still plaguing his mind, even now.

            She touches his arm, and he raises his head to look at her. “Won’t you stop worrying about work and come cuddle me?”

            “Eliza—”

            She doesn’t let him finish, already anticipating his words. “Don’t tell me you’re fine. I know you’re not fine. I recognize all your looks. You’ve been turning this over and over in your mind, but you can look at the case with fresh eyes first thing on Monday morning.” She smiles at him in her most charming way. “Besides, would you really neglect your pregnant wife?”

            He falters, and she smiles wider, knowing she’s won. “Are you really going to keep playing the pregnant wife card every time you want to get your way?”

            “As long as it continues to work.”

            He sighs and moves closer to her on the sofa, his arm finding her waist. Eliza meets him in the middle, glowing from her little victory as she rests her head on his shoulder.

            “So,” William asks, “what am I allowed to do if I am not allowed to work?”

            “You could talk to me about your week.”

            “Yes, but that would involve discussing work.”

            She pauses, thinking for a moment, but then her eyes land on her magazine, and an idea comes to her. “I could read to you!”

            He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly skeptical. “Read to me?”

            “Yes! I used to do it for Ivy all the time when I was a girl, so she wouldn’t be bored while she cleaned—except she only liked housekeeping articles and those dreadful sentimental novels, so this will be much more fun. A good detective story to pass the time.” When he still doesn’t voice his agreement, she bats her eyelashes at him. “Please? For me?”

            He stares at her for a moment, but his resolve wavers. “All right.”

            “Perfect! I’ve only read a few chapters. I’ll start at the beginning.”

            (The first seven chapters aren’t exactly ‘a few,’ but she won’t tell him that.)

            Over the next few hours, they follow Holmes and Watson’s fictional escapades, pursuing a double murderer across the ocean in a tale of love, heartbreak, and revenge. Eliza reads and—though William won’t go as far as to admit she had a good idea—he does not interrupt her either. She glances over at him every once in a while, just to be sure he’s listening. By the time the story is over, it is nearing eight o’clock, and William detaches himself from her to rise from the sofa, remarking it is high time to reheat the dinner Ivy left for them.

            Eliza shuts her magazine dramatically, her brow wrinkled in displeasure. “You aren’t going to tell me what you thought?”

            She follows him into the kitchen, watches as he pulls dinner from the icebox. “I think,” he says, “the author was very unkind to Scotland Yard. If Doyle truly believes Lestrade and Gregson are the best of their profession, he clearly doesn’t hold the force very highly, seeing as they’re both idiots.”

            “Ah, and you are not at all biased.” She places her hands on her hips, smiling at him. “I don’t think it’s so much that they’re idiots. Just that Sherlock Holmes is a genius.”

            “And you are not at all biased in favor of the brilliant private detective, I’m sure.”

            “I find brilliant private detectives very true to life.” She walks up behind him, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Did you not enjoy it? Just a little bit?”

            William turns around to face her. He toys with a strand of her hair, wrapping it around his finger. “I’ll admit, it was a good story.”

            “Really?”

            “Really.”

            Eliza is all out beaming, basking in the warm satisfaction she feels every time she is right. It is one of her favorite feelings—though, as William tucks her hair behind her ear, his hand falling to her shoulder, she must admit, that feeling is also high on the list.

            A random question comes to her mind. “What was the first book you ever loved?” she asks. “When you were a boy. That’s one thing about you I don’t know. I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

            William tenses, ever so slightly, and he doesn’t look at her as he responds. The hand on her shoulder drops back to his side. “I didn’t have one.”

            “Surely, you did. Here, I’ll tell you mine first: Wuthering Heights. I pilfered my mother’s copy when I was nine and read it underneath the covers after bedtime. When Ivy found out, she was horrified, told me I was going to destroy my eyes with all that squinting in the dark.”

            “Aren’t the Brontës a bit horrid for a nine-year-old girl?”

            “Oh, but that’s exactly what I liked about them. I felt like for the first time, I was reading something meant for the eyes of an adult. Like I wasn’t being condescended to.”

            “Hmm.” When William turns to look at her, there’s a wistfulness in his expression, like his mind is someplace very far away. “Bleak House. I recall liking that one.”

            “Ah,” Eliza jokes, “and did you find Inspector Bucket more worthy of his title?”

            “I don’t recall all the details, since I read the book when I was fifteen, but I believe I found him perfectly adequate.”

            “Bleak House is an ambitious endeavor for a fifteen-year-old.” The fact that she read it at twelve, she keeps to herself. “I’m impressed. What inspired you to conquer a thousand-page tome?”

            “Your father gave it to me.”

            Immediately, the teasing smile on Eliza’s face flickers. “How do I not know this story?” It is difficult to believe that neither William nor her father ever mentioned it to her.

            “It wasn’t a big thing,” William says, with a slight shrug, but Eliza doesn’t believe it for a second. Off her insistent look, he sighs and continues: “Henry and I were talking one day, and he told me he’d known the man Dickens supposedly used as inspiration for the detective in Bleak House. I’d told him I’d never read it, and he sort of hummed to himself, then dropped the subject. Well, the next day, I came over to the house again, and a copy of the book was just…sitting there. Waiting for me.”

            “That was very kind of him.”

            “Indeed.” She thinks that’s the end of it, but William keeps speaking. He’s not looking directly at her, his eyes focused on an empty stretch of space, glazed over in thought. “I took it home that night and read a hundred pages, so I could tell Henry what I thought the next time I saw him. I didn’t want him to think I was ungrateful. It was a thoughtful gift. He’d even written my name on the inside cover. I remember I ran my fingertips over the letters, not knowing what to do with myself. It was—”

            He cuts himself off abruptly, staring at the floor as he wrenches himself back to the present moment. Eliza crosses her arms over her chest and inches closer to him, wondering what he was about to say. “It was what?”

            William doesn’t say anything for a minute, not meeting her inquisitive gaze. When he finally speaks, his answer surprises her greatly. “It was the first book I ever owned.”

            “Ever?” The word slips out, and Eliza shuts her lips, realizing how unintentionally rude it may sound. But not owning a book—any book—until fifteen? By that age, she had read more books than she could count, gasped and laughed and cried alongside the fictional people who populated the pages. Did he truly never have that experience?

            “We had lessons in the workhouse, of course,” William explains, “but our resources were limited. The only book we were allowed was the Bible. There’s some scary stuff in there for a child, you know—especially the Old Testament.”

           She tries to smile at his joke, but can hardly manage it.

            “I know I’m not as well-read as you, Eliza. I don’t know Shakespeare or Austen or the Brontës, and I’m never going to be the type of man who appreciates sonnets or Russian literature. But I do remember that when Henry gave me that book, it touched me—not just the story, but the gift itself. What it meant. It was one of the first times I had something that was truly mine.” William shakes his head, his attention coming back to the present moment as he gives her a wry look. “It sounds stupid, I know.”

            “It’s not stupid.” Her chin quakes, and she suddenly feels as if she might cry. In her mind, she’s imagining him as his fifteen-year-old self, sitting alone at his desk, turning the pages of the first book he’s ever owned. She’s known to read since she was four, had unlimited access to all the books she could ever want her whole life. He never had that. Thousands of children all over London will never have that. She feels selfish for taking it for granted.

            “You,” she tells her husband now, “are one of the smartest people I know.”

            “Eliza, don’t—”

            “It’s true.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Am I in the habit of giving you compliments I don’t mean?”

            The corners of William’s lips reluctantly lift. “No. You are quite harsh with me, actually.”

            They both smile, and she squeezes his hand, blinking away her tears. “Thank you,” she says, “for sharing that with me.” She knows it was probably hard for him to talk about.

            He lifts her hand to his lips, lightly kisses her along the knuckles. “You’re welcome.”

            Their dinner is finished heating, and William seems to think the conversation is over, but Eliza has one more thought. “You know what would make me very happy?”

            “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull the ‘for your pregnant wife’ again.”

            She gives him a playful glare, and he suppresses a chuckle, before she continues: “I will not cajole you into anything. But I do think it would be lovely if you accompanied me to the bookstore tomorrow. We can find something that better represents the hard-working men of Scotland Yard.”

            A reluctant smile. “If you insist, Eliza.”

            He turns around to retrieve their dinner, and Eliza watches him in contemplative silence for a moment. She does love him very much. He has never given up, despite his traumatic beginnings, and fought for every single thing he has. She hopes he knows that he truly deserves it all. 

            Eliza drops a hand to her belly, smiling to herself. Though it will be a long time before the child inside her will be old enough to read, tomorrow, she thinks she’d like to pick out a book for them. A nice children’s story, she decides, preferably with pictures. Something perfect for reading aloud. With one’s family.

            Yes, Eliza thinks she would like that very much indeed. 

Chapter Text

         William will be celebrating his thirteenth Christmas this year, and he doesn’t expect it to be all that special. None of the others were.  

         The first Christmas he remembers was when he was four years old. The workhouse didn’t make them do their work on Christmas, so instead they rose at dawn for church service and received their meager presents: tobacco for those who smoked, and oranges for those who did not. At three, they had their meal of roast beef and plum pudding, followed by a few hours of leisure, before they were sent off to bed early to start again the next morning, once the Christmas spirit wore off.

         It was the best Christmas he’s ever had, because he got to spend the whole afternoon with his mother, instead of the usual one hour per day.

         The next Christmas, she would be dead.

         At five, he spent the holidays broken-hearted, unable to find pleasure in any of the festivities. While the others talked and laughed and prayed, he kept his head low, eyes swollen with unshed tears. The next few Christmases were similarly solemn.

         A few years later, an Englishman came to visit him the day before Christmas. He was an old, fat man with a monocle, who was constantly squinting while young William squirmed under his vision, feeling like he was being judged. At the end of the visit, the man told him they were going to be sending him to a special home very far away, in London, where they would house him and feed him and teach him what he needed to know to someday have useful employment.

         The Christmases he spent at that children’s home in London were far from merry. Every year, the mistress made them spend all day in church, down on their knees on the cold hard floor, telling them they needed to ask God to forgive them for being born in sin. If they seemed repentant enough, then they would get their beef and pudding. How much food they received depended on how much money the home received that year. The funds didn’t always come in like they were supposed to.  

         When he was twelve, he ran away from that place, sick of the guilt trips and the forced fasts and the open-handed slaps. He spent that Christmas curled up in the warmest alley he could find, bracing himself against the cold, because he didn’t have enough money for a bed. He shudders just thinking about it.

         Now, it is his thirteenth Christmas, and there will be no tree, no presents, but there will at least be a roof over his head, and a dinner of warm meat and cold bread. He should be grateful for that, at least.

         Still, as William stares out the frosty window of Mrs. Cameron’s boarding house, listening to the sound of Mr. McClintock snoring and Mrs. Hardy’s baby crying, he feels something tug at his heart.

         The woman across the street is walking home in the afternoon snow, cradling her tightly bundled baby in one arm and carrying a large shopping bag in the other. She places the bag down on the front step as she searches for her keys, and a china doll and a toy soldier peek their heads out. She has been Christmas shopping for her children, and he can imagine the gifts wrapped in red and green paper, placed lovingly underneath their tree. That went up last week—he watched the husband carry it home, him and his wife laughing when the five-year-old tried to help his papa with the tree. When they leave their curtains open at night, he can see it in the front window, sparkling from tinsel.

         William has never had a Christmas tree in his life.

         He presses his face against the glass, fogging it up with his breath. He doesn’t need any presents, really, and he would gladly skip dinner if it meant he could have one Christmas with his mother again, with one person in the world who genuinely loves and cares about him.

         “Wellington!” Mrs. Cameron’s bellow up the stairs causes him to jolt upright. “You have a visitor!”

         This news is even more surprising than her sudden yelling. A visitor? For him?

         He walks into Mrs. Cameron’s front sitting room—well, only sitting room, front or back—and Eliza looks up, a smile breaking out across her face when she sees him. “William! How are you?”

         He halts in the doorway, blinking to confirm his eyes aren’t deceiving him. But no, she is really here, sitting on Mrs. Cameron’s faded green sofa, still wearing her blue coat and red mittens, Skip half-asleep at her feet, head resting on his paws. “What”—he swallows—“what are you doing here?”

         Eliza laughs. “William, is that the polite way to greet your friends when they call?”

         He knows it’s not. The polite thing to do is say hello, take their coat and hat, and offer them some refreshments. Except he has nowhere to put her coat, and tea isn’t for another hour, and this isn't even his house. It all makes him feel grossly inadequate.

         In these months since Inspector Scarlet first took him under his wing, he has been to their house many times, but she’s never come to see him. He never wanted her to.

         He opens his mouth, but Eliza rises from the sofa before he can speak, dragging a reluctant Skip behind her. “I put him on his leash this time,” she tells William, smiling. “See? I do have him well-trained, though he will be grumpy later. He hates wearing collars. I suppose I can’t blame him, because I would be unhappy if I had to wear a necklace that tight, wouldn’t you?”  

         He tries not to laugh and fails. Her ability to let things roll off her back is sometimes amusing, sometimes frustrating, but right now, it weirdly reassures him. If he had to watch her pity him, he doesn’t know how he would ever face her ever again.

         “Eliza,” he says, “I am glad to see you, but why are you here? How did you find me?” He never told her his address.

         Her eyes sparkle sort of wickedly. “Oh! That was easy. I remember you told Papa once that your landlady was someone named Mrs. Cameron, and I knew you lived somewhere in this neighborhood, so I went into the local milliner’s shop and asked around, because nobody knows everyone else’s business like an old lady with a lot of time on her hands. A few of them seemed quite offended to be approached, but eventually, I found someone who pointed me in the right direction, and, well, here I am.”

         She says it so casually, like this is a normal, everyday thing to do, and he shakes his head. “You are always full of surprises.”

         Perhaps another girl would be insulted by that, but there is no sarcasm in her voice when she says “thank you.” Skip begins to wind around her hem, whining impatiently, but she does not hasten, sticking her hand into her coat pocket and digging around until she finds whatever it is she is looking for. She extends a red envelope towards him. “Here! This is for you.”

         He stares at her for a moment before accepting it, and when his fingers clench around the envelope, it feels thick and heavy. For him? He breaks the seal with his thumb, but before he can pull out the paper, she tells him excitedly: “It is an invitation! To our Christmas party. Papa and I would be delighted if you could come. Will you?”

         “A party?”

         “Well, a small get-together, really. Some of Papa’s friends will be there, and a few of the neighbors, but it’s only going to be adults, so you really must come, William, because otherwise I will be dreadfully bored and have nobody interesting to talk to, and I’ll have to hide in the kitchen with Ivy.”

         He hesitates, glancing at the envelope in his hands, at a loss for words.

         No one has ever invited him to a Christmas party.

         Eliza is watching him, and when he doesn’t say anything, she adds, biting her lip: “There’s going to be a goose, and potatoes and stuffing, and lots of desserts, so the food will be good, I swear. Will you come, please?”

         He gulps, fidgets. “I…I have nothing to bring.”

         That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? You’re supposed to give people Christmas gifts, except he can’t bring the Scarlets anything, having used his last coin to pay the room and board to Mrs. Cameron just this week. He couldn’t even afford to bring them an orange like he got in the workhouse.

         But Eliza smiles at him. “Oh, your presence is all we need! Really, William, we’d love you to come.” She pauses, glancing away before saying in a quick breath: “I would love you to come. Please say you will.”

         She looks up at him, batting her eyelashes, and he feels his chest thaw.

         He can picture the party, and the dinner, and the tree covered in ribbons and baubles, candles glowing in the windows. And he can imagine sitting beside Eliza at the table, how she might lean her head close to his to offer a whispered joke or wry observation, how nice she might look with her hair done up and her holiday dress on.

         It could be a real Christmas.

         It’s hard not to smile, thinking about that.

         He tucks the envelope into his pocket, and a corner of his mouth pops up. “Of course, I’ll come.”

         Instantly, Eliza’s face brightens, and she lets out a sound almost like a squeal, which causes Skip to whine. “Wonderful! Oh, William, that makes me so happy.”

         She grins at him, and he grins back. He doesn’t say it to her, but the sight of her smile makes him happy too.

         “You know,” she continues, “if you want to bring something, you can bring a good ghost story. Papa always likes to hear one, but I think I’ve told all my best ones already, so you can think of one that we can tell him together, something very Gothic and terrifying. Oh, and what is your favorite type of biscuit? Ivy is deciding which ones to bake and told me to ask you.”

         He can’t recall the last time he had a biscuit that wasn’t out of a tin. Anything Ivy makes will surely be an improvement. “What’s your favorite?”  

         “Oh, I like all kinds.” But then she pauses, and there’s a queer sort of look in her eye, and her shoulders slump. Before he can ask her what’s wrong, she says, sadly: “My mother and I used to always have gingersnaps at Christmas. They were her favorite, but Ivy doesn’t make them much anymore.”

         She glances away from him, the corners of her eyes shining. William frowns, thinking about his own mother and that one Christmas he remembers spending with her, before she was taken from him. He would’ve liked to make Christmas biscuits with her. To decorate a tree. He would give anything for one Christmas with her again. He thinks Eliza probably feels the same way about her mother.

         “Well”—at the sound of his voice, she reluctantly lifts her face to meet his gaze—“then tell her that’s what I want.”

         The words bring the sparkle back to her eyes, and he smiles when she does, his chest growing warm.

         “Wonderful! I’ll go home and tell her at once. Thank you so much, William. I’ll see you on Sunday? Six o’clock! Don’t be late.”  

         He nods. “I’ll be there.” I wouldn’t miss it, he adds silently, but he doesn’t tell her that.

         He walks her to the front door, Skip anxious to leave, tugging on the end of his leash, and William holds the door open, the wind snapping outside on the busy street. She thanks him and is halfway down the steps when she turns back, raising an eyebrow at him, her mouth transformed by a smirk. “Oh, and William? Happy Christmas.”

         He hesitates in the open doorway, his hand on the knob. He fingers the invitation in his pocket, a smile coming to his face as he takes in her pleasantly pink cheeks, her bright eyes. “Happy Christmas, Eliza.”

         Perhaps, William thinks, this might be the best one yet.

Chapter Text

         Though she would not admit it if asked, Eliza is nervous about seeing William tonight.

         She wakes up that morning with a dizzy, light-headed feeling, like one might get after a night of too much wine. For a moment, she lays there in her bed, replaying last night in her mind. Did it really happen? Does he really love her? She pinches her skin lightly with her thumb and forefinger, just to confirm it's real.

         She tries on three dresses before settling on her final choice—a dark red number, like the color of a currant. She remembers William once complimented her on it, his eyes surveying her figure when he thought she wasn’t looking, in a way that made her feel suddenly aware of her own power. After she is dressed, Eliza checks her hair and face in the mirror, ensuring that no strand of hair is out of place and that her face looks pleasantly flushed. The bandage at the lower left side of her throat—just peeking over the edge of her collar—does hinder the overall look slightly, but oh well. She is not vain enough to risk getting an infection just for appearances’ sake.

         She heads off to work and tries to focus, telling herself a productive day is what she needs, but every hour or so, she will find herself glancing towards the door, or staring at the clock, or tapping her fingers on her desk, her stomach in knots. He infects her thoughts, damn him. It’s impossible to get anything done when the thought of seeing him again is so distracting. Eliza has never been in love before and wonders if it's always so inconvenient.

         She doesn’t know why she’s nervous. William doesn’t make her nervous. She’s known him since they were young, and there is no soul on earth she knows better.

         When she returns home that evening, she paces the length of the kitchen too many times to count. Finally, Ivy tells her to relax before she makes a hole in the floor, and Eliza gives her a sheepish smile. 

         “Sorry.” She hadn’t even realized she was doing it, her body acting purely on instinct, needing something to distract itself.

         Ivy gives her a little smile. “So, you’re nervous to see the Inspector, is that it?”

         Eliza hesitates, crosses and uncrosses her arms, shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not nervous.”

         Ivy shakes her head and makes a small noise of disagreement, before turning to check on the biscuits she’s baking. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Lizzie. You might be courting now, but Inspector Wellington knows you well, and he has been coming here for ages.”

         “We aren’t courting,” Eliza responds instinctively, which earns her another head shake from Ivy. Though, upon reflection, if they’re not courting, what are they?

         It doesn’t seem quite right, but she doesn’t know what else to call their relationship. In her mind, ‘courtship’ conjures up an image of two people getting to know one another, young and awkward in the first blushes of love. It makes her think of people still young enough to have blemished faces or braids in their hair, asking questions and stealing glances from opposite sides of the drawing room, perhaps taking walks with a stern-faced chaperone walking a respectable twenty paces behind.

         She doesn’t need to get to know William, knows him as well as she knows the back of her hand. After all this time, she’s comfortable with him. So, what should she call what they are? As of last night, they are more than friends, but they are not engaged, so she thinks ‘courting’ is the closest thing to a label she can think of, even if it still seems wrong.

         Eliza sighs. “I suppose I’m being silly. I know there’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s just…it’s so exciting, and so familiar, but also so new, at the same time.”

         She knows how to be William’s friend, knows how to talk to him and tease him and make him laugh, but this new familiarity between them has opened doors she’s never opened—not with him, or anyone. She’s never romanced a man before. She doesn’t know what to do, and Eliza doesn’t like situations where she’s not in control.

         So, while he’s come to visit her countless times, she now finds herself anticipating his arrival tonight. Will he kiss her? In front of Ivy? How should she greet him at the door? Would he mind if she took his hand? Would he be offended if she didn’t? She doesn’t want to do something wrong, doesn’t want to ruin the strange bliss of the past day. 

         Ivy removes the biscuits from the tray. When she looks at Eliza, there is no teasing in her smile now, only affection. “Lizzie, don’t fret. No man in this world loves a woman more than that man loves you.”

         The words tug at her heart, and she feels her mouth lift in a reluctant smile. “You think so?”

         “I know so. And after all, the two of you have caused each other many problems over the years and still chose to be together in spite of it. I think that shows a serious devotion, don’t you? A more easily frightened person would’ve run for the hills a long time ago.”

         A little laugh slips from her mouth. Deep down, she knows Ivy is right. This would’ve happened anyway, could’ve happened ten years ago or ten years from now. In her heart, she knows William, she trusts him, and she knows they would’ve found their way to one another sooner or later. They belong together. There is nothing to be afraid of.

         She will trust her instincts, take it slow. Though she is certain of her love for him, she is not in a hurry to make it to the altar. She intends to enjoy her newfound freedoms, her ability to kiss him and hold his hand and tell him she loves him whenever she likes.

         This is the beginning of the rest of their lives. They have time. 

         There’s a knocking at the door, and she stands up straighter, biting down on her lower lip to restrain her grin.

         Ivy gives her a look, her eyes brightening and her lips turning up into a little smile of her own. “That’ll be Inspector Wellington. Good, he’s on time.”

         Eliza starts for the door, but then she pauses with one foot out of the kitchen, turning back to look at Ivy one last time.  “You know,” she says, “you can start calling him ‘William,’ if you’d like.”

         Ivy glances at her out of the corner of her eye, raising one of her brows. “Perhaps I might take the liberty when the two of you are married.”

         Eliza scoffs, which makes her housekeeper tentatively smile. “Now,” Eliza says, laughing, “that hint was far from subtle.”

         “I’m not getting any younger, Lizzie, and neither are you.”

         She opens her mouth, but they are effectively interrupted by another knock at the door, and Eliza gives Ivy a look, starting to back out of the room. “We’ll finish this discussion later,” she says playfully, and Ivy smiles and shakes her head just before Eliza turns and heads for the foyer.

         She collects her breath on her way to the door, stops to catch her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is still in place, her cheeks have a healthy color, and she wipes her palms on her skirt. Satisfied, she answers the door.

         William stands with his arm against the doorframe, and their eyes meet, matching smiles springing to both their faces. “Hello.”

         “Hello.”

         He looks effortlessly handsome tonight, and her body tingles with excitement. She’s spent all these years denying to herself that she desires him, but now she doesn’t have to pretend. Based on the smoldering look in his eyes, he’s not pretending either.  

         Though she was nervous earlier, the sight of him—standing there, looking at her like that—is enough to make a wave of calm rush over her. There is no need to worry about how she looks, or if she’ll behave in the right way or do the right thing, because he is her best friend, and he just told her he loves her yesterday, and she loves him, too. The rest will fall into place. 

         And right now, she really wants to kiss him, and so, that’s exactly what she does.

         She leans forward and presses her lips to his, one of her hands holding onto him by the front of his shirt. He kisses her back, mouth eager and strong, his body radiating warmth as he closes the distance between his chest and hers. 

         She’d only kissed him once before yesterday, and that one wasn’t exactly a happy memory. But after their second kiss, she’s lost track of how many times they’ve kissed since then. Three times, maybe? Four? She supposes the number doesn’t matter. All she knows is that she likes kissing him very much. Though she was nervous for tonight, kissing him feels…safe. Natural. Normal. Like this is what they were supposed to do all along, and they’ve only just now caught up. 

         She pulls back once she needs air, and he looks down at her with a little smirk. “Well, that was a warm welcome.”

         “Perhaps,” she replies, smiling, “that is how I shall always greet you from now on.”

         “I wouldn’t have a problem with that.”

         “No?”

         “No.”

         “Good.” She steals another quick peck before taking him lightly by the arm and ushering him inside. “Come into the drawing room. We’ll have some tea.”

         They settle down beside each other on the sofa, a fire already roaring in the hearth. While they’ve sat beside each other on this sofa many times before, they’ve never sat this close, and Eliza’s body fills with a warmth that’s not from the fire. She stares at him for a moment, admiring his face in the evening light, and God, she really does love him.

         “Penny for your thoughts,” he inquires. 

         His hand brushes lightly against her thigh, and the action pulls Eliza from her contemplation. She can feel the rough surface of his bandage against her skirt, and she reaches for his hand, suddenly concerned. After the supreme happiness of their love confession, there are moments she almost forgets they were held at knifepoint less than twenty-four hours before. She turns his hand over, palm up, so she might look at his injury. “How is your hand?”

         He flexes his fingers, shrugs. “Just a flesh wound.”

         To describe catching a knife mid-air and having one’s palm sliced open by it as “just a flesh wound” is the definition of an understatement, and his attempt at nonchalance makes her chuckle. “Oh,” she says sarcastically, “my knight in shining armor…”

         They catch each other's eyes and share a slight smile. But then William grows serious as well, lifting a single finger to ghost over her bandage. “Your neck?”

         To have a knife held to one’s throat is no small feat either, but the doctor told her there’s no reason to believe her wound will become anything serious, so long as she is diligent about cleaning it and changing the bandage. When she washed it this morning, it had looked rather nasty, but she won’t tell William that. “Just a flesh wound.” 

         His touch on her neck is the lightest of light brushes, and he looks down, not saying anything for several moments before he meets her eyes again. “I swear, Eliza, I would catch many more knives if that’s what it took.”       

         Though he tries to pass it off as a joke, the words contain an undercurrent of truth. Blush steals into her cheeks, heat crawling up the back of her neck. When he touches her face, and her eyes meet his, she’s—for the second time in as many days—overwhelmed by the realization that she would do almost anything for him, would kill for him if that’s what it took to keep him alive. She never wants to live without him.

         Luckily, it seems like she won’t have to.

         Eliza shifts closer to William on the sofa, taking his uninjured hand in her own. “Might I kiss you again?” she asks, voice hardly above a whisper.

         His eyes sparkle in response, flicking towards her lips. “Eliza, you might kiss me anytime you’d like.”

         That’s one promise she’s definitely going to hold him to. After all, they have plenty of lost time to make up for. 

Chapter Text

        William has never known anyone who loves their career as much as his wife loves hers.

        Most people he knows complain about their jobs ten times to every once they praise it, and while William enjoys many things about his profession, he also enjoys his time away from it. At the end of a long day, it’s nice to sit back, forget about his paperwork, have a drink and some good company, and talk about anything other than murder.

        Eliza, however, is not so.

        He thinks she could probably keep talking about crime forever if he would let her. She is the type who does not mind rising to get to work early or staying there past dinner time if the situation requires it. When a case proves to be of particular interest, it will affect all aspects of her life, monopolizing their dinner conversation and even keeping her awake at night as she lies in bed staring at the ceiling, like she’s moving invisible chess pieces in her mind. Even when she’s not working, she reads newspaper articles about murder and novels involving murder and has—on more than one occasion—passed a Saturday afternoon in her father’s old home office, reading and rereading his law books in hopes of discovering a fact or technique she hasn’t noticed before. It’s safe to say that his wife is not like most people.

        These little quirks of hers are at turns annoying and endearing. On one hand, sometimes he would like to be able to spend an evening without talking about the East End’s rising crime rate or the famous actress who was just stabbed on stage with a real dagger instead of a prop one—and he definitely doesn’t want to discuss decapitation while they’re in bed together. It’s a bit of a mood killer.

        (And, yes, that is something Eliza really did once. He doesn’t wish to talk about it.)

        On the other hand, he can’t deny it’s charming how her eyes brighten when she’s faced with a new challenge or how she rambles when she’s just made a big break in a case and wants to tell him about it. It’s cute: her pure, unadulterated passion. Most people don’t get that excited about anything, ever. 

        Eliza’s current case has had her occupied for going on three weeks now. The full details of this case are far too long to explain here. Let’s just say it involves a dead man with many enemies, a missing will, a vengeful mistress, and several other salacious details that would have Basil Sinclair drooling. Her investigation has had its ups and downs with leads turning into dead ends, secrets after secrets coming to light, and no shortage of suspects looking guilty. One night, she even bolted upright from the dead of sleep, having had a sudden insight she needed to write down before she could forget it. William woke up when she flicked on the lamp and rushed out of the bedroom muttering to herself, in a desperate search for a pen. Knowing how she gets, he’d simply groaned, rolled over, and covered his head with his pillow. 

        It's somewhat irritating to have one’s sleep interrupted, but these are the perils of marrying a detective. Eliza has been very busy, and no one who knows her can doubt her determination. So, if William wants to spend time with his own wife, he has to get creative. That night, wanting to hear the sound of her voice, he leaves home around seven, braving the rain to make it to his wife’s office. Her light is the only one still on in the whole building, a golden glow against the chilly blackness.

        The door is unlocked and he pauses before entering her office, unable to resist stealing a peek at her. She is so focused she doesn’t hear him push the door open, staring down with her elbows on the desk, her fingers tapping against her page. A piece of her hair has popped out of place, dangling against her cheek, and he thinks it would be awfully satisfying to push it out of the way.

        Remembering his purpose for coming, he knocks to announce his presence. “Might I come in?”

        She lifts her head, and when she sees him, the surprise in her eyes softens into pleasure. A slight smile comes to her tired face. “Always.”

        He closes the door behind him and approaches her desk, Eliza leaning over instinctively to allow him to kiss her head without having to tear her eyes away from her notes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was.”

        “Don’t worry about it.” He holds up the bag Ivy prepared for them, raising an eyebrow at her. “I come bearing dinner.”

        When Eliza looks at him, her eyes go bright with delight, and she moves her work out of the way so he might begin unpacking on her desk. “If only,” she laughs, “you came bearing drinks too, for I fear I may need one after—”

        He effectively cuts her off when he holds up the wine bottle.

        Eliza stares at him, then laughs again, and he smiles, pleased with himself. “Ivy says your father bought this wine back in ‘65, so I think it’s about time it’s opened. Though, the wine glasses don’t travel well, so you’ll have to be content with drinking out of tea cups.”

        “Sounds perfect.”

        Once everything’s been unpacked, he fills two cups with wine and passes her one, Eliza shooting him a smile. “You,” she says, “are the best husband in all of England. Thank you.”

        “I was aiming for all the world, but I suppose all of England will suffice.” Then, not teasing her, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and drops a kiss to her forehead, right where it meets the hairline. Eliza sighs in quiet contentment, and he finally brushes that hair out of her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek for a second longer than necessary. “You’re welcome.”

        He sits down in the chair across from her, and as they begin their meal—the wine, it turns out, is quite excellent—William asks Eliza how her case is going. She responds with a noise of exasperation, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

        “I have no shortage of suspects, but an utter lack of any concrete evidence. I’m beginning to think everyone in Bloomsbury wanted this man dead. Perhaps they all plotted together and took turns stabbing him.”

        “Given what you’ve told me about the dead man’s character, I find that idea fanciful, but not out of the realm of possibility.”

        They exchange a look, and Eliza lifts her wine-filled teacup to her lips, making a small “hmm” of approval. “That’s actually delicious. Thank you, Papa. What wine is this?”

        “Don’t get too attached to it, because I believe it was rather affordable twenty years ago, but would cost both our arms and legs now.”

        “Ah, a pity. I am rather attached to my appendages.” Eliza pauses, placing her fork and knife down on her plate, and she tilts her head to look at him sideways, her eyes sparkling like they’re prone to do when she has an idea. He expects her to say something, but several seconds pass in silence. 

        “What?” William asks. “Have you cracked it?” He tries to remember the exact wording of his previous sentence, wondering what he might’ve said to make her look at him that way.

        She shakes her head. “I wish. I am as perplexed as ever.”

        “What is it, then?”

        She rests her chin on her hand, fixing her eyes on his face, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. “After dinner,” she says, “I think it’s about time for me to lock up and go home with my handsome husband, who does things like bring me dinner, and only complains a few times when I wake him up in the middle of the night.”

        “A great show of restraint on my part, really,” he says, with a mix of seriousness and sarcasm.

        “And,” Eliza continues, “I think tomorrow I shall relax and have a bit of a lie-in, so I might look at the case with fresh eyes on Monday.”

        “And is another person going to take part in this lie-in?”

        “Hmm,” she says, pretending to think it over, “perhaps.” She raises an eyebrow at him, and a mischievous smile threatens to show itself on his face.

        “And,” he asks, working hard to maintain a straight face, “do you have any other plans for your day of leisure?”

        “None. Perhaps I will not even leave the house.”

        “And how will you entertain yourself then?”

        Eliza gets a suggestive little smile, and she takes a long pause before speaking. “I have some ideas.”

        William suspects he will not find any of those ideas objectionable.

        By eight, dinner has been eaten, the wine is half gone, and Eliza locks up the office behind them as they start off toward home. The rain has stopped, leaving behind a night that’s clear and cool, and William extends an arm to her, which she accepts with a smile. She places her hand on his arm and rests her head on his shoulder, the familiar weight warm and welcome.

        “Thank you for bringing me dinner,” she says in a soft voice that’s completely genuine.

        “You’re welcome.” Though, in truth, he cannot say he did it entirely out of the goodness of his heart.

        There was, after all, the selfish motivation that he wanted an excuse to see his beautiful wife.

        “And,” she continues, “I know I have been very busy lately, but from now on, I promise to be there for every dinner if you’ll have me.”

        “Well,” William replies with a slight smirk and a sarcastic tone, “I have been a bit neglected lately, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me.”

        In response, Eliza lifts her head and gives him that particular smile of hers that never ceases to tug at his heart, and he smiles back.

        While his wife might talk about murder more often than most, and can’t always be relied upon to make it to a dinner engagement on time, he’s definitely glad he married her. He wouldn’t have been as happy with anyone else.

Chapter Text

        “Honestly, Lizzie, how am I ever supposed to fix this hem if you won't stand still?”

        Ivy speaks the words with half-annoyance and half-fondness, and Eliza squirms, pointing her eyes towards the drawing room ceiling. “Sorry,” she says, trying to direct her mind towards something other than what Ivy is doing to her skirt. 

        A last-minute growth spurt—which Ivy hopes and prays will be Eliza's last—has made the dress too short, and they don't have much money to spare on new garments these days. Thus, Eliza has to stand here while Ivy attempts to transform this dress into something wearable and remain as still as she can. A tough task for a teenage girl who always likes to be on the move.

        “You need to be more careful with your clothes,” Ivy says. She is kneeling before Eliza, needle clenched in hand, currently examining a spot of dirt on Eliza's hem with narrow-eyed concentration. “Lizzie, this hemline looks like it's been in the gutter.”

        Eliza ignores her. “Ivy, did you hear about the murder in Putney the other day? I read about it in the newspaper. It's the most intriguing thing. They found a woman's body in the Thames—well, what was left of her body. No head, no arms, and only one leg. Scotland Yard thinks that the killer treated her with lime before he dumped her in. You don't think this is connected to the case from Battersea back in September, do you? Imagine if there was some lunatic on the loose. Wouldn't that be interesting?”

        Ivy shoots her a look. “One: I don't think dismembered bodies are an appropriate topic of discussion for a young lady, Lizzie. Two: you already told me about this story yesterday.”

        “Oh.” Her shoulders sink in silent defeat.

        Eliza knows that Ivy is getting rather sick of the constant crime talk, but it's not her fault that she doesn't have anyone else to discuss these things with. Other girls don't want to discuss anything other than parties and boys. Her father will humor her, but always tries to redirect the conversation to a topic he considers more appropriate after a while. And William—

        Well, William hasn't been here in eight days.

        Not that she's counting or anything. Absolutely not. Her lips flicker into a frown, thinking of him. William has always been the person she could talk to, who would humor her whims and keep up with her wit. Even if he is a bit of a tease, it always feels nice, talking to him. She thought...well, she thought he understood her.

        Except he hasn't come to see her in eight days. 

        He always comes to their house every week without fail, sometimes multiple times. She will come home to find him in their kitchen eating their food or with his feet propped up on the coffee table like he owns the place. And though Eliza will frequently roll her eyes at him, smack him on the shoulder and ask him to sit up straight like a civilized human being, she always secretly looks forward to his unexpected visits. 

        And now he's disappeared. Is he angry with her? Has she upset him somehow? Has he forgotten about her, decided he doesn't want to be friends with her anymore? 

        A shot of fear strikes her heart. Perhaps something horrible has happened. He's in trouble, or he's hurt, or—

        “Lizzie”—Ivy's voice interrupts her contemplation—“are you all right? You have a strange look on your face.” 

        Eliza straightens her posture, forces a smile, shakes her head. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I am all right. Just ready for this to be over with, is all.”

        “Well, stand still. I'm almost done.”

        “Yes, ma'am.” 

        Ivy rolls her eyes at Eliza's cheeky tone, but then smiles. 

        Several minutes pass in silence—save for Ivy's occasional admonishments—before a knock at the door nearly makes Eliza jump. Ivy jabs herself in the finger. “Eliza Scarlet! How many times do I have to tell you?” 

        “Sorry,” she responds, only half-heartedly. Yanking her skirt away, she steps down, walks towards the window. She tries to catch a glimpse of the front steps, and the angle is awkward, strains a muscle in her neck. The pounding at the door continues, and when her eyes land upon their visitor, it steals the breath from her lungs. 

        “Lizzie, come back here and let me finish—”

        Eliza isn't listening. “It's William.” He's here, outside. He's fine, and he doesn't hate her. As excited as a child about to open their Christmas present, she brushes past Ivy, unfinished skirt be damned, and hurries to answer the door.

        She yanks it open while he is mid-knock, hand still raised, and their eyes meet. His face softens at the sight of her, and a little smile rises to her lips, almost like it has a will of its own. “Hello.”

        “Hello.” He holds her gaze for a moment, but then Ivy's footfalls echo down the front hall, and she comes to stand behind Eliza. He looks away, his eyes pointing over her shoulder. “Is Henry home?” 

        Immediately, the smile falls from her face, and Eliza feels her shoulders sink. "In his office," she says, trying to fix her expression into one of indifference. “Why?”

        “I have something I want to share with him. News. Good news.”

        “Oh,” Eliza says. 

        Where have you been? she wants to ask him. He hasn't been here in eight days, and now he's come, but not even to see her?

        She has never begrudged William a relationship with her father. She is not like those girls who treated their fathers like possessions, like dolls they don't want anyone else to play with. Eliza knows that you can hold affection for multiple people in your heart, and she knows that William needs her father's approval, that it means as much to him as it does to her. She can't be angry with him for that.

        But she would be lying if she said it wasn't incredibly frustrating to her: how he's looking over her shoulder, straining to see. And, perhaps, on some level, she wishes she was the one William came here to share his good news with.

        He turns back to her then, his face bright. “Could you get him, please? I want to speak with him. Both of you. You as well, Ivy.” 

        The request softens her somewhat, and her body relaxes, glad she has not been entirely shut out. “Oh, of course. We can all go into the drawing room.” 

        Her father is at his desk when Eliza peeks her head into the study, Henry Scarlet transfixed on one of his recent cases even though it's a Sunday afternoon. He addresses her without looking up, likely recognizing the sound of her feet on the hardwood. “Yes, Lizzie? What is it?”

        “William's come. He wants to speak with you about something. With both of us.” 

        Her father perks up, discarding his notes so that he may look her in the face. Though he hasn’t said anything, Eliza knows William’s recent absence has secretly bothered him as much as it did her. “Oh? Well, all right. Come then, Lizzie. Let's go hear what he has to say.” 

        When they rejoin the others in the drawing room, Ivy is packing up her sewing kit—evidently having given up on wrangling Eliza's dress into shape—and William is pacing the length of the room, looking nervous. When Mr. Scarlet shuts the door behind them, William looks up at them, and a smile spreads across his face. “I'm glad you're both here,” he says. “I've just gotten some great news. I couldn't wait to tell you.”

        “Oh,” Eliza's father says, “then, whatever it is, I'm sure we'll both be happy to hear it. Right, Lizzie?”

        “Right.” She glances at William, her curiosity rising. He looks between the three of them, a big, almost childlike grin on his face. She doesn't know if she's ever seen him look this happy—not recently, not ever. 

        “It's about the detective's exam. I've just heard back today. I've—well, I've passed.” 

        For a moment, no one says anything, all three of them looking at William, the meaning of his words taking a moment to settle in. 

        Once they do, Eliza's father responds first, bringing his hands together. “That is wonderful news, my boy! Congratulations. I did not doubt you for a moment.” 

        “Thank you. I honestly wasn't expecting it. I've been worrying myself sick about it all week, thinking I failed. I was so certain I was going to have to try again next year. I made them repeat the news to me, just to make sure I heard it right.” 

        “That is wonderful,” Ivy agrees, smiling. “We're all very proud of you.”

        It is only then that they all glance towards her, and Eliza realizes she hasn't spoken a single word.

        The detective's exam. Passed. She doesn't know what she expected William to say, but the news still hits her like a punch to the gut. She knows that he's been preparing for it. Indeed, she helped him on multiple occasions. Together, they had combed through every book in Mr. Scarlet's library, searching for every valuable morsel on detection they possibly could. Perhaps to other girls, it would sound silly, even boring, but Eliza had enjoyed those afternoons, quizzing William with the most obscure facts she could remember, creating made-up crimes for them to work through. It had felt...well, it had sort of felt like they were in it together.

        Except he's passed the exam, and despite all the hours Eliza spent helping him prepare for it, she herself will never be allowed to take it.

        The unfairness of it all stings her eyes, and she doesn't know whether she loves or hates him more in that instant. She is proud of him, of course she is. He has worked hard, and she knows he will do a good job, that he has good instincts. She just hates that she will never be able to stand there beside him. 

        She still hasn't said anything, and he steps closer to her, his eyes focused on her face. “I couldn't have done it,” he says to her, “if I hadn't had such an exceptional teacher.” 

        The words are spoken so softly, so genuinely, without a hint of his usual teasing. Immediately, they move Eliza's heart towards him. She begins to smile, and though she can feel tears threatening her eyes, they are not entirely tears of self-pity. “I'm so proud of you,” she tells him. “I believed in you the whole time. We all did. And you're going to make an amazing detective.”

        And, Eliza finds, she really means it. 

        William smiles back at her, their eyes holding each other's for a moment, and then he looks back at her father and Ivy, letting out a slight chuckle. “I couldn't have done it without any of you. Really, thank you.” 

        Eliza's father is beaming, and he moves forward to clamp William on the shoulder, wrap an arm around him for a brief hug. He makes all the usual effusions of pleasure at his protege's success, and William grins wider, made visibly happy by the praise. When Mr. Scarlet pulls back, Ivy smiles at William and briefly touches his cheek, but then William's eyes are on Eliza again, looking towards her, waiting. 

        She steps closer to them, pulled forward by instinct, not comprehending what she's doing until her feet are already moving. “Congratulations,” she says, and then her arms are about his neck, pulling him in for a hug. 

        He hugs her back, an arm about her waist, and his body is solid against hers, filling her with heat. “Thank you, Eliza,” he says, right against her ear, his breath warm, his voice even warmer. 

        That's when Eliza does something incredibly stupid.

        She kisses his cheek. 

        She doesn't even realize she is doing it at first. It's an impulsive move, done before she can think it through, before she can think about it at all, her lips pressing lightly against his cheek. It lasts one second, maybe two. But once she's realized what she's done, she pulls back with a start, and William is already staring at her, the look in his eyes telling her he is just as surprised by her behavior as she is. 

        Immediately, she steps back, and his arm drops from her waist, falling limply back to his side. Eliza's heart is hammering, and she can hear it in her ears, fast and furious. She drops her eyes to the ground, staring at her unfinished hemline, and she forces a laugh to break the tension, while secretly wondering what the Hell she has just done. 

        William doesn't say anything. She can't make herself look at him. The next few seconds feel like an eternity until her father clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Well,” he says, “we ought to celebrate. I believe I have a bottle of champagne around here somewhere. Ivy, would you mind fetching us four glasses?” 

        Their housekeeper starts to move for the door, and Eliza does too. “Three, actually,” she says. “I...I don't feel very well, all of a sudden.” 

        She looks from William to her father, faking a smile. William is still staring at her, his jovial expression having faltered, lips pressed into a line. For once, she doesn't know what he is thinking. Meanwhile, her father looks at her with confusion, his eyebrow raised. 

        “Are you all right, Lizzie? You do look rather pale.”

        He reaches for her forehead, as if to feel her temperature, but Eliza sidesteps him. “I'm fine. I think I just need to lie down. Will you excuse me?” 

        Her father opens his mouth to respond, still visibly perplexed, but Eliza doesn't give him the chance to speak. She nods at William, mumbling a farewell and repeating her congratulations. Then, before anyone can stop her, she turns and bursts out the drawing room door. She takes the stairs two at a time on the way up, walking so fast that she is out of breath, not looking back in her haste to get to her room. 

        She kissed his cheek. Good God. What temporary fit of madness overcame her? How is she ever supposed to look at William again after this? And the look on his face...

        Once she is in her room, she slams the door behind her and drops to the floor, on her knees. It takes her a long time to catch her breath and to calm the racing of her heart. 

        God, Eliza thinks to herself. For a smart girl, she can be pretty stupid sometimes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

         “Have you heard?”

         It is an ordinary night in the policemen’s favorite local haunt, and Oliver Fitzroy looks up, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Phelps, of all people, to seek him out like this. The other officer has sat down at the table without asking for permission, bending his head towards Oliver’s as if they are conspirators in something. Oliver shrugs his shoulders and lifts his pint to his lips, mumbling a nonchalant: “Have I heard what?”

        He and Phelps aren’t exactly friends. Hell, sometimes Oliver still can’t determine whether Phelps likes or hates him. They drink together, sometimes, and the man hasn’t tried to deck him lately, but Phelps’s gruff manner is so different from Oliver’s, and most of the time, their conversations last no more than five minutes. They certainly don’t gossip.

         Oliver takes a sip, and what Phelps says next almost makes him choke. “About Duke.”

         He stutters and wipes his mouth, placing his pint back down on the table as he tries to remember how to breathe. “Inspector Wellington? What about him?”

         Contrary to Phelps, William is the one person at Scotland Yard whom Oliver is confident likes him. He doesn’t always say it out loud, of course—William is not the sort of man who’s profuse in his declarations of affection—but Oliver doesn’t doubt that his boss cares for him. He’s shown it repeatedly with his stifled smiles and thoughtful gestures. It may not sound like much, but well, to Oliver, it means a lot. It’s nice to know someone believes in him. That he has at least one ally in this world. 

         “Everyone is saying,” Phelps continues now, “that he and Miss Scarlet are involved.”

         “Involved?” Oliver repeats. “What do you mean by involved?”

         “Involved as in”—Phelps raises his eyebrows, giving him a shit-eating grin—“involved, if you know what I mean.”

         Oliver opens his mouth, then closes it without speaking. William and Eliza? Together?

         Over his acquaintance with Inspector Wellington, he’s gotten to know Miss Scarlet very well too, and he’s always liked her. She has this natural charm about her that’s hard not to find endearing. When Oliver first met her, he found himself captivated by her, what with her good looks and mischievous smiles, but now, he’s come to appreciate her for her other qualities. He feels like if he were ever in serious trouble, Miss Scarlet would provide her assistance. Despite her independent ways, he thinks she’s the kind of person who would do anything for a friend, and well, they are friends, aren’t they? Or at least, something close to it.

         “Inspector Wellington isn’t with Miss Scarlet,” he insists. “He would’ve told me.”

         In response, Phelps arches an eyebrow, giving him a look that silently says oh, please. “All right. Where do you think he is tonight, then?”

         A frown flickers across Oliver’s face. His eyes scan the crowded pub, searching for William, but he comes up empty. He hadn’t noticed it, but Phelps is right. William hasn’t come out to drink with them, not in weeks. Where does he go after work if he’s not coming here? Has anyone asked him?

         Is he with Eliza?

         He turns back towards Phelps, swallowing his suspicion. “Where did you hear this?”

         Phelps only shrugs and drains the last of his beer. “Everyone’s saying it. I thought you knew.”

         In response, Oliver lowers his eyes. “No.” No, he didn’t know at all.

         Could William and Eliza really be a couple? He suddenly finds himself reevaluating all their interactions in his head, looking at them with this newfound lens. They always were familiar with each other, but he chalked it up to their longstanding friendship. In hindsight, however, he can’t be sure that’s all it was. Little moments he didn’t think much of at the time now spring to mind. A change to William’s face when Eliza’s name was mentioned…Eliza’s eyes drifting towards William, when she thought he wasn’t looking…how William would sometimes stare at her when she was talking, like he was deep in thought…

         He’s pulled out of his contemplation when Phelps sighs and slaps the table. “Well, I thought if anyone would know for sure, it would be you. I was hoping you would have something good to share.” He stands, mumbling about getting another drink, and can barely muster a “goodbye” before he stalks off to find someone more interesting to talk to.

         Oliver is barely paying attention to him, though, staring down into the depths of his pint, gone lukewarm between his hands. William and Eliza? Could it be?

         His chest warms, but not from the alcohol. He supposes it makes sense. They would make a nice couple. They just, well…they just seem to fit. He doesn’t know how else to describe it. Oliver’s never been in love, but isn’t that what it’s really about? Just finding someone whose life matches yours, who you wouldn’t mind waking up next to every day for the rest of your life?

         He pushes his drink away and stands from the table. Well, there’s only one way to find out if William and Eliza are really in love.

         It’s time, it seems, for an investigation.

         The next Friday evening, Oliver puts his plan into motion.

         He’s in William’s office, having worked with him all day, and as the hour grows late, he stands, stretches, reaching for his coat as he asks in what he hopes sounds like a casual way: “The men were talking about going to the pub tonight. Are you coming? My turn to buy.”

         It takes a moment for William to process his question, and he tears his eyes away from his work, shaking his head as he says: “Oh, tonight? Umm, no. I don’t think so.”

         He looks back down at his papers, clearly expecting that to be the end of it, but Oliver nods as he slips one arm into one sleeve, then the other. “Oh?” he says, shrugging his coat on. “Are you sure? You haven’t been out with us in a while. Is everything all right?”

         “I went last week,” William retorts.

         “No. No, I’m quite certain you weren’t there. Phelps asked about you. Come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve gone out with us since November. Maybe even late October.”

         In reality, Oliver is quite sure of the date, but he wants William to think this is an innocent inquiry. With a soft sigh, William leans back in his chair, threading his hands behind his head, and he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Just…a lot on my mind.”

         Oliver resists the urge to smile as he buttons his coat, fetches his hat. “Well, do you have any plans for your night, then?”

         “No.”

         Liar. “None at all?”

         “No. No, I think I’ll just go home.”

         He does smile now as he puts on his hat, opens the door. “Well, goodnight then, sir.” He turns to go, then looks back, as if just remembering: “By the way, will you say hello to Miss Scarlet for me? Next time you see her. It’s been too long.”

         For half a second, William’s face falls, but then his composure is back in a moment. “Umm, well, I don’t know when that’ll be, but sure, I’ll tell her. Goodnight.”

         “Goodnight, sir,” he says, shutting the door behind him.

         But after leaving the Yard, he doesn’t go to the pub right away. He’s almost certain William was concealing his true plans for the evening from him, and just to confirm his suspicions, he lingers across the street, buys a newspaper and pretends to read it, his heart hammering. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long, for it’s not even twenty minutes later that he sees William descending the front steps, and Oliver cautiously glances at him, face half-concealed by his paper.

         At the bottom of the steps, William stops, buttons his coat, glances one way, then the other. Then, he turns and heads off down the street, walking briskly through the chilly evening.

         It’s the wrong way to his house. But the right way to Miss Scarlet’s.

         Oliver smiles to himself. This plan is really coming together nicely.

         Phase two of his investigation ends up being even easier than he thought.

         Monday morning, he is at the Yard, still nursing his morning coffee, when Eliza sweeps in, her eyes catching his from across the corridor as she unbuttons her coat, bats snow flurries off her hat. “Oliver, good morning!”

         Oliver smiles. He’d spent all weekend thinking of some excuse to visit her, and now it seems he won’t have to. “Eliza, this is a pleasant surprise.”

         He greets her politely, and Eliza asks if William is in, but Oliver replies no, he’s not, for a case came in early this morning that required him to take a trip to Charing Cross. He tells her she’s welcome to wait in his office, and Eliza replies she’ll do just that.

         She knows the way, of course, but Oliver escorts her, and if she’s confused by that, she doesn’t show it. “Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Water? Coffee? Tea?”  

         “No thank you, Detective. I’m fine for now.”

         In William’s office, she hangs up her hat and coat, helps herself to William’s desk chair, but Oliver lingers in the doorway, watching her as she kicks her feet up on the desk, retrieves William’s discarded paper. She’s always had a tendency to do that: steal his chair. It is, Oliver supposes, an action that demonstrates a great deal of familiarity. If he was bold enough to sit in William’s chair, his boss would probably yell at him.

         He clears his throat, and Eliza lifts her head, reminded of his presence. “Inspector Wellington,” he says, “told me the two of you had a nice dinner the other night. Where did you go again?”

         It’s a bald-faced lie, of course, but for a moment, Eliza stares at him in silence, opening and closing her mouth, and he knows his words rang true.

         After recovering from her momentary surprise, she laughs. “You must be mistaken. William and I have dinner together on the last Wednesday of the month. It’s only the second week of December.”

         “Are you sure you didn’t have dinner last week? Perhaps one of you had a prior engagement, and you needed to move it up?”

         “Quite sure,” she answers a little too fast.

         He smiles and nods, not wanting to pester her further. He has all the answers he needs. “My mistake, then. Well, I must get back to work. Good day, Eliza.”

         “Goodbye.”

         He leaves the door open a crack, fighting the urge to smile as he shoots one last glance at Eliza. She’s once more looking at that paper, but her eyes aren’t moving, and he suspects she’s not really reading it.

         Oliver pretends not to notice.

         He’s certain of it now. William and Eliza are a couple.

         Nothing else makes sense. Why should they be so evasive about their plans, not want him to know they’ve spent the evening together? They’re not the actions of people with nothing to hide.

         The final confirmation comes a few days later.

         William and Eliza have put their heads together on a case involving stolen art, and Oliver has been helping them track down their chief suspect, a career criminal who’s pulled off similar robberies in Paris and Edinburgh. It takes all their best efforts to apprehend the guilty man, which they are finally able to do the following Thursday, and once they’ve locked him up in a cell for the night, they retire to William’s office for a late-night supper of takeaway from the chippy, and a few glasses of whisky to nurse their tired limbs and aching heads.

         After several minutes, they lapse into comfortable silence—too worn out to find many things to talk about—and Oliver stifles a yawn over his half-eaten chips. Across the desk from him, William is drinking silently, and Eliza rests her chin on her hand, barely able to keep her eyes open.

         “Turning my desk into your bed, are you?” William asks her with a sideways glance, and Eliza makes a face, giving him a playful “shush” as her lids flutter closed. A slight, tired smile flickers across William’s mouth, but when he turns his head and sees Oliver watching them, he resumes his normal expression, lifting his whisky to his lips.

         Though neither of them says anything, he suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something, and after quickly finishing the rest of his chips, he glances at the clock. It’s already almost ten. “It’s late. I probably should be going.”

         Though they offer to drop him off, Oliver politely declines, insisting he’ll hail a cab, and—despite William and Eliza’s polite “goodbye” and “goodnight”—he suspects they’re not too upset to see him go. Grabbing his coat and hat off the hook, he starts out the door, promising to see them tomorrow.

          He’s about halfway down the hall, hat on his head and arms slipping into his sleeves, when he remembers he left his notebook on William’s desk, and he’d wanted to go over the case again before they brief the superintendent tomorrow. He turns around and heads back toward the office.

         The door is open just a crack, warm light spilling into the hallway, and Oliver approaches, his hand reaching for the knob just as Eliza’s voice touches his ears: “We can’t keep this to ourselves for much longer, you know.”

         Quickly, he retracts his hand and steps back. Keep what? Though Oliver knows it’s wrong to snoop, he suddenly can’t help himself, and he peers through the opening, careful not to make a noise.

         What he sees would steal his breath if he weren’t already holding it.

         Eliza has moved her chair next to William’s, her head resting on his shoulder, and he runs his fingers up and down her arm, his other hand placed on her waist. They clearly don’t notice him, too caught up in their solitude, their eyes only for one another.

         William smiles a bit, disregarding his drink to look at her. “I don’t know. I like having you all to myself.”

         “The superintendent will be cross if he hears from someone else.”

         “Who gives a damn about the superintendent?”

         She laughs—high, clear, and happy—and Oliver lowers his gaze as their lips meet softly once, then a second time, recognizing the moment is not for his consumption.

         The two of them sit there in silence for a moment—her head falling back to his shoulder, his lips grazing her temple—until Eliza sighs, her arms going around him. “It has been nice,” she says, “not having to think about anyone else. And I don’t want people to treat us differently just because they know we’re together. But everyone has to find out sooner or later, don’t they?”

         “Unless you’re planning on breaking up with me.”

         Oliver can see her eyes sparkle even from feet away. “Never,” she laughs. “You realize you’re stuck with me now, don’t you? Now that I have you, I’m not letting you go.”

         The smile he fixes upon her in response tugs at Oliver’s heart. It’s the sort of smile a man wishes to give to someone someday. “Sounds all right to me.”

         They kiss again, and Oliver is poised to flee when he hears William mention his name: “Perhaps we should tell Fitzroy first.”

         Eliza considers it for a moment. “Hmm,” she says, a hand on her lover’s arm, “I think that’s a good idea. I’ve felt bad about deceiving him. He’s a good friend, and I don’t like lying to people I like.”

         “He is a good lad—and a good detective. Who would’ve thought?” They chuckle, and Oliver feels himself begin to smile. He’s tried his best. It’s good to know it’s been enough.

         “Let’s tell him tomorrow. Does that sound good?”

         “We’ll do it together. Indeed, I think he already suspects. He’s been looking at me funny lately.”  

         Oliver frowns at that. Perhaps his subtlety could use some work...

         Eliza smiles, biting her lip, looking up at William with an expression of pure contentment. “He’ll be happy for us, don’t you think?”

         “Absolutely.”

         They continue to talk amongst themselves, but Oliver is no longer listening. He tiptoes away from the door. He can fetch his notebook tomorrow.

         Right now, he thinks William and Eliza are entitled to a bit of privacy. 

Chapter Text

            This cupboard felt much bigger when Eliza was little.

            She’d first decided the cupboard under the stairs would make a perfect hideaway when she was four. As a tiny slip of a girl, it had felt enormous, this cupboard that contained nothing more than cobwebs. She used to shove herself in here when her mother was trying to force her to take a bath she didn’t want or practice something boring like stitching. Young Eliza would hide in the dark with her eyes squeezed shut and breath held, listening as Lavinia Scarlet searched all over the house and called her name, unaware of her daughter’s true whereabouts. After her mother’s death, Eliza had used the cupboard to evade responsibility on several other occasions, such as when Ivy tried to force her to learn to cook, or her father wanted her to go to a dress fitting for an ugly, frilly ballgown she would never be caught dead wearing.

            Speaking of dresses, Eliza sighs thinking of hers now. Though the hoop skirts of the 1860s have luckily gone out of fashion—Eliza had always thought them impractical at best, hideous at worst—her evening gown is still improper for her current task. Though the dress is pretty one, the fabric somewhere between blue and green, it is cumbersome. All night, Eliza has felt as if she were constantly on the verge of stepping on it, and she doesn’t know what the gold fringe on the neckline is meant to achieve. Ivy says it is fashionable. Eliza thinks it looks too close to the trimming of a curtain, and one has to always be careful how they hold their drink, lest their fringe fall into their champagne. Her dress is especially annoying now, seeing as it takes up all her limited room in the cupboard. This space which felt huge when she was seven now feels cramped at seventeen.

            Eliza adjusts her position as best she can, blinking as her eyes adjust to the darkness. Perhaps she’s being childish, but she hadn’t known what else to do. From her hiding spot, she can hear a burst of men’s laughter, followed by a faint voice she recognizes as her father’s, and tears come to her eyes unbidden.

            Her father is out there, with his detective friends, talking about the sorts of things detectives talk about. They are drinking whisky, and laughing, and passing cigars around, and there is no place for her there. She had determined that rather quickly.

            She’d greeted them at the door, as Ivy said she ought, as her mother would’ve done if she were here. They’d given her token smiles as they removed their coats, looked at her father and said, “So, Henry, this is your daughter?” And her father had smiled and said, “Yes, this is Lizzie,” like she is still a little girl, and all his friends had promptly turned their attention away from her, moving on to more important things. One of them had even patted her on the head, so casually condescending, and Eliza had swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat.

         Standing there in that room beside her father, she’d tried to keep smiling, held it until her face hurt. Every once in a while, her father would glance over at her, a slight smile on his face, silently checking to confirm she was okay, and Eliza would nod at him, fighting to maintain her tremulous smile. Then her father would turn back to his friends, not noticing she was faking, and the conversation would continue, no one ever asking her, “What do you think, Miss Scarlet?” or saying, “You know, I think Lizzie has an opinion about that.”

         She’d tried to pretend that she was fine, but as the night went on, she couldn’t deny that she was far from fine. It had pained her: looking around that room and realizing it was filled with people, not one of whom was thinking about her.

            Not even William.

            He is supposed to be her friend, but he is busy, making the connections she is not allowed to make. He will be a good policeman, she knows, because he is smart and he knows what he’s doing, but she hates that she can’t be part of it, too, that those doors are closed to her. No matter how smart she is, not a single man in that room will ever look to her, ever ask for her opinion.

            And that’s why she’s here, hiding in a cupboard, because she can’t cry in front of them, can’t show them how much she’s hurt. If she breaks down, her father’s friends will look at each other and roll their eyes in the way men do, shake their heads and mumble “Women” with the casual contempt they save for the so-called weaker sex. They will take her emotion not as the natural result of exclusion but as proof that she is weak, that she cannot handle it, that women can’t be police officers or doctors or prime ministers because they can’t be trusted to make logical decisions, look, see?

            Her melancholy is effectively interrupted by an unexpected sound—a faint knocking, at the door of her cupboard. The noise makes Eliza startle, and—momentarily forgetting how tight this space is—she knocks her head on the ceiling with a loud thwack. Ouch. She rubs the spot, knowing it will be a lump tomorrow.

            The knocking comes again, and this time, it is accompanied by a soft entreaty: “Eliza, open the door.”

            William’s voice. Eliza’s heart momentarily stops beating, and she stares at the closed door, at a rare loss for words. What is he doing? How did he find her here?

            “Eliza, please open up. Inspector Blake just walked by on his way to the water closet and he looked at me as if I were in the madhouse.”

            Eliza leans over and thrusts open the cupboard door. When she does, she finds William standing there, half-bent over, his eyes rising to meet hers. “What?” she asks—a little testily, truth be told. She hadn’t meant for it to come out so annoyed, but she is upset, and she doesn’t want to be disturbed.

            He stares at her for a second which feels particularly long, and Eliza is about to repeat her question when he says: “Have you been crying?”

            Perhaps someone else would’ve spoken the question mockingly, laugh and call her a little girl for her behavior, but William sounds serious. Eliza sniffs, quickly wipes her eyes with her forefinger. “I’m fine. What is it?”

            “I was wondering if I could join you.”

            The question takes her aback—well, metaphorically speaking, since she couldn’t move any further back in this cupboard even if she wanted to. For a moment, she has half a mind to tell him to go away, to say something hurtful to scare him off, but the look on his face is too sincere. Wordlessly, Eliza answers him by bending her legs, pulling her skirt closer to make room.

            If the cupboard is tight for her, it is even tighter for William. He has to half-sit, half-lay down to avoid whacking his head on the ceiling, and his legs are far too long. He has to bend them at the knees, his dress shoes halfway up the wall. He looks around, nodding as he says: “Cozy.”

            There is something about the way he says it that makes Eliza laugh despite herself. “How did you find me here?”

            “Easy. A bit of your skirt was peeking out from underneath the door.”

            Eliza curses in her mind. Damn this dress. She is never wearing it again after tonight.

            The frustration must be evident on her face, for William chuckles, but then he grows serious again. “Eliza, what are you doing here? Why are you not at the party?”

            The innocent question makes heat rise to her face. It is so unfair, and he will never understand it, not completely. He will never understand what it feels like to walk into a room and know no one in it will ever take you seriously, just because of what’s between your legs. “I wasn’t having fun,” she answers, which is not strictly untrue.

            “Then why don’t you go into the kitchen with Ivy?”

            “She’s busy.” Busy catering to the needs of important men, the kind of men who make demands. She’s refilling their glasses and lighting their cigars because that’s the only thing men like that think women are good for.

            “Eliza.” William says her name as a whisper, and Eliza looks up at him. They are very close together, she realizes. She can feel the heat of his body, and his knee is pressed against hers. He is close enough to touch, to hit, to kiss.

            “Tell me,” he says, “what’s really bothering you.”

            “Nothing.”

            “We both know that’s a lie.”

            He stares at her, waiting, and Eliza sighs, blinks away her tears before they can make a reappearance. “I don’t belong out there,” she says. “No matter what I do, they’ll never accept me. I’m…I’m a nuisance to them.”

            A knot forms in her throat, and she pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a deep breath. Don’t cry, don’t cry. She will not cry. She will not let them do that to her.

            She is sitting there with her eyes closed, counting to one hundred to calm herself down, when William interrupts her at twenty, saying: “You’re not a nuisance to me.”

            She opens her eyes, and even in the cupboard’s dim light, she can see the softness in William’s gaze, how intently his eyes are focused on her face. There’s something about it that makes her want to squirm, but she lifts her chin, holds firm. “You think I’m silly, just like the rest of them do.”

            “I think you’re many things, but silly isn’t one of them.”

            There’s no jest in his voice. Eliza searches for it, waiting for the punchline, but it never comes. He’s being completely genuine. The realization flusters her and she’s not sure what to do with it.

            William is the one who looks away first, mumbling under his breath as he attempts to extract himself from the cupboard. After accidentally knocking his knee into the beam—an action which pries a reluctant giggle from Eliza—he pushes open the door and climbs out, careful not to bump his head.

            Eliza expects him to leave her alone in her solitude once again, but instead, William pauses, looking back at her with a raised brow as he brushes dust off his pants. “Come,” he says. “There is cake in the kitchen. We’ll have some and then go for a walk around the block. It’s too hot in this house anyway.”

            Eliza pauses, thinking. Should she remain here in her old hiding spot, alone with her self-pity, or follow him out into the light? Her two front teeth dig lightly into her lower lip as she contemplates. “What kind of cake?” she asks at last.

            “Ah, asking the important questions. It’s chocolate, with strawberries on top. I’ll even let you have some of mine, if you play your cards right.” Not joking now, William gives her a slight smile, and then he extends his hand toward her. “Come.”

            Eliza hugs her knees, her eyes flicking from his face to that extended hand. It hangs in the air between them, waiting, inviting, and Eliza stares at it for several moments, not quite sure what to say.

            “Going to keep me waiting all night, are you?”

            She looks up at his face, at his little smile and his bright eyes, pointed directly at her. There’s something about his expression that makes her heart rise higher in her chest, and her stomach settles, though she hadn’t realized until this moment how tense it was.

            “Well,” Eliza says at last, “I suppose I am rather hungry.”

            William’s little smile transforms into a grin. “I figured you would say that.”

            When he chuckles, she chuckles with him. Finally, with a sigh, Eliza moves, smooths down her skirt, brushes a cobweb off her shoulder. Then, she takes William’s hand and allows him to help her out of the cupboard.

Chapter Text

        It is a beautiful day in the cemetery.

         The June weather is fine and clear, the sky a pale blue, and the sun’s radiant rays cast a golden glow across the headstones, almost making them shimmer. The groundskeepers have recently cut the grass, and the breeze carries the smell of it, sweet like summer. There is no funeral going on during this Sunday afternoon—at least, not that William can see—but off in the distance, there is a family gathered underneath a shady oak tree, their blanket spread out underneath them, the air occasionally punctuated by the laughter of the children as they chase each other around the plot.

        Of course, William hasn’t come here today for a picnic. No, it’s something else that’s lured him here. He’s come to this cemetery multiple times over the past six years, to visit one grave in particular.

        His father-in-law’s.

        They did not have that relationship when Henry Scarlet was still alive, of course, and William never got to feel the older man’s arm around his shoulder, hear him say “This is my son-in-law.” But Henry was the closest thing William ever had to a father—a real father—and that counts for something. Though time has passed, sometimes, he will still miss him randomly, will hear his voice in his head so clearly, it’s as if they are sitting next to each other.

        Though Henry Scarlet wasn’t perfect, he was a good man at his core, a just man, decent. And he was a man whom William loved, someone worth remembering.

        As they walk, he looks over at Eliza, and when their eyes meet, she smiles at him ever so slightly. William can still remember how she looked the day they buried her father, how her tears nearly broke his heart, but today is a very different occasion. Her dress is blue, not black, her eyes are clear, and her face has a healthy complexion, brightened from their walk. Her hand is in his, because they have each other now, and today, it’s not grief and loss that’s brought them here. It’s the exact opposite.

        “How are you?” William asks his wife. “Not too tired? Sore?” In response, Eliza smiles and gives a good-natured roll of her eyes.

        “I am perfectly well, William. As I was the last dozen times you asked.”

        They exchange a knowing glance, and William wraps his arm around her, kisses her on the side of the head. He knows he’s asked after her wellbeing quite a bit today, but he can’t help himself. It’s only because she is so dear to him. “Just checking,” he says. While he has tried his best to give her space, to respect her autonomy, his love for her compels him to ask. If there’s anything he can do for her—anything at all—he will do it gladly, should she say the word.

     His attention diverts when the bundle in her arms begins to stir, their newborn awakening with a soft cry, tiny eyelids fluttering open. They both move in the same instant, but Eliza is closer, and she shushes the infant gently, adjusting her hold on him, so he is snuggled against her chest.

        “Shh, my dearest,” she mumbles in a soothing tone, allowing the fussy baby to grip her finger. “It’s all right. I’ve got you…”

        William hovers, compelled by instinct to offer some sort of assistance. “Is he all right?”

        Eliza does not look up from their baby as she responds, the six-week-old closing his eyes again and settling back down at the familiar feeling of his mother’s arms rocking him. “Oh, he’s perfect.”

        Tentatively, William pushes back the blankets with his thumb, eyes finding his son’s face, and the sight makes him smile. He and Eliza glance at each other, and though they say nothing, the look they exchange is one of such pure love and contentment, words prove unnecessary. She smiles back at him, and his heart grows warm as he thinks about how much he loves both of them: his wife, and their son.

        It's quite ironic, when he thinks about it. This time last year, he was getting used to the idea that they may never have a child, accepting that dream was over so a new one could begin. They had been married for years without conceiving, and though it was disappointing, yes, William told himself he didn’t need children to be happy. He had Eliza, and being married to her made him happier than he felt he had any right to be, so he was ready to settle into a future that was just them two. A life spent loving Eliza and only Eliza was a life well-spent.

        That was the future he was preparing for when one ordinary September day, a week before their third wedding anniversary, Eliza told him that he was going to be a father.

        William knows from experience that life can change in an instant, altering your circumstances for the better or the worse, depending on fate’s fickle fancies. Out of all the surprises life has thrown at him, their little boy is the biggest and the best of them all. He has only been on this planet for six weeks and, already, William is completely, utterly, impossibly in love with him. He can’t imagine life without him now.

         And it’s not as if his newfound love for his son has lessened his love for Eliza—no, quite the opposite. Though he thought he loved her as much as humanly possible before, he thinks he loves her even more now. For nine months, she risked her health and shared her body to bring their child into the world, and the birth of their son was the most intense, beautiful, wondrous thing he’d ever witnessed. Eliza and their son are everything to him, and William loves them more than he thought it was possible to love anyone. Sometimes, he wonders how he can contain it all. It’s like his heart has grown, stretched, to fit them both inside. 

        Years ago, he never would’ve dared to hope for the life he has now. He’s really very lucky.

        Eliza looks up, asking if he minds taking the baby, and he agrees readily. He has yet to pass up an opportunity to hold his son. The baby is slowly transitioned from her arms to his, and William holds him close, making sure to support his head. One look at that little face makes his heart flutter.

        The baby’s eyes open, but this time, he doesn’t cry, looking up at William with a calm expression. Eliza says their son looks like him, and indeed there is a resemblance, but now that the baby’s eyes are taking on their permanent color, every time William looks into them, he thinks only of Eliza. Their son’s eyes have her lovely hue, and it’s his favorite color now, reminding him of the two people he loves most in this world.

        “Hello, my dearest boy,” he whispers to his son. “Did you have a nice nap?”

        The baby stares up at him for a moment, then a smile breaks out across his little face. He’s already learned how to do a lot in six weeks of life—how to coo, how to gurgle, how to hold his head upright—but how to smile is the new skill William and Eliza love the most. William can’t help but reciprocate the gesture. Then again, he knows he’s been smiling a lot more these days.

        When he lifts his head to glance at Eliza, his wife is already looking at him, eyes sparkling, and he thinks she is about to say something to him, but she doesn’t. “What?” he asks.

         She smiles, shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says, but then she moves to kiss his cheek, her fingers tenderly brushing over their infant’s hair. “I love watching the two of you. That’s all.”

        She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal, at least to him. William captures her lips for a quick kiss. He aims to be as good at being a father as she is at being a mother. He knows she doesn’t always see it in herself, but she is a natural. That doesn’t surprise him—Eliza isn’t the type to do things by halves. She throws herself headfirst into everything she does, and motherhood has been no exception.

        They reach their intended destination, and Eliza kneels in front of her father’s headstone first, reaching out to brush a smudge of dirt from the ‘S’ in ‘Scarlet,’ replace the wilted flowers atop the grave with a fresh bouquet of red carnations. “It’s me, Father. Lizzie.” Her voice falters slightly over the affectionate name, but she holds it together and presses on. “I know it’s been a while since my last visit, but I promise I have a good excuse.”

        William remains a step back, watching her in silence as he rocks the baby to lull him back to sleep. He always wants to give her a private moment to speak with her father. Eliza never asks him to, but he knows it’s what she needs.

        “I always miss you, but lately, I’ve missed you even more than usual. I wish you could see all the things I’ve done these last six years. Would you be proud of me? I hope you would.”

        William doesn’t say it out loud, but in his heart, he thinks he knows the answer to that. Henry would be so proud of her. How could he not be?

        She glances at him over her shoulder, eyes watery, and he gives her a small, reassuring smile before she turns back to her father’s headstone. “William is here with me today. There’s someone very special we’d like you to meet.”

        The baby is falling asleep now, his eyelids fluttering closed, hands curled into tiny fists, and William is careful not to wake him as he kneels down beside his wife. He and Eliza exchange a small smile. “Henry,” he says, “we’d like to introduce you to your grandson.” 

        Eliza’s eyes are glassy, and she strokes the back of their son’s hand, looking down at him with maternal affection. “He is a very stubborn thing,” she tells her father. “He constantly kicked me in my ribcage when I was pregnant with him, and he refuses to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Not that his willfulness is much of a surprise, given the two of us are his parents. He’ll surely cause us as many headaches as we caused you.” William and Eliza share a smile at that.

        “But,” she continues, “he is also the most wonderful little boy in the world, and we love him so much. The only thing that could make us happier is if you were here to meet him in person.”

        They lock eyes, Eliza’s containing sadness and happiness both, and he feels emotion tug at his own throat. William takes her hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. They’ve had many wonderful moments together over these last six years, and though they’re so happy together, he knows they both miss her father. He should’ve been here to give William his blessing to marry Eliza, to see them get married, and to hold his first grandchild. He deserved that.

        “But,” William says, looking at Eliza, “we promise you, Henry, we’re going to tell him all about you. He’ll know how much you meant to both of us—and how much you would’ve loved him.”

        Eliza smiles at him through her wet eyes, then moves closer to kiss him gently on the mouth.

        William has spent many years thinking about the type of father he wants to be. His own father—who never said ‘I love you,’ never apologized, always threw accusations as easily as he threw punches—taught him exactly what not to do. Part of the reason he always wanted to be a parent was so he could learn from that man’s mistakes, give someone else the love he was denied growing up. Now that he has his own son, he wants to do everything in his power to give him the best life possible. He won’t be like his own father, but he will be like Henry, the man who welcomed him into his home when he had no one else, who made him feel loved when he felt like there was no place in the world for him.

        Henry Scarlet changed his life. There’s no other way to say it. He taught William what it means to be a man—a real man—and now, he hopes to someday teach his son the same thing. He will do for his boy what Henry did for him: love him always, believe in him, and give him a home, no matter what. That, after all, is what a father is supposed to do.

        Eliza’s eyes brighten suddenly. “I just realized,” she says, “we never told him the baby’s name.”

        Instinctively, a smile pulls at William’s mouth. He glances down at his son’s peaceful face before turning back to his father-in-law’s gravestone. “Henry Scarlet, meet Henry Wellington.”  

        The baby shifts in William’s arms, stirring in his sleep, emitting a soft gurgle. Eliza takes one of his tiny hands in her own, allowing their baby to wrap his fingers around her thumb.

        She looks at William, and the love in her eyes is so powerful, it renders him speechless. God, he loves her so much. He’s spent his entire life longing for a real family, and he thinks every second of the wait proved worth it in the end.

        “Henry William Wellington,” Eliza says, beaming. “After the two best men I’ve ever met.”

Chapter Text

         She’s getting married today.

         Though this day has been planned for months, it still feels unreal to her, almost dreamlike, and as Eliza stares out the window, watching raindrops fog up the glass, her knees pulled to her chest, she has to bite on her lower lip to restrain her smile.

         There’s an old adage that rain is good luck on a wedding day. Different people will tell you different reasons as to why. Some say it’s a sign of unity since one storm consists of thousands of raindrops. It represents that the bride and groom will come together, their hearts joined forever. Others say that since rain gives life to the world, nourishing crops and causing flowers to flourish, it means the bride and groom shall be just as fertile, bringing many healthy, strong children into the world over the course of their marriage. Still, others claim the rain represents tears, and rain on a wedding day symbolizes how the newlyweds shall never have to cry alone again, now having another person there to dry their tears, to be their partner in both joys and sorrows.

         Eliza doesn’t really care what it means. She doesn’t need superstition to tell her she and William are going to be happy together.  

         “I know you are not sitting down in that dress, Lizzie.”

         She rises from her chair and spins to find Ivy fixing a glare upon her, a hand on her hip, and Eliza suppresses her smile. She places her hands behind her back and glances downward in an attempt to appear bashful. “Is a bride not allowed to rest her feet?”

         “Only after she’s been married in a wrinkle-free dress. Come here.”

         She does as she is told, allowing Ivy to fluff her skirt and smooth out the wrinkles—including some that are invisible to Eliza’s eye, but which Ivy claims are there. “This is silk,” she reminds Eliza, as if she could’ve somehow forgotten, “and you must be careful with it—though I know that word is not in your vocabulary.”

         Eliza lets out a small giggle, and reluctantly, the corners of Ivy’s mouth lift. “I want this to be perfect.”

         “Don’t worry,” Eliza says, running her hands down her skirt. “It is.”

         Her wedding dress was made using the ivory silk from one of Lavinia Scarlet’s old evening dresses. It seemed a shame that the garment had spent the past decades languishing in the back of a closet, and thanks to months of alterations, it now almost seems like something entirely new. The smooth bodice is tight and well-fitted, snug against every corseted curve, and pearl buttons run from the top to the bottom of her spine. The skirt ripples with elegant drapery, allowing its deft movement and skilled tailoring to shine rather than any gaudy jewels, beading, or otherwise ostentatious ornamentation.

         It really is perfect.

         She takes a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror, and Ivy reaches out to clasp her hand. “Nervous?” she asks.

         “Not at all.”

         She knows many brides get cold feet on their wedding day. It’s not abnormal—marriage is a big commitment, after all, one that lasts for the rest of your life. If you had asked her years ago, she would’ve sworn she would never get married, thinking it too much of a gamble: tying your life to another person’s forever. But, now that the moment is finally here, no butterflies flutter in her stomach, and though her heart is beating a little faster, it is only out of excitement, not fear.

         She is marrying William. There’s nothing to be frightened of.

         Ivy checks her hair for the third time this morning, ensures her clip is perfectly centered, but then she hesitates, eyes on Eliza’s face, and she gives her a small smile, lower lip wobbling. “You know,” she says, “I always hoped this day would come.”

         “Really?”

         “Really. I’ve known you were in love with this man since you were sixteen years old, Lizzie. I know you thought you were very subtle about it, but you weren’t. Now, if I could just see you have some babies, I could die happy.” Eliza opens her mouth to interject—she would like to have a few months alone with her new husband before the baby-making starts, thank you very much—but Ivy adds before she can: “I am so proud of you, and happy for you. You deserve to have everything you want.”

         The sentiment makes tears rush to her eyes, and she smiles, squeezing her housekeeper’s hand. “Thank you.” All teasing aside, she really does love Ivy. She’s been here through every struggle and every success. 

       Ivy wipes Eliza’s eyes. “Now,” she says, “you better not cry, young lady. Because you cannot go to be married with red, teary eyes, and because if you start crying, then I surely will.” The two women share an affectionate glance.

       Eliza takes one last glimpse at herself in the mirror, grinning. She knows she looks pretty in her dress, and her smooth, elegant updo almost makes the hours Ivy spent fussing over it feel worth it, but really, the only thing on her mind is her fiancé.

       Just another hour, and she’ll have to get used to calling him ‘husband.’

       She can’t wait.

         He’s getting married today.

         It doesn’t really sink in until he looks around his empty house, getting ready to leave the place for the last time. Everything is gone: the wardrobe free of hangers, the bedframe stripped clean, floorboards creaking under his feet. All that’s left are the ugly wallpaper and curtains that came with the place. He moved in here when he was still a young constable, and it’s not much, but God, was he proud of it back then! It’s small, and the neighbors are loud, and the water freezes in the pipes every time the temperature dips too low, but it was the first real home he ever had.

         You’d think he’d be sad to leave the place, but, surprisingly, he’s not. It’s for a good reason.

         He’s marrying the woman he loves more than anyone else in the world today. Why should he be sad about something as trivial as a house when, after today, he’s going to have a home with her forever?

         As William looks around one last time, he feels a smile tug at his mouth, his thoughts drifting to Eliza. In his life, he’s done many things he’s proud of, but he doesn’t know if any of his previous accomplishments can hold a candle to becoming Eliza Scarlet’s husband.

         When he was younger and imagining his ideal future, he always imagined himself getting married, but for a long time, he didn’t know if it would happen. There were plenty of women he could’ve married: nice women who were interested in him, who were pretty or clever or kind or all of the above, women who could hold his attention for a time. But when things got serious, he always got cold feet, found an excuse as to why they weren’t right for him.

       The truth is, he was—even if he couldn’t admit it to himself at the time—saving himself for her.

       It is Eliza. It has always been Eliza. She is the one who has made him laugh the hardest, kept him up at night, and taught him to hope for more than the life he was dealt. Ever since they were children, his heart has grown warm every time she walks into the room. She has always been the one, even when she frustrated him, even when he tried to deny it.  

         Luckily, they found their way to each other in the end, and the thought of marrying her today makes him feel happier than he ever thought he could be.

         He’s loved Eliza Scarlet for half his life now. He intends to love her for the rest of it.

         His start in life wasn’t easy, but he’s proud of where he is now, and he thinks the turning point came the day he met her. She has been his best, dearest friend, and he’s loved her since he was a teenager, perhaps since the day she first waltzed into his life and turned everything upside down.

         It excites him to think about all the years they will hopefully pass by each other’s sides. He’s loved her for half his life, and someday, he will have loved her for most of his life, the ‘with Eliza’ chapter making the ‘without Eliza’ chapter look like a footnote in comparison. It excites him to think about it. For so long, that pain and misery defined him, but now, all the terrible things he went through are just a small portion of his story, the pain paling in comparison to the happiness he’s found with her. 

         Smiling, he takes one last look around the room. It’s served him well over the years, and he’ll always have fond memories of those early days when his life was starting to look up, but it’s time to move on to something greater. He bids the place a silent farewell.

         Then, he walks out the door and towards his future.

       The ceremony starts at eleven-thirty, and all the furniture has been moved out of the Scarlets’ parlor to make room for their guests, no more than twenty in all. At home weddings have become more and more trendy lately, but the bride and groom chose the venue for its intimacy and sentimental meaning, rather than fashion. Though it is a grey morning, rain as ardent as a lover against the windowpane, the guests are in good spirits, smiling and whispering amongst themselves as they wait for the ceremony to start. The room has been decorated with gold and white garland across the fireplace, bouquets of flowers filling the room with their scent: blue delphinium, white roses, snowberries.

       There is no music to announce the bride’s entrance, and the guests do not rise to their feet, as they are already standing. Ivy opens the door for her, and when she glides inside, so simply stunning, every eye is on her, though her gaze is saved for one person in particular. The happy couple smile at each other, and when he tells her how beautiful she looks, it is in a soft voice, not intended for anyone else to hear.

       The officiant begins with the usual preface, outlining the importance of matrimony, and then they begin the readings. The officiant originally suggested Ephesians Chapter 5, Verses 21-33, but Eliza was adamant any Bible passage that discussed the importance of wifely submission was off the table, and so 1^st Corinthians Chapter 13 was settled on as a compromise.

       In truth, the bride and groom are hardly listening as the passage is read out, stealing glances at each other from the corners of their eyes, exchanging little smiles and stifled laughs they try—and fail—to keep at bay. As he reads, the officiant’s eyebrow continually raises, his voice growing more and more strained, as if it annoys him that two people could be so jovial in the face of these very serious, very sacred rites. Eliza and William do not even notice, their attention solely on one another. He wordlessly offers a hand to her, and she accepts it, slipping her fingers through his as they will do many more times for the rest of their lives.

       When it is time for the vows, they promise each other for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. Now, there is no laughter, voices made thick and eyes beginning to shine as they swear their love to one another. Her mother’s ring—removed that morning before the ceremony—finds a new home, this time on her left hand, nestled perfectly against her engagement ring.

       The officiant makes it final, but he has just gotten out the words “husband and wife” when the happy couple kiss without being invited to, and their guests burst into applause, effectively drowning out the rest of his pronouncement.

       Afterwards, the bride and groom’s friends will say how well-suited they seem, share toasts to their happiness. The women will hold their hands over their hearts as they recall how lovely the vows were spoken, and the men will laugh, their elbows finding each other’s ribs as they joke about which one of them will be the next to find a girl and settle down.

       As for Eliza and William, they will hardly remember what the officiant said, notice which guests brought the largest presents or who indulged in a little too much champagne. Instead, he will focus on how radiantly happy she looks, and she will be preoccupied by the love brightening his eyes. Throughout the reception they will hold hands, share smiles and whispered jokes, thinking about how much they love one another, and how they intend to kiss once they are finally alone.

       And when they are alone, secluded in the shadows of an alcove, their friends, colleagues, and neighbors’ tipsy voices and soft laughter still trickling down the hall, he will catch her about the waist, and she will laugh into his mouth. Their lips will meet over and over again in the darkness, and her grip will wrinkle his shirt, and his voice will whisper “wife” against her jaw.

       And it will be absolutely perfect.

Chapter Text

         She laughs into his mouth as they stumble towards the door, her hands fumbling for the keys, his fumbling for her waist. Her fingers finally clutch the cold metal and she reaches back, feeling for the door handle. It takes several tries to fit the key in the lock, her mind being otherwise engaged as their lips meet over and over again, and she hushes him with a stifled laugh. She doesn’t want to disturb the hotel’s other guests, but it is hard to contain herself, the newlywed joy threatening to spill out of her.

         Newlywed. It still doesn’t seem real.

          The feeling of his eager lips on hers and his hands sliding down the curves of her body, however, remind her that this is very much real. They half-stumble over the threshold, both flushed and giddy, and William kicks the door shut behind them before kissing her again. The whole situation, the surrealism of it, makes Eliza giggle madly. She feels lightheaded and dizzy even though she hasn’t had more than a single glass of champagne. No, she is made drunk on something else entirely.

       For a long time, Eliza told herself that she would stay single. She didn’t need a man, she thought, when her career was enough for her. And the secrets of the marriage bed? She was content to let them stay secret. There were many more mysteries she’d rather solve.

         Of course, William had to ruin her plans. He’s always loved doing that.

         He pulls back, his hand cradling the back of her head, and she looks up at him, catching her breath. The hotel room is snug and cozy, possessing an ambiance fitting for romance: the covers on the bed invitingly turned down, a bottle of champagne on ice left chilling on the table. However, she scarcely notices her surroundings, eyes trained on his face.

         Her heart is pounding, and her stomach does a little flip. He is the only one who has ever made her feel this way: warm inside with something sort of like anticipation, sort of like desire. As a young woman, she was not enticed by the physical pleasures, never felt a strong urge to run out into the world and experience them for herself, but their courtship changed things for her. Sometimes, when he looked at her in a certain way or kissed her a little too long, an unexpected thought would rise to the front of her mind, and she would be suddenly curious about what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped tightly around her or to see underneath his shirt. Tonight, Eliza fully intends to finally indulge that curiosity. 

         He plays with the ends of her hair, giving her a small smile, and she presses her forehead against his, biting back her grin. “Well,” she says, “we are finally alone, my husband.”

         The words make his smile widen. “That we are, my wife.”

         His hands trail down her sides and to her hips, and she wraps both arms around his neck. They laugh quietly in the same breath, scarcely able to believe they are here, that this moment has finally come. After all, how often do two people finally get to act on more than ten years of silent longing?

         He kisses her again but this one is softer, slower, more tender, and she leans into him, cloaking herself in his warmth. She can feel his muscles tense under his clothes, and heat pools in her belly as she thinks about how tonight she will have unfiltered access to his body. After tonight, there will not be a single inch of him she does not know.

         She pulls her mouth back, taking a deep breath. She wants this, has wanted this for months, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t scared, too. She’s never done this before.  

         She’s not afraid of the act itself. She can handle any potential pain, and she knows William will be kind to her. She trusts him utterly and completely. She just hopes it will be good, that it will meet the expectations she’s built up in her mind—she wants to enjoy herself, and she wants to please him, too.

         He touches the collar of the travel dress she changed into before they left for the train station, and he arches an eyebrow at her. “May I?” he asks, almost like a dare.

         “Hm,” she says, pretending to consider it for a moment, “if you insist.”

         His touch dances across her collarbone as he pulls her dress down on one side, then the other, and she lifts her arms to help him with the sleeves. Involuntarily, a little blush creeps into her cheeks when she realizes he now has an unfiltered look at her decolletage, her chest only concealed by her tightly-laced corset and thin chemise. He’s never seen her in such undress before, and it makes her feel atypically self-conscious.

         But well, if the look in his eyes is any indication, he doesn’t seem to find the sight lacking. She slides down her dress and then steps out of it, leaving it in a puddle on the floor.

         His thumb glides across her cheek, and he’s so close, she can feel his breath on her face. “Are you scared?”

         It could’ve come out sounding like a tease, but he says it genuinely, and Eliza gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Only a little. Mostly nervous.”

         “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

         She shakes her head. She loves him for offering, but she wants to go through with this. She wants to make love to him, to be with him in every way it’s possible to be with a man. “It’s not that. It’s only”—color steals into her cheeks, and she hopes she doesn’t sound foolish—“I don’t know what I’m doing. I was told when the time came, I should just lie back and think of England.”

         His eyes gleam. “Eliza,” he says slowly, “England is a perfectly lovely country, but when I take you to bed, I intend for you to think only of me.”  

         A smile threatens to appear at that. “I want that too,” she says, and she means it. “I…I want it to be good. For both of us.”

         William stares at her in silence for a moment, until a smile tugs at his lips, and he looks at her with a loving expression. “And it will be,” he assures her, “because it will be us.”

         The words strengthen her courage, and she smiles, heart filling with love for him. “Well then.” She grabs him by his shirt, speaking with renewed confidence when she says: “I think you are entirely overdressed, husband.”

         He doesn’t need further convincing, already shedding his jacket and dropping it haphazardly, while her hands almost tremble as she tugs on his suspenders, removes his tie, undoes the buttons of his waistcoat.

         It takes her a little too long to steady her fingers and finish all the buttons, and she’s forgotten the fasten at the back, which he is quick to undo for her. As soon as the waistcoat is off, he ducks his head and presses his mouth against her neck, right where it meets the shoulder. He’s never kissed her in that spot before and it makes her gasp, breath catching in her throat.

         “Remember”—his mouth trails upwards towards her ear—“we can stop any time you’d like.”

         “Don’t you dare,” she responds immediately, which makes him chuckle quietly against her skin. To stop now would be torturous.

         Once she’s regained control of her senses, she reaches down to remove her bustle, and he starts pulling pins out of her hair, cursing when he realizes just how many of them there are holding her hair into place. “How many of these did Ivy put in there?”

         She smiles to herself. “You know, William, I don’t wish to speak of Ivy right now.”

         He pulls back to look at her, and—seeing her mischievous little grin—he smiles too, before pressing his mouth against hers again.

         Her pins clatter against the floor and her hair finally tumbles down around her exposed shoulders. She tries to unbutton his shirt without detaching their mouths, a task which he eventually helps her with, their fingers working in tandem. When the shirt is gone, she resists the urge to stare, now met with a view of his bare chest. She feels an urge to glance away, to turn her head and change the subject, pretend she didn’t see.

         But then she realizes: why shouldn’t she stare? They’re married. She’s allowed to stare at him for as long as she’d like. She lets her eyes trail slowly down his chest, taking in the defined pectorals, sculpted stomach, the tease of his hip bones just peeking out from his waistband. 

         William clearly notices her staring. “Like what you see?” he quips, and Eliza rolls her eyes in an intentionally overdramatic manner.

         “Hush,” she says, but she can’t resist placing her palm flat against his chest, feeling his muscles under her hand. She can’t describe the rush she gets finally touching him there after all these years. She half-expects to awaken at any moment, pulled violently out of this dream.

         He places a finger under her chin to tilt her face up towards him. “I love you,” he whispers to her, and she touches his face, her hand on his cheek. She doesn’t need to respond with words for him to know she feels the same.

         He pulls the tie to remove her drawers, groaning softly in frustration when he remembers he still has a corset and chemise to contend with. She laughs to herself, kicking off her shoes and stepping out of her discarded drawers. He removes his own shoes and starts working on her corset, the anticipation threatening to overcome her as his fingers work on tie after tie. Her skin is flushed, and her stomach is in knots, making it harder to breathe, and she is tempted to yank the corset off herself, just to speed it up. 

         “Goodness, William,” she sighs. “It’s a corset, not advanced mathematics!”

         His eyes sparkle mischievously in response. “Now, now. Patience.”

         He seems to delight in her eager anticipation, and once her corset is finally off, she takes in a deep gulp of air. She does not know if she has ever been so glad to be free of a garment. Now, she returns to the task at hand, and glances down at his trousers, raising her eyebrows. “Are you going to do something about that, or should I?”

         Eagerly, he guides her hands to the waistline, and her fingers nimbly undo the button.

         Once they are both left in only their undergarments, she feels a shiver run up her spine, and she rubs her hands over her forearms, biting her lip. She steals a quick glance at him, admiring his expertly sculpted body, from the smooth muscles of his chest to the strip of skin above his waistband and everything below it. She has always found him handsome, but this…

         “Should we,” he says, unintentionally interrupting her silent appreciation, “take this to the bed?”

         She lifts her chin, trying to seem confident. “That is, I believe, the logical next step.”

         The bed is a canopy with a white coverlet and several fluffy pillows, a quilt folded neatly at the bottom. It would seem inviting even on an ordinary night, so tonight, it looks positively heavenly. He hesitates, looking at her. “Which side do you prefer?” It’s a question neither of them has thought to ask before.

         She shrugs. “I am a bit of a tosser and turner, I’m afraid.” After almost thirty years of sleeping alone, she’s used to having free reign of the bed, and she’s never been the type to fall asleep easily, her mind always too active to grant her a simple reprieve. “But, if I must choose, I suppose I prefer the left.”

         Luckily, William tells her he’s always fancied the right side, so it works out perfectly. Her heart thumps as she slips into bed beside him, goosepimples rising on her skin now that she’s only in her thin chemise. She lies on her side facing him, and when his body presses against hers, he feels wonderfully warm. He touches her waist, a hand running up and down her hip.

         Her stomach does that flip again and God, she wants this. She wants this so desperately, and she has to have it.

         Their kisses are slow and long, further increasing her suspense. They take the time to savor this moment, his hand exploring her hip, thigh, and buttock, her forceful mouth conveying her eagerness. After a few minutes, his hand dips further downwards and cautiously lifts the hemline of her chemise. He looks to her for permission. “Might I?”

         She inhales to steady herself. Okay, this is happening. She is ready. Once she’s calmed her erratic heart, she nods, giving him her consent. “Yes.”

         With her cooperation, he pulls her chemise over her head, then tosses it onto the bedroom floor. Her hands reach tentatively for the ties on his undergarments, the only remaining fabric between them, and he touches her naked back, deft fingers trailing up her spine.

         William pulls back slightly, so he might look her in the eye, his breath warm on her face. “Do you trust me?”

         Eliza does not hesitate to answer. “With my life.” Looking into his eyes now, she feels something she’s never felt before, like she could forget the rest of the world, like only this exists. She doesn’t break eye contact as she toys with his waistband, undoes the tie, pulls that barrier away.

         He gives her a wicked sort of smile, then captures her lips, kissing her with a newfound purpose behind it. She kisses him back and falls against the mattress, allowing his body to rest on hers, totally surrendering herself to the moment…

         God. Good God.

         As she comes back down to earth, struggling to catch her breath, that’s the only thought that comes to her head. He rolls off her with a soft grunt, his body coming to rest next to hers in bed, and she laughs at the ceiling, stunned by the unprecedented ecstasy she just experienced.

         Anyone who says the marriage bed is meant to be suffered through and endured clearly didn’t marry the right man. That was…well, she’s not entirely sure what that was. For once, her vocabulary fails her utterly and completely. Wonderful? Passionate? Tender? No word seems strong enough. What he just did—what they just did—was truly like nothing else she’s ever experienced.

         Tonight, for the first time in her life, Eliza thinks she has touched Heaven.

         When she turns her head to look at William, she finds him already staring at her, and he reaches out to run his thumb over her lips. “See?” he says. “I told you you’d like it.”

         He’s smirking at her, clearly proud of himself, and she rolls her eyes playfully before grabbing his face and pulling his mouth onto hers. “Shut up,” she says to him between kisses, and he wraps his arms around her, tugging her closer to him again.

         Perhaps that old adage is true after all. Because if Eliza’s experience is any indication, reformed rakes do, in fact, make the best husbands.

Chapter Text

         His sleep the night before was so deep and dreamless that when he opens his eyes, he can’t remember where he is at first. William blinks against the yellow tendrils of early morning light, casting prisms across the hardwood floor. He has not slept that soundly in God knows how long, and he rubs a hand down his face, sighing.

         The bedroom walls are unfamiliar, and one of his legs is cold, left bare with no protection from the blanket—it half-covers his naked body, leaving the exposed arm and leg to fend for themselves against the early autumn chill. As he readjusts to consciousness, the memories of the night before come back to him in a slow stream: her lips on his, stumbling through the bedroom door, what it felt like when she laughed softly into his mouth. He remembers fumbling with her corset, how her hair fell loose and tumbled around her bare shoulders, the feeling of his hand trailing down her spine, his mouth on her neck, her collarbone…

         Afterward—once they had gasped and kissed and caught their breath, laughing softly into each other’s mouths as the ecstasy gave way and they plunged back down to earth—they stayed up for a while longer, their bodies turned towards each other in the dark, his face barely a whisper away from hers. They talked for hours, about this or that or nothing at all, both still too happy to go to sleep, and so until the early hours of the morning, they remained there with his arms around her waist, her hand on the back of his neck. He remembers how their noses brushed, how he could feel her smile when he kissed her softly.

         God, last night was amazing. As they lay there together, he had silently wished he could elongate the moment and live inside it forever.

         But time moves on, and the sun has risen again, and he is desperate for another glimpse of her. He turns his head, seeking out his wife, needing to convince himself last night wasn’t a beautiful dream, and a smile comes to his face when he sees Eliza still sleeping beside him.

         His wife. He loves referring to her as such, and he loves being called her husband.

         Eliza’s body is curled up against his, her head resting on the left side of his chest, her eyes shut as she continues to dream peacefully, lashes fluttering. Her right arm is tucked under her, the hand pressed over his heart, while the left is crossed over her own body, pulling the blanket and sheets tightly over her bare breasts. Her chest rises and falls with her quiet breaths.

         The smile on William’s face transforms into a little smirk. She is, he thinks, an absolute, incorrigible blanket thief. Here he is with half his body exposed while she’s snug as can be.

         Eliza, it turns out, is a bit of a restless sleeper. Perhaps this shouldn’t be surprising to him, given her active personality in all other aspects. Last night, she was the first to succumb to slumber, still remaining with her face turned towards his as her eyes fluttered closed and her breaths fell into sleep’s steady rhythm. He remained awake to watch her, admiring how peaceful she looked—or, at least, how peaceful she looked at first. After a little while, she rolled over with a soft noise of contentment, turning her back towards him and getting the blanket tangled up in her limbs.

         Then, perhaps thirty minutes or so later, she changed positions once again, and he hadn’t been able to restrain his laugh when she flopped dramatically on her side and gave the blanket a mighty yank, all without waking. He was still smiling when he finally joined her in slumber, his eyelids becoming too heavy.

         William’s never been the tossing and turning type—at least, as far as he can remember. He always remains mostly still while sleeping, usually lying on his back with hands folded over his mid-section, maybe flopping onto his stomach if he had too much to drink the night before. When he was young and living in the workhouse, he only had a small mattress to sleep on, so he learned early in life how to get comfortable with very little space. Eliza, it seems, never did such a thing.

         Now, she’s in an entirely different position once again, and she’s stolen more than her fair share of the covers. She’s pulled them so far, in fact, that half of them drip off her side of the bed and onto the floor. Nearly thirty years of sleeping alone have made her quite selfish indeed.

         Still, she’s cute, so he thinks he’ll forgive her.

         He lifts his cold arm, stretches it out to combat the stiffness, and then wraps it around her shoulders, gently pulling her closer to him, careful not to disturb her. He can’t help but smile to himself as he examines her face, from her fine lashes to her lovely mouth to her slightly flushed cheek. He’s loved her since they were teenagers, and she is really his now, and he is hers.

         After a few more minutes of him silently contemplating his luck, she begins to stir, murmuring intelligibly, and she yawns. Without opening her eyes, she stretches her neck and sighs, her drowsy voice soft as a kiss when she mumbles: “William?”

         He presses his lips to the top of her head. “Good morning, my beloved wife.”

         Her eyes open, and when they land on his face, the corners of her lips immediately rise, forming a smile. “Good morning, dear husband. Did you sleep well?”

         “Quite well—though, there is one problem.”

         She scrunches her nose, and a little wrinkle forms between her brows. “And what is that?”

         “You, my wife, are an awful blanket thief.”

         Her face relaxes when she realizes he is joking, and she laughs quietly, buries her face into his neck. “Is that so?”

         “Yes,” he says, his arms looping around her waist. “It’s a crime, really. I thought husbands and wives were supposed to share.”

         She laughs again, though this one is muffled by his neck. “And here I thought the saying was ‘happy wife, happy life.’”

         “Just because we are married now does not mean I am going to concede to you all the time. I will not let you trample me so entirely, Mrs. Wellington.”

         She raises her face slowly, and when she catches his eyes, her own are sparkling. “What did you just call me?” she asks, though he suspects from her tone of voice that she heard him well enough the first time.

         He, too, feigns ignorance. “What? Mrs. Wellington?”

         The words are still odd to say, but he likes them very much, and evidently, Eliza does too, as she leans forward to kiss him on the mouth, a gesture he’s more than receptive to. When she pulls away, she bats her lashes at him, still beaming. “Well, my dear husband,” she says with only a hint of sarcasm, “I promise I will make a better effort to share my blankets with you.”

         “Much appreciated.”

         With a contented sigh, she places her head back down on his chest, and he keeps one arm slung over her waist, using his other hand to run his fingers up and down her bare shoulders and back. He never knew she had that little brown freckle on her left shoulder blade, not until last night, and it has already become one of his new favorite things about her. It’s funny how, after all this time, there are still new things for them to discover. He likes it very much. 

         Her hair spills off to one side, and he twirls a strand around his finger, smiling at how the blond color looks almost golden in the light. “I’ve never seen your hair like this,” he tells her. “Not before last night.”

         She almost snorts. “Like what—a complete and total mess?”

         “No, I meant down, like this.” He smiles slightly, adding: “I like it.”

          “Do you?” She sounds surprised. 

         “Mmhm.”

         In her everyday life, she is always so composed—her hair pulled back with the help of what seems like hundreds of pins, secured by a hat if she’s out and about in the city—but with her hair tumbling down like this, she appears…well, not girlish, exactly. But…happy. Carefree. Like her raw, natural self, bearing her soul with no need to impress anyone. It makes him feel like he is getting an unfiltered look at her, seeing a part of her that’s just for him.

         She moves her head so she can press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he smiles, running his thumb across her cheek. Another thought comes to him out of the blue. “I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?” he asks, concern infiltrating his tone.

         He has enough previous experience with intimacy to know making love isn’t always comfortable for a woman the first time, and he had wanted Eliza to enjoy their first night together as much as he did. They took it slow at first, taking the time to adjust as they learned how their bodies best worked together. She understood the basic mechanics well enough, but—since she was a virgin, and he sought to please her—he tried to explain what he was going to do before he did it, always asking her for her consent, always thinking of what would bring her comfort and pleasure.

         Now in the bright morning light, he feels compelled to ask after her wellbeing once more, because he doesn’t want to cause her pain, intentionally or otherwise.

         In response, Eliza raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t seem like I was in pain, did I?”

         A smile spreads across her face, and it makes William smile as well. Indeed, after the initial discomfort, she had relaxed into his embrace, her breaths on his neck soft and fast, and when she rolled to face him afterward, she appeared nothing but content. “No,” he replies, “but I was just checking.” He wants to make Eliza happy. As happy as she has made him.

         Now, she sighs, closes her eyes and opens them again. “Hmm, should we get up?”

         His reply is instantaneous. “Not a chance. I’m quite content where I am at present.”  

         Her laugh is quiet and bubbly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

         He rolls over to his side, and she wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him close as she brings her lips to his. “I do love you,” she says, smiling. “And I assure you, William, I am very, very happy.”

         The words make his chest fill with warmth, and he presses his lips lightly against her forearm. He has never kissed her there before. He thinks he won’t stop until there’s no part of her he hasn’t kissed. “Me too,” he says. Yesterday was the happiest day of his entire life.

         And though the woman he married might not be the easiest person to sleep beside, and a horrible blanket thief to boot, William will gladly suffer a slight chill if it means he gets to wake up next to Eliza every day.

Chapter Text

        “Thank you so much for coming by, Mrs. Randall. I hope your journey home will be a pleasant one.”

        Eliza says it with a smile, though it’s starting to strain her cheeks, and the words come out through gritted teeth. She’s been trying to get Mrs. Randall to leave her office for the past twenty minutes, at least, and the longer it takes, the harder and harder it gets to remain polite. She doesn’t want to offend the woman and potentially lose her business, but dear God, Eliza doesn’t remember the last time she met someone so incapable of taking a hint.

        “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Randall says, rising from her chair, and Eliza quickly circumvents her desk, resisting the urge to sigh in relief as she starts to show the woman towards the door. Unfortunately, her smile immediately falters when Mrs. Randall, instead of walking towards the exit, takes a detour towards Eliza’s office window. While her back is turned, Eliza briefly allows herself to make a face.

        Perhaps it’s Mrs. Randall’s wealth that makes her so oblivious to the needs of others. Those on top of society are often used to getting their own way, of course. The people around them often bend to their will—to remain on the good side of the one holding the purse strings. And boy, is Mrs. Randall rich! She’s probably one of the wealthiest widows in Central London, having inherited several profitable paper mills from her first husband and valuable railroad stock from her second.

        She came for Eliza’s help three weeks ago, needing someone to investigate the disappearance of her housemaid. The police haven’t given the case the attention it deserves, apparently, and Mrs. Randall had hired three other detectives before Eliza, all of whom quit.

        “I thought perhaps, Miss Scarlet,” the woman had explained, “that, being a woman, you would be more sympathetic to my position. All those men seemed exasperated when I came to them for updates. But doesn’t it make sense that a woman would want to inquire after the well-being of a girl she’s employed since she was fifteen years old? Besides, I was paying them to find poor Dottie, not sit around on their behinds.”

        Eliza is starting to understand where those men were coming from, as Mrs. Randall has a dreadful habit of stopping by at random hours of the day, and when she shows up at the office, it is very difficult to get her to leave. But Eliza is determined to see this through—and, well, she would be lying if she said the money Mrs. Randall has promised to pay her isn’t a motivator. Surely, she can put up with a little annoyance to pay her rent for the next six months.

        “Do you,” Mrs. Randall asks now, her back to Eliza as she stares out the window, “have someone to walk you home, Miss Scarlet?”

        The question takes Eliza by surprise, and she crosses her arms, bristles at it. “I thank you for your concern, Mrs. Randall, but I shall be fine.”

        “Do you have a carriage, at least?”

        “I usually walk.”

        The older woman clucks her tongue and lets go of the curtain, fixing a smile upon Eliza that could be described as maternal or patronizing, depending on the generosity of the observer. “Well,” Mrs. Randall says, “it looks like a dreadful storm is coming. Those clouds!” She clucks her tongue again. “Be safe out there, dear child. I shall come by again tomorrow.”

        Eliza doesn’t protest, relieved she will finally be alone. She follows Mrs. Randall to the door, says goodbye at least three times as the woman continually turns back with another thought, and shuts the door behind her.

        Once she is alone, Eliza presses her back against the door for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. How wonderful it is to hear oneself think! The sound of silence can be wonderful, sometimes. Collecting herself, she examines the clock on her desk, ready to move on with her night. Six o’clock. She needs to start heading home.

        William will probably come by to visit her tonight. The thought of him makes a smile rise to her face for the first time in hours. They have been seeing each other for about five months, and those five months have been even better than she could’ve hoped. It is nice to be able to hold his hand when they are walking together, to kiss him hello, to look forward to seeing him every day.

        Though, now is not the time to get sentimental. It is six o’clock, and she is already running late, and William will be annoyed if she is late again. She’s been running at least fifteen minutes behind every day this week, though it is Mrs. Randall’s fault, not hers, and Eliza would swear as much in a court of law.

        She’s put away the Randall case file, grabbed her hat, when she catches a glimpse of the window in her peripheral vision. Eliza turns to look at it more directly, then mutters a curse. She walks over to the window to see better.

        London is a city that’s frequently dreary, and rainstorms do not bother Eliza much—indeed, they can be quite lovely when one is tucked up in bed, listening to the sounds of the raindrops against the glass. But the weather outside looks ominous. Grey clouds have rolled in over the city skyline, blocking out the dying rays of the sun, and as Eliza looks out towards the East, the sky looks almost black, dark as soot. Those dark clouds are coming this way, and in the distance, lightning strikes, briefly turning the clouds purple. On the streets below, men and women are hurrying for shelter, vendors packing up their carts, the wind sending forgotten newspapers and old music hall posters tumbling through the road.

        It is going to be one Hell of a storm. Maybe, for once, she should’ve listened to Mrs. Randall.

        Eliza sighs and leans back from the window. Drat. And she’s forgotten to bring her umbrella—again. Ivy is going to kill her. The last time it rained like this, Eliza returned home soaked to the skin and received a tongue-lashing in return. How is she going to face her housekeeper and admit she’s forgotten the damned thing again? She also doesn’t particularly want to see William with dripping hair and wet clothes…He’ll probably lecture her too, about what might happen to her if she gets pneumonia…

        The first drops patter against the window pane just as there is a rapping at Eliza’s office door. “Can I come in?”

        She turns around and comes face-to-face with William, standing there in her half-open doorway, his timing as impeccable as if she’s somehow summoned him there. “Of course,” Eliza says, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

        He steps further inside, wiping his shoes, and lifts his right hand in silent answer. When Eliza sees what he’s holding, she lets out an audible sigh, and he smirks. “I thought you might be needing an umbrella.”

        “What? No! I have one! It’s right—” But looking around her office proves futile, and when she looks back at William with a sheepish expression, his smirk has transformed into an all-out, lip-biting grin.

        “I thought so,” he says, eyes twinkling. He gestures to the umbrella, a large, dark one with a wooden handle, perhaps three feet in length. “So, do you want the escort home or not?”

        Eliza smiles and grabs her handbag.

        By the time they leave the office, arm in arm, pressed tightly together so they might both benefit from the umbrella’s protective cover, the drizzle has increased into a steady drip. The wind whistles between the buildings, and Eliza watches where she is going, hoping to avoid sticking her leather shoes into a puddle if possible.

        “How was Mrs. Randall today?” William asks as they turn down the street.

        Eliza’s laugh sounds more like a snort. “She stayed in my office for two hours. I think that’s a personal best.”

        “Well, we don’t have to talk about her, if you’d like.”

        The wind is picking up speed, and she uses one hand to hold onto her hat, scared that it might blow off even with her hatpin in place. The sky has turned a very angry shade of grey, and several giggling girls run past them in the direction of home, shouting at each other to keep up. Across the street, a shopkeeper flips their sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed,’ slamming all the shutters as they batten down the hatches.

        “I think,” William says, bracing himself just as she does, “that we ought to abandon that dinner reservation.”

        Her expression must betray her thoughts, because he raises an eyebrow at her, lips forming a sardonic smile. “You forgot?”

        “No,” Eliza lies, but this one is about as successful as the last.

        “It’s really remarkable how you can remember every detail of a murder case, but not a dinner reservation, or to bring an umbrella.”

        “It’s not my fault, William. There’s a lot going on in my brain. Sometimes it gets a bit jumbled.”

        “At this point, I’ve learned not to take it personally.” Her lover gives her a little smile. “I think, perhaps, once we reach your house, we should stay in, wait out the storm. Have dinner with Ivy, maybe put that fireplace to good use?”

        The idea sounds particularly enticing, and she smiles back at him. “I should like that very much. And I may have a bottle that has gone unopened for far too long as well.”

        The increasing rain halts their conversation, the sounds of its pounding on the umbrella almost as loud as bullets. The heavens have opened up, and Eliza lets out a half-laugh, half-gasp. The rain is coming down sideways now, so that even their umbrella offers little protection, and the street now more closely resembles a river, the drains scarcely able to keep up with the downpour. Well, so much for protecting her shoes.

        William tightens his grip on her arm. “Make a run for it?” he asks, and smiling, she nods, holding onto him tightly as they make a break towards home.

        By the time they arrive back at Eliza’s house, dashing inside and locking the door behind them with breathless chuckles, they are both seriously damp. As they remove their hats and coats, they are dripping, and Eliza’s dress is sticking to her, while William’s white shirt has been made almost see-through in places. “Good God,” Eliza laughs, twisting the brim of her hat and watching the water pour out of it, while her lover steps closer to her, capturing her mouth for a soft kiss.

        “Sorry,” he says, smiling down at her. A pesky lock of hair has fallen out of place and now dangles, wet against his forehead, somehow making him look even more irresistible. “I realized I didn’t do that while we were at your office.”

        In response, she smiles and kisses him again.

        Ivy comes out of the kitchen at the sound of their entrance, looking aghast when she sees their appearances, and commenting that they could’ve caught their death. “In our defense, Ivy,” Eliza says, “we did have an umbrella.” Little good it did them. They both cannot help but chuckle about it.

        Ivy tells them to go into the drawing room and start a fire, while she goes get them some towels—and don’t even think, she says, about sitting on the furniture in their present state. Eliza responds with a cheeky “yes, ma’am,” before the two of them do as they are told. Inside the drawing room, the fire sparks to life, and Eliza wraps her arms around William, rests her head on his chest, figuring she can’t get any wetter than she is right now, so why not?

        He hugs her back, kissing her softly on her temple. “You know,” he says, “you’re the only person I’d brave a raging storm to meet.”

        He says the words like a joke, but Eliza pulls back, looking up at him with eyes widened by a realization. She can feel her slow smile as it stretches across her face. “What?” William asks, confused.

        Just as Ivy returns with those towels, Eliza breaks into a grin. “I think,” she says, “I just cracked it.”

        The next day, she greets Mrs. Randall’s arrival with outright enthusiasm, breaking down her recent realization. The day Mrs. Randall last saw her housemaid, it had rained something awful, and though the police had commented on Dottie’s open window, how the rain came in and coated the windowsill, Mrs. Randall had been adamant that her dear Dottie would never leave the house in such a tempest. Except, Eliza points out, what if she had a very important rendezvous? Say, with the carriage driver across the street, whom she’d been seen talking with in a rather friendly manner on multiple occasions.

        Sure enough, a follow-up visit to the carriage driver’s private residence turns up a housemaid who is very alive and very much married. Having thought her mistress would be upset by the news of the relationship, she’d planned to sneak out to elope and return home, which she would’ve done had the police not swarmed the place the next day and scared her off. Mrs. Randall gladly welcomes the newlywed back into her service and pays Eliza even more than they previously agreed upon.

        To celebrate, Eliza takes it upon herself to book her and William’s dinner reservation this time, and leaves herself a note on her desk so she won’t forget. She thinks he’s rather impressed by her punctuality.

Chapter Text

         It is already shaping up to be a dreadfully hot summer. Though the London weather is usually mild, this June has been sticky and humid, the air thick and windless over their heads. Everyone at the Yard has been complaining about the weather for at least a week. For once, a rain shower would be most welcome, but none has come yet, not a single break in this unyielding heat.

         Hence, William has been in a foul mood.

         He is even grumpier now that he’s been forced into this ridiculous suit and bowtie.

         As their carriage lurches towards Farringdon, he tugs at his collar and releases a long sigh. Beside him, Fitzroy—either oblivious to the oppressive heat in this carriage or uncaring—continues to chat happily about poetry.

         “This opera,” he’s saying, “is based off a poem by Tennyson—called The Princess, published in ’47 or ’48, I believe. I had an illustrated copy in my nursery when I was young. Have you read it?”

         William doesn’t dignify the question with a response. Does he look like the sort of man who reads Tennyson?

         “Anyway,” Oliver continues, “it’s not a personal favorite of mine, but I’m sure the performance will still be pleasant. Leonora Braham will be singing the lead role. She received glowing reviews for her performance in Iolanthe last year…”

         Luckily, the carriage arrives at Eliza’s house before Fitzroy can summarize Ms. Braham’s entire career history.

         So, how exactly did William end up in this situation? How else: an investigation. It’s the only thing that could force him to go to the bloody opera while wearing tails and listening to Fitzroy talk about Tennyson. It sounds like a nightmare.

         They’re pursuing a woman who calls herself Lady Moncrief, though her name is not Moncrief, and she is certainly not a lady. She is a jewel thief and a talented one at that. She’s suspected of dozens of robberies across the European continent—all committed under different aliases and disguises—and over the past two months, she’s bamboozled many members of London’s elite. Every Friday night, she will appear at London’s theatres and opera houses, dressed to the nines and ready to steal. Once she’s integrated herself with her mark and made polite conversation, she will hurry off with their diamond bracelets or gold wristwatches in her pocket. Rinse and repeat.

         William and Oliver have been on the case, and Eliza was privately hired by one of Lady Moncrief’s recent victims, a wealthy widow whose wedding ring Lady Moncrief stole. Together, the three of them realized the Savoy Theatre was likely Lady Moncrief’s next stop, if she followed the pattern of her previous thefts.

         So, that means they’re going to the opera.

         “We,” William tells his protégé as they walk up to Eliza’s front door and knock, “are not here just to see a show. We have to keep our eyes out for Lady Moncrief. We cannot let this opportunity pass us by. Understood?”

         “Understood, sir.”

         Ivy lets them in, letting them know that Eliza will be down in a minute. She smiles as she tells them both how handsome they look. Fitzroy beams in response. William tries to smile, but this jacket is itchy and he thinks his shirt is already starting to stick to his skin.

         As they wait for Eliza, he checks his watch. “We were supposed to leave ten minutes ago,” he says, annoyed. Of course, William knows his fiancée is rarely on time. The day she’s early to an engagement will be the same day Hell freezes over.

         “I hope we don’t miss any of the first act,” Fitzroy says while William paces. “I want to see the whole thing and how they’ve interpreted Tennyson’s original. Perhaps, at the end, I can tell you all the differences between the opera and the source material.”

         William halts his pacing. On second thought, perhaps being late is not the worst thing in the world.

         “Good evening, gentlemen.”

         They spin around at the sound of Eliza’s voice, and there she is, standing at the top of the stairs. She glides down towards them, her hand on the banister, and the sight of her steals William’s breath.

         She looks stunning.

         Her evening dress is a radiant shade of amethyst—off the shoulder, with just the right amount of decolletage to be enticing, yet tasteful. Her hair is swept into an updo, and a gold pendant hangs about her neck, though its shine cannot compare to that of her eyes.

         “Miss Scarlet,” Fitzroy says, chipper, “you are a vision!”

         “Thank you, Detective.” She joins them in the hall, adjusting her gloves, fixing the clasp on her purse, then smiles at William. “My love, you can pick your jaw up off the floor.”

         William shakes his head, snaps back into himself. With a suppressed giggle, Eliza kisses him on the cheek. “I am disappointed, however,” she says, glancing between William and Fitzroy, “that neither of you noticed my new accessory.” She pushes back her hair so they can see.

         They are chandelier earrings, so large that William wonders how she can stand the weight of them. They are probably two to three inches in length, and the gold is…hmm, maybe fourteen karats? But what’s most impressive are the diamonds. There are at least forty diamond studs, all sparkling and clear, with two large teardrop diamonds as the focal point. They are undeniably beautiful, but not Eliza’s usual style at all, and William has no idea where she got them.

         More importantly, how did she afford them? He does a quick estimate in his head.

         Fitzroy lets out a low hoot. “Those are exquisite! They must’ve cost a fortune!”

         Eliza beams, looking proud of herself. “Do you like them? They are very convincing, are they not?”

         For a moment, both William and Fitzroy can only stare at her, stunned for the second time in as many minutes. “They’re fake?” William asks at last.

         “Mmhm. I got them from Solomon. I think they’ll attract Lady Moncrief’s attention, don’t you?”

         William smiles genuinely for the first time all evening. His fiancée is a clever woman.

         He’s about to propose that they should be going, about to offer Eliza his arm, when Fitzroy gets there first. “I should be delighted to escort you to the carriage, Miss Scarlet. Might I take your handbag for you? And may I ask, have you ever read Tennyson?” The detective is already leading Eliza to the door and chatting about poets before William can so much as blink.

         Eliza glances back at him over her shoulder with an amused glance and a mouthed ‘sorry.’

         William shakes his head, frowning once again. Well, time to get this over with.

         This opera might be the worst thing William has experienced in his life.

         And that’s saying something, since he grew up in a workhouse and lived on the street.

         They booked mezzanine seats so that they could have the optimal vantage point and observe the other theatergoers in the Savoy. However, hot air rises, and their seats are stifling by the second song. William’s shirt is definitely sticking to him now. When he glances over at Eliza, she is fanning herself, and when he glances over at Fitzroy, he’s discreetly pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat off his brow.

         The fact that this opera is terrible doesn’t help matters.

         William can barely understand the words these people are singing—they go so fast, and he can’t remember any character’s names, or who is in love with who, or any of that. He’d chalk it up to him being an opera novice with little interest in what’s happening, but no, it seems like no one else in this theatre is enjoying the show, either. It’s supposed to be a comedy, and yet hardly anyone is laughing, save for a pity chuckle now and again. Several women on the floor have gotten up to converse with each other, gossip apparently seeming more interesting than the plot.

         At least there is one good thing about tonight. William steals a peek at Eliza, admiring her. She is always beautiful, of course, but she looks particularly ravishing this evening, even the flush on her face enhancing her appeal. And when her dress slips down her left shoulder like that…

         Damn.

         He is suddenly very glad that their wedding is only three months away, because he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to contain himself around her. He knows he has her heart and is made happy by the knowledge, but Christ, he longs for her body, too. To finally act out all these fantasies he’s built around her…

         When they are finally husband and wife, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever take his hands off her again.

         Eliza turns her head, and she smiles when she finds him already staring. “Are you even watching the show?” she whispers to him.

         “No,” he answers without hesitation, and she stifles a laugh.

         The woman in front of William and Eliza—perhaps the only person in here actually enjoying the performance—shoots them a dirty look. Neither of them notices.

         William reaches for her hand and she gives it willingly, slipping her fingers through his own. Though he does wait anxiously for the day they will finally be wed, for right now, it is such a joy to hold her hand, to be the one who always occupies the seat beside her.

         His love-filled thoughts are interrupted when Fitzroy leans over to them. “Did you know,” he says, “that Tennyson is the one who coined the phrase: ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’? People think it’s Shakespeare, but it’s not.”

         “That is so interesting, Oliver!” Eliza says, smiling. “I had no idea. Did you, William?” When he doesn’t respond immediately, she elbows him in the ribs.

         “Hmm?” William had been contemplating how bored he is and not listening. Eliza raises her eyebrow at him, and Fitzroy looks on with eagerness, so William just nods, hoping that’s an appropriate response for whatever they’ve just said. “Oh, yes. I—I agree…”

         The woman in the front row shushes them rudely. Fitzroy makes an apologetic face at her before continuing to talk.

         “What do you think of this opera so far?” he asks. “I have to admit, while I greatly admire Ms. Braham’s talent, I’m not sure if she’s well-suited to this part…”

         “I think,” Eliza says, “that it’s obvious this opera was written by men.”

         “Oh, indeed? Do tell.”

         “Misters Gilbert and Sullivan completely misunderstand the purpose of the women’s education movement. Women simply wish to be given the same opportunities as men—to attend school, to pursue careers, to make decisions for themselves, as men have done for centuries. We do not hate our male counterparts or wish to boss them around. We wish to be heard.”

         “Ah,” William says, “but you do so enjoy bossing around men.” Eliza rolls her eyes at him.

         “Excuse me,” the woman in the row in front of them says, turning around to face them, “as enjoyable as your little discussions are, some of us came here to see a show.”

         William sits straighter in his seat. Maybe Fitzroy’s stories about poets get a little old, and Eliza talks too much, but they’re his friend and his fiancée, God damn it. He’s the only one who’s allowed to be annoyed with them. “Ma’am,” he says, with his most biting look, “if you want to see the show, then I suggest you point your eyes towards the stage. Makes the whole thing much easier.”

         The woman’s lips curl, and she glances at her male companion, as if to say: “Are you going to let him talk to me this way?” Her husband isn’t paying her the slightest bit of attention. She turns back around with a huff.

         After several moments of silence, Fitzroy leans over, whispering in his quietest possible voice: “They’re singing the finale, so I think I’ll go to the lobby. There will be a long line for refreshments once the curtain falls, and it’s so hot in here. I hear this theater has good whisky. Would you both like some?”

         He says it so earnestly, looking so eager to be of use, that William can’t help but smile a bit. “Whatever you think is best, Oliver.” His protégé beams and extracts himself as quietly as possible, murmuring an occasional polite “excuse me” or “so sorry” as he squeezes past the other theatergoers.

         A minute or two later, the performers sing their last note, to lukewarm applause. When the curtain falls and the lights come up, everyone immediately makes a mass exodus towards the lobby for the second interval, chatting amongst themselves. William and Eliza remain seated. The woman in the row in front of them doesn’t bother to hide the contempt in her stare as she and her disinterested husband walk by. Eliza pulls a face at her.

         Once they’re gone, William turns to Eliza. “Perhaps we should go,” he says. “We haven’t seen Lady Moncrief all evening.”

         “What?” Eliza replies, with feigned shock. “But then we shall never know what happens to Princess Ida and Prince Hilarion!”

         “Eliza, this may be the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

         As they catch each other’s eyes, they both begin to smile and exchange a soft chuckle. “Come on,” she says, taking his hand, “Lady Moncrief might still turn up. And I should hate to have worn these awful earrings for no reason. Just because they’re fake doesn’t mean they’re not heavy.”

         “I must confess I like you better without them.”

         “Do you?”

         “Mmhm. They only distract from your natural charms.”

         “Why, thank you.”

         He takes her lightly by the chin, smiles, and presses his lips against hers for a kiss. Her mouth is very soft, and she smells like perfume, and even though kissing is not the best activity for beating the heat, William doesn’t care. He could probably keep kissing her and kissing her until the end of this damned opera, but Eliza pulls back. “We should,” she says, “probably go find Detective Fitzroy.”

         William exhales loudly through his nose. “Damn it. I like him and everything, Eliza, but the next time we have to get dressed up for a covert operation, I want you all to myself.”

         Eliza tilts her head, a suggestive look on her face. “So, you’re saying there will be a next time?”

         “…Perhaps.” William winces, sheepishly admits: “If it involves you wearing that dress again.”

         She grins radiantly in response. “That could be arranged.”

         When they go out to the lobby, the queue for the refreshments is at least fifty people deep, but Fitzroy is already standing off to the side. When he sees William and Eliza, he grins broadly, trying—and failing—to wave while balancing their drinks.

         A woman is talking with him—raven-haired, emerald green dress, with striking dark eyes. She appears very interested in what Fitzroy is saying, showing her teeth as she smiles, and as William and Eliza approach, Fitzroy nods in their direction. “These are my…my cousins that I was telling you about. Mr. and Mrs. Wellington.”

         William doesn’t know when he agreed to become Fitzroy’s cousin, but he goes along with it. “A pleasure,” he says to the woman, and she bows her head at him before focusing her eyes on Eliza.

         “Forgive me for being so forward, but you are very pretty.”

         “Oh.” Eliza appears thrown by the compliment, and it darkens the flush on her cheeks. “Oh, thank you. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Miss…?”

         Their new acquaintance smiles wider. “Lady. Lady Moncrief.”

         William’s heart skips a beat.

         He looks over at Fitzroy, and the detective can barely contain his obvious glee. “Her Ladyship and I,” he says, “were just discussing Tennyson. Apparently, she is an admirer of his. Isn’t that right, Your Ladyship?”

         Lady Moncrief responds that yes, she does love Tennyson, but as she recounts some of her favorite poems of his, her eyes never stray from the fake diamonds in Eliza’s ears.

         William curses in his mind. He is suddenly very, very glad Fitzroy accompanied them here tonight. He’s just saved them from the third act.

Chapter Text

     She’s not sure how long they stay there on the floor.

     Amid her excitement, getting up and resuming a normal position, dusting carpet fibers off her skirt or ensuring it covers her ankles, doesn’t seem important to Eliza’s mind. Instead, she kisses William, her arms wrapped tightly about his neck, her body on top of his. After several minutes, he rolls over, so they are lying chest-to-chest on the carpet, and she laughs into his mouth.

     “We should,” he says, “probably”—another kiss interrupts his sentence—“get up.”

     “Mmhm,” Eliza agrees, but neither of them makes any move to stand. They bring their mouths to each other’s again, lost in the particular brand of ecstasy unique to lovers, who—so caught up in their affectionate joy—find themselves temporarily unthinking and uncaring of the rest of the world. Really, true love can make two people so ignorant to everyone around them like nothing else can.

     Once they are both breathless, they pull apart, remaining there on the floor with their noses brushing, her hands on his cheeks. It is rather funny, Eliza thinks. For the longest time, she never allowed herself to even think about getting married, and now, here she is, giddy as a child. Truth be told, marriage used to scare her, but it doesn’t anymore. Indeed, now it’s all rather exciting: to be with the man she loves forever.

     Eliza glances at her left hand and the new piece of jewelry that now resides there. A smile comes to her face at the sight of it, and she holds her hand up towards the light, the red stone shining like flames. She is not scared to be with William. They just…

     Well, they just seem to fit.

     “What do you think?” her lover asks her when he sees her staring at the engagement ring. No, not lover—fiancé. This new title will take some getting used to. “Do you like it?”

     “I adore it,” Eliza says honestly, her eyes not straying from the stone. It is neither too big nor too small, pretty but also practical. Even if they had all the money in the world, she wouldn’t have wanted a gaudy engagement ring, a symbol of wealth instead of a symbol of love. That’s not her taste, and clearly, William knows her well.

     The setting is simple, the red jewel is attractive, and it feels perfect on her hand. She’d expected wearing a ring to be awkward at first, heavy, but already, Eliza has grown accustomed to having it on. It shouldn’t pose any inconvenience when she’s doing work either. Really, an exceptional choice.

     When she looks back at William, he smiles slightly, seizes her hand, and brings it to his mouth so he might kiss her fingers. “I remember you said you wanted a small, simple stone.”

     The memory of that long-forgotten conversation rises to the forefront of her mind—well, long-forgotten by her, but not by William, clearly. “You remember that?”

     “Of course I do. I told you I’d keep it in mind, didn’t I?”

     She laughs slightly and gives him another kiss, quick and chaste. “It’s really perfect,” she says, and she can see her words please him. “I swear, I’m never, ever taking it off.”

     Their moment is disrupted by the sound of the front door opening, a reminder that other people exist in the world save for them two. “Lizzie?” Ivy’s voice, calling down the hall for her. “I’m back from the market. The parsnips didn’t look fresh, so I’m making cauliflower, and I don’t want to hear you complaining about it…”

     By the time Ivy opens the drawing room door, they have raised themselves into sitting positions, but they are still on the floor. Ivy has to step inside and circumvent the sofa to see them. When she stares down at Eliza and William, basket still on her arm, hat in her hand, her eyes narrow into slits. “What are the two of you doing down there?”

     Eliza forces a smile and brushes back her hair. A few tendrils have come loose from her updo and now hang, mussed, at the sides of her face. She tucks them behind her ears. “Nothing,” she says, but it doesn’t come out sounding convincing. “We just…thought we would see if the floor was comfortable. And it’s not. So, we’ll be getting up now.”

     In her peripheral vision, she can see William bite back a smirk, and Ivy examines them with narrowed eyes and a suspicious look. “What is going on with you two? Are you hiding something from me?”

     “No!” Eliza insists. Ivy is looking at her with scrutiny, and—suddenly remembering the ring on her finger—Eliza shoves her hand behind her back, which only makes the housekeeper’s frown deepen.

     She looks from one of them to the other for several moments, then shakes her head, sighs. “I don’t know why I bother,” she says, before sweeping out of the drawing room and back to the kitchen.

     When the door closes behind Ivy, Eliza laughs quietly, and she looks over at William, who is now also smiling. “What,” Eliza laughs, “must she think of us!”

     “Oh, Eliza, I think Ivy has known that we are strange for quite some time.” They lock eyes, and then they both laugh under their breaths, careful not to be heard. “You know,” William says, suddenly serious, “we should tell her.”

     Eliza blinks. “That we’re engaged?”

     William raises an eyebrow at her. “Yes, unless there is some other major life development you think she ought to know.”

     “Now?”

     “Yes, why not?”

     Eliza pauses, contemplates it, nods. Yes, she supposes he’s right. They’re going to have to tell everyone, and telling Ivy is a logical first step. Hell, she might even spread the news for them—Eliza knows that Ivy has a habit of sharing tidbits of information with all the other housekeepers on their block, exchanged like currency as they chat at the clothesline or catch up at the butcher shop.

     Besides, Eliza thinks, why not tell Ivy first? She has witnessed Eliza and William’s friendship turned romance from its very inception. She was here the day Eliza’s father first invited William over. It was Ivy who pulled Eliza in for a hug the night she and William admitted their feelings. It just makes sense. She should be the first to know their good news.

     Indeed, she has spent more than a decade waiting for Eliza and William to get over themselves and quit being so stubborn. The thought almost makes Eliza chuckle.

     “All right,” she says, looking at her fiancé with a grin. “Let’s go tell her. Right now.”

     They tiptoe into the kitchen like children who don’t want to be caught sneaking biscuits from the jar. Eliza and William pause just inside the doorway, hand in hand, her engagement ring obscured by his palm. Ivy has moved on to her dinner preparations, head of cauliflower waiting on the cutting board, chicken just going into the oven, and she turns around to face them, visibly confused.

     “What is it?” she asks. “Why are you both looking at me like you’re about to tell me something I won’t like?”

     Eliza has been trying hard not to smile, but Ivy’s words make it impossible to keep a straight face. The corners of her mouth pop up. Oh, they are about to tell her something, but she suspects Ivy will be far from displeased.

     She doesn’t answer Ivy, looking over at William. “Shall I tell her, or do you want to?”

     “I think you ought to.”

     “Really?”

     Ivy is no longer paying attention to her chores, turning her body to face Eliza and William, hands on her hips. “Tell me what?”

     “You should tell her,” William repeats. “She’s your housekeeper. Plus, you’ve known her longer.”

     “Are you sure?” Eliza asks.

     “Positive.”

     “Please,” Ivy sighs, exasperated, “do not talk about me as if I’m not standing right here.”  

     The two of them exchange a conspiratorial look, and then, Eliza decides to just come out with it. Beaming, she pulls her left hand away and thrusts it towards Ivy, allowing the ring to do the talking.

     Ivy stares at her for a moment, and when her eyes land on the ring, they go wide. She glances at Eliza’s face, then William’s, in silent, brow-raised shock, then back to the ring. “Does that,” she says slowly, “mean what I think it means?”

     Eliza’s cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling, though she does not care. “William and I,” she says, “are engaged to be married.”

     Eliza barely gets the words out before Ivy hurries over to hug her, letting out a delighted sound somewhere between a shriek and a squeal. “Oh, God be praised!” she says, crushing Eliza to her bosom. “I hoped and prayed that I’d live to see this day! I thought it’d never happen!”

     Eliza is too surprised to hug her back, and currently, she can hardly speak either, as Ivy is holding her so tightly, the arm around Eliza’s neck crushing her windpipe. “Ivy,” she chokes out, “I’m glad you’re happy, but I believe I won’t live to see my wedding day if you keep holding me like this.”

     Ivy lets go of her as quickly as she seized her in the first place, grinning from ear to ear as she grabs Eliza’s face, squishes her cheeks like she is a little girl. “This is the most wonderful news! And William”—she turns swiftly to Eliza’s fiancé, and the look of wry amusement on his face turns to one of slight panic—“do not think that you are excluded from this now.” Before he can verbalize any protest, she grabs hold of him and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Congratulations.”

     William chuckles, smiles. “Thank you, Ivy.”

     The housekeeper pulls back, clasping her hands together as she examines William and Eliza with glistening eyes. “Ivy,” Eliza says, “are you crying?”

     “Oh, so what if I am? Oh, Lizzie. I am so happy for you. The both of you.”

     Even though she nearly suffocated, Eliza can’t help but smile, seeing the look of happiness on Ivy’s face and hearing the catch in her voice. She closes the distance to give her housekeeper another hug—a lighter one this time, with less risk of broken bones. Eliza knows that while William has been a significant part of her life—as a friend, then a romantic partner—Ivy has been as well—as a housekeeper, and yes, as family.

     “Well,” Ivy says, pulling back from their hug with a smile, “this means we have a wedding to plan. What were you thinking? Short engagement? Long engagement?” Eliza opens her mouth, but Ivy continues, not waiting for an answer. “Oh, why am I asking? You’ve waited long enough. Better to keep it short. Spring is a lovely time for weddings, but then you’d have to wait a whole year, and that just won’t do. Summer? Autumn? Not winter. Far too cold. And you wouldn’t be able to enjoy your honeymoon then, would you?”

     “Ivy,” Eliza says, “I don’t even know if we’ll take a honeymoon.”

     Ivy tsks. “Don’t be silly! Of course, you will! Now, who were you thinking of inviting? And where shall we have the wedding breakfast? Here?”

     “William and I have only been engaged for about half an hour, Ivy. We haven’t discussed any of this.”

     “Well, I’m just asking! You’ll have to figure all this out, you know.”

     William approaches Eliza from behind, wrapping his arm loosely about her waist. “I think Eliza and I would prefer to keep things small,” he says, and Eliza looks up at him with a little smile. Yes, small sounds good. “But, of course, we want you to be there. And if you wanted to make our wedding breakfast, Eliza and I would be honored.”

     These words seem to please Ivy. She places her hands over her heart. “Oh, I’m already thinking about ideas! Lizzie, dear, I think your mother’s wedding veil is still upstairs somewhere—tucked away in a box, most like, but it would look so lovely on you. Here, I’ll go look for it while dinner is cooking. William, you’ll be staying to eat with us, won’t you?”

     She says all of this at a rapid pace, in the course of about twenty seconds, and William smiles, nods. “Of course, I’ll stay.”

     In response, Ivy beams and scurries upstairs to dig through Lavinia Scarlet’s old clothes.

     Eliza watches her retreating figure go down the hall, listens to her climb the stairs, and then turns to William with a good-natured sigh. “Well, I think she’s happy,” she says sarcastically.

     “She is just excited for us. I think it’s nice.”

     “Yes, but you’re not the one who is going to be dragged into every bridal shop in this city.”

     They hold each other’s gazes for a moment, and then Eliza raises herself onto her tiptoes, so she might give William a quick kiss on the lips. “I love you.”

     She can feel him smiling. “I love you, too.”

     All teasing aside, it is nice to know that Ivy is happy for them, and looking up at her fiancé now, Eliza can’t help but smile. She is excited to marry him. Big wedding, small wedding, at a church or the registrar’s office or in the living room, in front of everyone they know or in front of no one at all—it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care about the ceremony; she just cares about the marriage. Spending their lives together is what’s important.

     Though, Eliza swears that if Ivy tries to cook them an eight-course breakfast, or shove her into some godawful dress with ruffles or a hoop skirt, she is going to drag William away from here to elope.

Chapter Text

        Once he is back in the privacy of his office, William closes the door firmly and releases a sigh he has been holding for at least half an hour. He just finished his interview for the Regent’s Park murder and—as Eliza suspected, damn her— it seems that the widow is guilty as sin. On one hand, that means she was right, and she will be absolutely insufferable if he tells her—hence, why he doesn’t plan to bring it up. On the other, at least that is one case that will be off his desk soon, and he thanks God for that.

        He drops himself into his chair and runs a hand down his face, groaning softly into his palm. This is probably the first time in hours he’s had a moment to himself, and he’s so exhausted, he thinks he could probably fall asleep right here at his desk.

        Eliza’s earlier visit comes to his mind unbidden. It’s not exactly the relaxing thought he wants to have at this moment, but no matter how much he tries to push her from his mind, there she lingers, bright in the darkness when he closes his eyes. Stubborn woman. She never does what she is told, even in his imagination.

        Randomly, he finds himself thinking back to what she said—not when she insulted him, but when she came to ask him about Henry. She said he hasn’t been home, and while the thought is somewhat troubling now that he has a moment to think, William tells himself Henry’s done this before. Though he’s known Henry to enjoy a drink or two over the years—the man was the one who gave William his first taste of whisky, wine, and a slew of other spirits, after all—his drinking has been getting more concerning as of late. If he’s passed out somewhere, it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Wouldn’t even be the first time in the last month. He doesn’t make a habit of it, or tries not to, but it does happen.

        William presses his fingers against his closed eyelids, trying and once again failing to get Eliza out of his head. She has a right to be concerned, but Henry will turn up sooner or later. He always does.

        William leans back in his chair, reclining as best as he is able, and points his face towards the ceiling. Just two more hours, and he will hopefully be able to go home. Or, more accurately, able to go to the pub. He thinks he deserves a drink after the day that he’s had.

        Yes, he silently tells himself, this sounds like a plan. Perhaps if everyone is going to actually leave him alone for once, he may be able to rest his eyes for fifteen minutes. He only slept for four hours last night and it’s starting to catch up with him.

        It’s a nice plan, but immediately foiled when the sounds of voices from the hallway interrupt his solitude.

        William gets back up into a sitting position, muttering an expletive. He recognizes the voices as those of several of his constables, though he cannot make out the words they are saying.  They are chattering loudly, one on top of another, and the sound threatens to give him a headache. Made impulsive by his exhaustion and annoyance, he quickly gets up and walks to the door, throwing it open with an angry look on his face.

        At the sight of him, the constables stop talking, their voices dying like the last flicker of a fire when it’s extinguished. “What,” William says, not bothering to check his tone, “is going on out here?”

        The young men all stare at him for a moment, looking at each other shiftily as if they’re not sure who should talk first, their faces white and their eyes wide. One of the men lowers his head, covering his mouth with his hand as he releases a loud sniff.

        William frowns. “Jones,” he says, “are you crying?”

        Perhaps he should have more sympathy for the poor boy, but he is not in a particularly sympathetic mood, and Christ, if a case has blubbering like this, he probably needs to find another career path. Except none of the constables answer him at first, continuing to look at each other with uncertain eyes, and William comes to his senses, realizing that something is amiss. He feels like someone who has been left out of a joke, except no one is laughing. Indeed, they all look rather sad.

        “It’s”—Jones raises his face, made red and splotchy from emotion, and wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand as he tries to control his tears—“it’s Inspector Scarlet, sir.”

        Immediately, William feels as if his stomach has dropped to his feet. Eliza’s words from earlier today wash back over him and he wonders if she is about to be proven right for the second time in one day. Except this time the stakes are, somehow, much higher.

        “What do you mean?” he asks, though some way, somehow, he feels as if he already knows.

        “Inspector Scarlet—err, Mr. Scarlet, I suppose…he’s dead, Inspector Wellington.”

        There it is. Jones’s words hit him as hard as a punch to the stomach, and now, it’s William’s turn to be speechless. He grabs the door frame, clutches it hard enough to whiten his knuckles, as if it’s the only thing to prevent him from falling to his knees. “What?”

        “He’s dead, sir.” The constables all glance towards the ground at the same moment, as if studying the patterns in the flooring has just become the most interesting thing in the world to them. “We”—Jones stammers, scarcely able to get the words out—“we thought you had been informed.”

        “No,” William says, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “No, I had not.”

        They stand there for a minute in silence, all seeming at an utter loss for words, before William forces himself to look up, mutters something about heading back into his office. He doesn’t wait for anyone to reply, quickly heading back inside and slamming the door behind him.

        Once he is alone, he stands there for a moment, stupefied. He is not quite sure what to do with himself, taken aback by what he has just heard.

        Henry is dead.

        The news is distressing, and surprising—but not entirely shocking.

        Note how he did not ask the constables what Henry died of. Inside, William suspects he already knows.

        He’d tried to bring up the drinking with Henry a few times, but his mentor dismissed his concerns, sometimes got outright hostile, and William let it go. He always let it go. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

        He swallows. Well, it’s too late for regrets now. What he should’ve done doesn’t matter. He didn’t do it, and he can’t go back.

        The drinking started slowly, just an extra glass here or there, an occasional morning headache that Henry would laugh off as tiredness or the result of a long day. Though William didn’t know what prompted the change, he had his own theories. As his career took off, his visits to the Scarlet townhouse grew less frequent—daily visits turning to every other day, then weekly—and Eliza was often out too, running around in pursuit of adventure, following every whiff of mystery she could find. They didn’t need Henry like they did when they were younger, and Henry wanted to feel needed.

        Feeling needed gave him a purpose, a distraction. But as William and Eliza made their own lives, he had less and less to occupy his time, and that meant the thoughts he’d fought so long to keep at bay started to assert themselves. He’d never told William as much, but he suspected. He’d walk in on Henry looking at the old case files for murders he’d never solved, staring at them with sad, bloodshot eyes. Eliza had confided in William once that she’d accidentally caught her father looking at a picture of her mother, and—though he quickly shoved the photo into his desk drawer, swiped a finger underneath his eyes—she swore he’d been tearing up.

        The alcohol could silence those thoughts, that pain, if only for a little while. It shut up his demons and helped him sleep at night.

        So, William had pretended to believe Henry when he said nothing was bothering him, he was just tired. Eliza had picked up his empty bottle when he passed out on the sofa. When he came home hours late, slurring his words, Ivy kept her mouth shut and reheated his dinner for him. What else were they supposed to do? Henry was a grown man, and he didn’t want to be helped. He’d always been stubborn, like them.

        William suddenly stands straighter, the thought hitting him like a train. Eliza. What about Eliza?

        Before, he’d been annoyed with her, but now, he is only worried. How is she? She must know. Her father is dead, and she is probably devastated. He can imagine her crying, heartbroken, and for the first time since he heard the news, he feels like he might get choked up himself.

        What will happen to her now? Henry was the only one keeping a roof over their heads. And though he knows she has been giving this detection thing a try, crime-solving is not the most profitable career, no matter your sex. Who is going to look after her and Ivy? He can try to support them, but William is far from rich. His employers are not the most generous with salary and he has little to spare. And he cannot be with her all the time. There will be no man of the house, no one to check in on her, no one to protect her if something horrible happens. 

        He doesn’t know what the future holds—for her, or him. For the first time in a long time, the path in front of William is obscured. He’d hoped that he’d finally left this uncertainty behind him forever, but here it is again, rearing its ugly head.

        That doesn’t matter right now. Right now, all he can think about is getting to Eliza, seeing her, confirming she’s holding up all right. She is probably heartbroken, and God damn it, he knows he can’t take her pain away, but he can try.

        Only one thing on his mind, he turns around, throws open the door, so distracted he doesn’t even remember to grab his hat. Except, as soon as he opens the door, he finds she’s already standing there, hollow-eyed, her hand raised to knock.

        They stare at each other for a moment, neither speaking, both numb, dazed. Though William saw Eliza only a few hours ago, her entire demeanor has changed. Her cheeks have an unhealthy pallor, her eyes lack their usual brightness, and a few hairs have popped out of her updo, disheveled about her face. Earlier, she was joking with him, but neither of them is in a joking mood now.

        He says her name under his breath, and she looks up at him, with an expression that makes him feel like his heart may crack. “I’m sorry,” she says, and her voice falters over the words. They come out croaked, broken. “I just—I needed to tell you, Father—he—”

        “I already heard,” William says, wanting to spare her, stop her from saying the words. “Eliza, I am so sorry.”   

        She looks at him for a moment in silence, and then her face scrunches up, like she might cry, but is trying very hard not to. William takes her lightly by the arm, pulls her into the office, closes the door behind her. If she wants to break down, she can break down. He won’t judge her. And the least he can do is let her have her moment in private.

        Even after he’s pulled her inside, his hand remains on her elbow, and despite her current state, she is pleasantly warm to the touch. “I am so sorry,” he says again, because what else is there to say? Henry is dead. No words will bring him back.

        Eliza’s eyes glisten and she drops her head onto his chest, finally allowing herself to cry.

        William does not remember the last time he saw her cry. Eliza is usually so strong, so composed, and her tears only further solidify this bad news. This is not a dream. This is real. He can pinch himself but he will not wake up.

        Henry is dead. He is dead and he is never coming back.

        Not knowing what else to do, William wraps his arm lightly around her shoulders, allowing her to cry into his shirt. He remains there like that, letting her have her moment, take all the time she needs. For right now, he will be the strong one. He will be whatever she needs.

Chapter Text

         Many times in Eliza Wellington’s life, she has wondered about how she would break a piece of news to her husband.

         She disobeyed his direct order? Best to say it quickly and get it over with. She needed him to help her follow a lead or intimidate a suspect? Such news required a sweet smile, batted eyelashes, and a particularly flattering dress. She reopened one of his cases? Well, when she did that, she usually didn’t tell him, instead waiting for him to find out himself and confront her about it, which never ended well.

         But she’s never told him news of this nature before.

         As she leaves her appointment that September evening, golden leaves shaking in the breeze, the sun beginning to dip below the skyline, she can’t help but laugh quietly, pointing her face towards the heavens.

         Her first thought is that she can’t believe it.

         Her second thought is that she has to tell William.

         Thinking about him makes her smile wide. He’s going to be so happy.

         After all, he’s always wanted to be a father.

         She dares to slip a hand underneath her coat, resting over her lower abdomen, and she takes a deep breath. They have been married for nearly three years. She didn’t think it would ever happen.

        When William and Eliza first got married, she hadn’t been concerned with getting pregnant right away—indeed, it was actually a relief to see her blood make its appearance those first six months, to enjoy their newlywed life without the added responsibility of parenthood. By their first wedding anniversary, she wasn’t pregnant, but it was fine. They had time, she thought, and she was sure it would happen soon.

         But then, it was their second wedding anniversary. Then, another half a year went by. Still, Eliza wasn’t pregnant. Every month, her blood appeared, but now, it wasn’t a relief. It was a taunt. A reminder of her failure.  

         Realistically, she knew it wasn’t her fault, and William didn’t blame her, not once. But it killed Eliza that this one thing—this one normal, human thing—eluded her. All her life, she’d gone after what she wanted, fought and won even when the odds were against her, and yet, she couldn’t have this.

         She wanted to give William a child, and she wanted one for herself, too. Eliza had never been particularly good at being denied what she wanted. 

         So, she’d pouted, pitied herself, cried, then gave up hope, and tried to move on. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be, she decided. Maybe she was just meant to be a career woman, after all. She told herself she could live with that.

         That was, until two weeks ago when she’d been casually checking her calendar and came to a realization.

         Her monthly courses were late. Very late. And Eliza was never, ever late.

         She didn’t say anything to William. If this was a false alarm—if she wasn’t pregnant—she didn’t want to have to see the disappointment on his face or hear him console her. Instead, she bided her time and kept track of the growing list of evidence in her mind.

         She was more tired than usual, for starters. A bit moody, perhaps, and her corsets hurt her chest in a way they hadn’t before. Also, the smell of whisky was suddenly the most odious scent in the world to her. Could she be? For two weeks, Eliza built her case, held her breath, and waited. Yesterday, when she missed her courses for the second month in a row, she found the name of a respectable midwife and made an appointment as soon as she could.

         And, now, she knows for sure.

         She is eight weeks pregnant.

         The only thing left to do is tell William.

         She can’t wait.

         Eliza starts the walk toward her husband’s office, thinking it all through. Their third wedding anniversary is next week—perhaps she could tell William then? He’s waited a long time for this moment, so that would be a nice way to do it. She tries to imagine how his eyes might light up, how he will look at her when he finds out. The thought of it fills Eliza with excitement. Throughout her walk, she contemplates ways she might tell him, thinking about how to surprise him, catch him off guard. Should she plan something romantic? She wants this to be perfect.

         All her elaborate ideas go out the window the moment she sees him.

         When she arrives at William’s office, she halts in the doorway for a moment. He is preoccupied with his paperwork, resting his chin on his hand, and a single lock of his hair has fallen out of place, dangling boyishly against his forehead. Eliza suddenly hopes that their child will have a little curl like that.

         Looking at William now, her heart fills with a fierce, urgent love for him, like she is falling for him all over again. She is tempted to run across the room and embrace him, to hold him in her arms and tell him everything. No, she can’t delay this news for a week. She can’t carry this secret inside her for a day longer. She has to tell him. Tonight.

         William looks up, and when he sees her, he smiles slightly. “Eliza. This is a surprise.”

         “A pleasant one, I hope?”

         “Always.”

         He gets up, and Eliza glides over, accepting his offered peck. “I was in the neighborhood and thought we might walk home together. That is, if you don’t have other plans?”

         He answers her by smiling and grabbing his coat. As if any other plans could be more important.

         They start towards home, arm-in-arm, and Eliza smiles at William, trying to keep her cool. She asks him about his day, but as he starts discussing the interview he and Fitzroy had on Broad Street, her mind begins to drift, preoccupied by her hidden knowledge. Even the details of a crime—which would usually be so interesting to her—prove incapable of distracting her now, and she has to resist the urge to cut William off with an unceremonious I’m pregnant.

         “Eliza,” he says just as her eyes are about to glaze over, “are you listening to me?”

         She shakes her head, looks over at him with a poor attempt at a smile. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m”—she pauses, trying to recall the last thing she heard him say—“sorry that happened.”

         William gives her an exasperated look, and she winces. All right, clearly, she did not do a good job at pretending to listen. She shoots him what she hopes looks like an apologetic smile.

         “Well,” he says, sighing, “that’s enough about me. How was your day? How was your appointment?”

         Eliza can almost feel the color drain from her face. “My appointment?” Inside, her mind is running a million miles a minute. How did he know about that? She didn’t say anything about going to the midwife’s—it’s supposed to be a surprise—

         William raises his brow at her. “Your appointment at the morgue? When you rushed out of the house this morning, you said you had some business there.”

         Immediately, her panic turns into relief. Oh, yes. With all this excitement, she had forgotten her own fib. “Oh, the morgue. Yes, it was fine.” She suppresses a smile. Her actual appointment, of course, hadn’t been a manner of death, but one of life.

         “And did you find out what you needed to know?”

         Damn. Now, it is impossible not to smile. Eliza tries to school her face into a neutral expression, but she can’t help herself, her rebellious mind drifting back towards her secret. “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

         As they turn onto the next street, navigating the remnants of the afternoon shopping foot traffic, William looks at her with obvious suspicion. “You’re up to something.”

         “Me?” Eliza forces a scoff, hoping she sounds appropriately offended. “Why would you say such a thing?”

         “Because I know you. You think after nearly three years of marriage and an even longer friendship I can’t tell when you’re hiding something from me?”

         He says it with an arched brow and a knowing smile, and Eliza’s heart temporarily sinks. Does he suspect? Has she given herself away?

         But he continues. “If you won’t tell me what you’ve done, will you at least tell me how mad it’ll make me?” Off her confused look, he clarifies: “You’re meddling into something, I take it?”

         She releases a held breath, and a corner of her mouth turns up. “Not meddling,” she says.

         “So, you don’t want me to accompany you somewhere dangerous?”

         “No.”

         “Assist you in an undercover operation?”

         “Not this time.”

         “Threaten someone?”

         “No, nothing like that.”

         William rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “All right, Eliza. But I’ll get the truth out of you sooner or later.”

         She smiles to herself, holds his arm a little tighter. This is too much. She has to tell him. If she doesn’t, the suspense might kill her.

         She can’t wait to see the look on his face.

         They pass a shop window, made up to depict the latest autumnal merchandise: man’s suit, lady’s dress, matching tartan outfits for a boy and girl. Eliza’s eyes land on the pram, sitting at the front of this family display, and a plan formulates in her mind. Perfect.

         She stops, and it takes William a moment to do the same, not having noticed at first that she is no longer beside him. “Adorable,” she says, “isn’t it?”

         Her husband shrugs, clearly not understanding her sudden interest in apparel. “I suppose.”

         The smile on Eliza’s face widens as she thinks of the mischief she’s about to make. She moves closer to William, leaning her head against his shoulder, and presses her finger against the window glass, pointing at one item in particular: two little boots, brown, leather most like, threaded with matching laces. “I like those.”

         William chuckles. “I didn’t realize you were such an admirer of baby shoes.”

         “Not typically.” She doesn’t look at him when she says what she does next, feigning nonchalance: “I like the color. It works for a boy or a girl. That’s fitting, seeing as we’ll have to wait until April to know what we’re having.”

         She drops William’s arm and brushes past him, shoving her hands in her pockets as she continues down the pavement. He doesn’t follow her at first, his next words addressed to her retreating back. “What did you just say to me?” 

         Eliza bites on her lower lip to restrain her grin. When she turns back around, William is staring at her, in visible shock, and it takes everything in her to maintain a straight face. “April. That’s when our child is expected—around the 19^th or the 20^th, give or take two weeks. Some women deliver earlier and some go later. It’s very hard to tell with the first, you know.”

         The confusion in his eyes softens into something else entirely. He steps closer to her, tentative in a way he usually isn’t as he closes the distance. “Eliza, if you’re teasing me, it’s not funny.”

         “I am not teasing you. Really, William, you must have a low opinion of me, if you believe I would joke about something like this.”

         A beat passes in silence, and Eliza can feel her heart hammering. William is looking at her in a way he’s never looked at her, and his mouth trembles, ever so slightly. “Eliza”—he says her name as a whisper, thick with emotion, and he has to pause, breathe in, to get the words out—“are you certain?”

         Immediately, tears come to her eyes, and she can only nod vigorously. She feels like if she speaks, she may burst out crying. “I’ve had my suspicions for a couple of weeks, but I wanted to be absolutely sure before I told you. I am sure now. I’m with child.”

         He lets out a small, breathless sound of shock, his eyes never straying from her face, and Eliza’s expression falters. She wets her lips, suddenly nervous. “William, please say something. I…I thought you would be happy. It’s good news, isn’t it?”

         Shouldn’t he be saying something? She wasn’t expecting him to break down, fall to his knees or anything, but she’s just told him his child is inside her. Surely, that warrants more of a reaction? Though only seconds have passed, her hormonal mind is already panicking, considering a thousand reasons for his silence. Except then, William smiles. Then he laughs.

         “Eliza,” he says, shaking his head, his hand cupping her cheek, “I love you.”

         She finally exhales. His voice is so awestruck, so tender—happy, he’s happy. Thank God. And before she can say anything, he’s embracing her, pulling her body into his right there in the middle of the pavement.

         His arms are around her, his lips pressing gently against the side of her head, and Eliza buries her face into his neck, hugging him back. The first tear falls from her eye, then another, and another. All of a sudden, she is full-on crying, though not from fear, from relief.

         People are probably staring at them, but Eliza doesn’t care, isn’t even thinking about them. At that moment, no one else in the world exists in her mind. It is just them, just this.

         “Why,” William asks, “did you let me blather on about work when you had news of this nature to share?”

         A little laugh slips out of her, bubbly from her tears. “Usually, you hate it when I interrupt you.”

         He laughs too, though his is muffled by her hair. “I think this was worth making an exception for.”

         When William pulls back from their hug, he places his hands on her cheeks, and he is beaming at her. “Eliza, I love you. I love you so, so much.”

         She observes him through her wet eyes, the look of adoration on his face making her heart feel weightless. “I love you, too. You’re happy?”

         “Of course. It’s a baby, Eliza.” The way he says the word—like he still can’t believe it—makes her laugh and cry both. “How far along are you?”

         “Eight weeks. I’m sorry, I lied about going to the morgue today. I had an appointment to see a midwife. She confirmed it.”

         The mention of a midwife makes his expression falter for the first time, and he takes her hand, holding it firmly in his. “And you’re well? Everything looks all right?”

         Eliza squeezes his hand. She can hear the undercurrent of concern in his voice and does not hesitate to alleviate it. “She says everything is well. I’m fine. We are fine.”

         His shoulders sag with unspoken relief, and he glances down at her abdomen, then back up to her face. “We,” he says slowly, “are having a baby.”

         Eliza has not allowed herself to say those words, not today, and not over the past few weeks, never daring to voice her suspicions aloud, lest they be crushed. Now, hearing them makes tears roll down her cheeks, and she bats them away, playing it off with a laugh.

         “I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to cry. I—I have been so emotional lately. One moment I am happy beyond belief, and then the next I am sad, and then I’m angry but I don’t even know why I am. The midwife told me it’s normal, but I feel like I’m going insane. Yesterday, I misplaced my pen at work, and I wept for twenty minutes. Over a pen, William! How can I go on like this? This child is already causing me trouble.”

         He runs his thumb across her cheek, smiling. “Well, any child of ours is certain to be a handful.”

         She laughs. He is right, absolutely right. “Your stubbornness and mine, put together in one tiny human. What were we thinking?”

         “He or she will be the most willful child who ever lived.”

         “Oh, we’re done for.”

         They stare at each other for a moment, holding hands, soft smiles on both their faces, no words needing to be said. They both know what the other is thinking, how they are feeling. Tears threatening to reappear, Eliza gives him a long, passionate kiss.

         When she pulls back, she grabs his arm, grins. “Come,” she says, dragging him back the way they came, “let’s go.”

         William resists at first, giving her a perplexed look. “But home is the other way.”

         “We’ll go home in a minute, but there’s something else we’re going to do first. We’re going to buy those baby shoes for our child. Little William or little Eliza.”

         He hesitates, glancing from her hand on his arm, to her stomach, to her face. “Is that not tempting fate?”

         “No,” Eliza answers, without hesitation. “Absolutely not.” She is not going to let superstition stand in her way. They have waited three years for this child, and today, she intends to celebrate it.

         After a moment, the corners of William’s mouth turn up, and he nods. “All right, let’s go.” Eliza beams, kisses him one more time, and drags him towards the shop.

         She is not buying these baby shoes just as a gift for her child, but as a memory. Every time she looks at them, she will be able to remember this day, how happy they were.

         She is never, ever going to forget this moment. Not as long as she lives. That, Eliza knows for sure.

Chapter Text

       William is fully aware that he once said he would never cook his own eggs if he and Eliza were married, and he meant the words at the time. However, times have changed.

       He cracks the egg on the edge of the counter, listens as it sizzles against the pan. It is a Sunday morning, just half past seven, and with Ivy away until tomorrow, William knows he will have to fend for himself if he wishes to eat while she is gone. Upon waking, he’d donned his discarded drawers—neglecting to put on a shirt—and snuck off to the kitchen. He managed to keep himself alive for many years of bachelorhood, and he goes through the familiar motions: frying the eggs, putting the kettle on, cutting the bread.

       As for Eliza, he left her tangled up in the sheets, sleeping soundly. Perhaps he will bring something up to his wife later if he is feeling particularly generous. William has to admit she did look awfully cute lying there: rolled over onto her stomach, her hair hanging loose, cheeks flushed. He hadn’t been able to resist kissing her this morning, pressing his lips lightly to the crown of her head, careful not to disturb her. Eliza had only made a soft noise and burrowed her face further into the pillow.

       He smiles involuntarily, thinking of Eliza. They have been married for only six weeks, and yet, those six weeks have already made him extraordinarily happy. To wake up beside her and see the sunbeams dance across her cheeks fills him with a sense of such profound gratitude. Sometimes, when Eliza’s eyes flutter open, they will land on him immediately, letting him know that he is the first thing she thinks of upon waking, just like she is for him.

       Of course, there are other perks to married life as well. Though he is the only man Eliza has been with and she had been nervous when they first married—worried she would not be able to live up to her wifely duties even if she would not say as much aloud—William never found her lacking in that regard. Indeed, he thinks his determined wife has a natural aptitude for seduction. It’s a real miracle he manages to get anything done. He feels like he could kiss her and kiss her until he forgets how to breathe, would probably keep his hands on her at all times if such a thing were possible.

       During their courtship, they’d enjoyed their newfound ability to kiss and hold hands. Once they were engaged, those kisses would go a little deeper, and those touches would linger a little longer. However, they’d saved the act itself for marriage, at William’s insistence. He has always found Eliza attractive, and though he longed for her in that way, he did not want to risk her reputation. He loved her too much for that, and he was willing to be patient.

       Now that they are married, they’ve definitely made up for lost time. William knew his wife very well after their long friendship, but marriage has allowed him to know her in a different way. He doesn’t think he will be satisfied until he knows every inch of her skin. As for Eliza, well, her coy looks and impish lip bites tell him she feels similarly. The little smile on William’s face transforms from a soft to a wicked one as he thinks about last night.

       With Ivy gone, they had the whole house to themselves for the first time since they said ‘I do.’ They’d started kissing on the sofa, both of them tasting of liquor, and Eliza—being the naturally inquisitive woman that she is—let her hands wander a bit further south. For a moment, William had considered taking her right there, but he somehow managed to hold himself back, nearly dragging his wife up the stairs and planting fervent kisses to her face and neck all the while.

       He will gladly cook his own eggs if he means he gets to do that with her.

       So, yes, that was why he woke up this morning to their clothes wrinkled on the floor and Eliza fast asleep next to him in bed, wearing nothing but a sheet. William thinks he will bring that breakfast up to her after all. Perhaps marriage is turning him into a gooey romantic, but he thinks his bride deserves a little romance after last night.

       Plus, if they have breakfast in bed, then when they’re finished, she can easily curl into his arms again. Perhaps they will stay there until supper…

       His master plan is foiled by the sounds of feminine feet on the hardwood. William doesn’t look up from his cooking at the patter of Eliza’s bare feet, gradually growing closer, because if Eliza is up this early, it is probably to go to the office. She has been known to sneak over there even on a Sunday to satisfy her detective’s curiosity…So much for his self-indulgent ideas…

       “Something smells good.”

       Her voice is pleasantly husky, still thick from sleep, and when William turns toward her, he does a double take.

       His wife is leaning against the doorframe, a little smile on her lips and her hair tossed over her left shoulder. William stares at her, examining her from her slightly tilted head to the tips of her toes. “Is that my shirt?” he asks.

       In reply, Eliza only smiles. Yes, William concludes, that is most definitely his shirt, the white one he was wearing last night. It is still wrinkled from the floor. Eliza is wearing it with only half the buttons done, the too-large sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It is longer on her than it is on him, just grazing past her fingertips.

       And William suspects she is not wearing anything under it.

       “What exactly,” he says slowly, “do you think you are doing?”

       Her smile widens, her lip biting doing little to suppress it, and she walks closer to him, her pace leisurely. “Can I help you with breakfast?”

       “One: you don’t know the first thing about making breakfast. Two: that doesn’t answer my question.”

       Eliza leans up against the counter, an arm’s length away from him. She crosses her arms over her chest, and the action gives William a sneak peek at the pale curves of her breasts. God damn it. William knows nothing about art, but he thinks his wife’s breasts belong in a museum.

       “Your clothes are so comfortable,” Eliza says, shrugging one shoulder. “Plus, they smell like you.”

       “You say that as if you’ve worn them before.”

       Eliza hesitates, her eyes lowering in an almost bashful way. “Perhaps,” she says, “that night a few weeks ago when you were at the Yard until two o’clock, I may have…taken one of your shirts.”

       The whispered confession makes a smile stretch across his face. “May have?”

       “May have. And I may have also lifted it to my nose to smell your aftershave…but only maybe.”

       William leans over to kiss her, the long, hard kind, and Eliza raises herself onto her tiptoes, extending the kiss. When they pull apart, he feels warm inside, and he forces himself to look away from his wife’s face. Focus, he needs to focus.

       “Here,” William says. “If you wish to help me, you can butter this toast. I’m assuming you can manage that?”

       Eliza rolls her eyes at his teasing tone, and he bites back a chuckle. “I am a very intelligent woman,” she says, shooting him a playful glare, “I can butter bread, thank you. And I shall do a very diligent job, so even you can find no cause to complain.”

       “Make sure to spread it evenly.” Eliza gives him a dirty look, and this time, it is impossible to hide his smile. He kisses her on the side of the head, just to ensure she is not really mad. Their banter is all in good fun.

       They work in companionable silence for a few minutes, the kitchen occasionally sounding with the sizzling of an egg, a knife against bread, or a carriage rolling by on the street outside. William is transferring the eggs to the plates when he feels Eliza’s eyes on him, and he looks up. She is staring at him not with a teasing look, but one that is soft and reflective.

       “Do you,” she says, “remember the last time we cooked eggs together?”

       That night comes flooding back to him immediately: the dark kitchen, Eliza looking up at him, how close her face came to his. “I remember,” William says slowly, “that I did most of the cooking.”

       His wife either does not hear or does not acknowledge his teasing. “I thought you were about to kiss me that night,” she says, her eyes appearing far away, like she too is remembering it.

       William hesitates, busies himself with assembling the plates and turning off the stovetop so that he can delay answering. “I thought about it. But I decided not to.”

       “Why?”

       “Because…” he trails off, sighs. That night, he had been unable to deny that he burned for Eliza. He had spent years trying to suppress his attraction to her and in one fleeting, tender moment, it had all come rushing back. He could’ve kissed her, could’ve told her that he loved her, and yet, at the last moment, he pulled back.

       “Because,” he says at last, “I didn’t think I could have you.”

       The peace they’d established had felt so fragile. Confessing to her would’ve ruined everything, and then, he wouldn’t have had her in his life at all. It was better, William had thought, to deny his heart, if that meant he could still be her friend.

       Eliza inches towards him, her eyes on his face as her arms wrap about his waist. “Well,” she says, “you do have me now, and I have you. For better or for worse, forever and always. You’re stuck with me, husband.”

       William tries to respond, but his words fail him. Right now, he’s thinking that stuck with Eliza Scarlet Wellington is not such a bad place to be…

       Her body is pressed tightly against his, and the limited distance confirms his earlier suspicion. She is definitely not wearing anything under that shirt. She raises herself up to kiss him, lips coming to his slowly…

       He shuts his eyes and mutters a curse. He can feel her breasts and the bones of her hips pressing against him, and one of her hands is on his naked chest. “God damn it, woman,” he says. “Do you enjoy tormenting me?”

       “Tormenting you?” Eliza kisses him. “How am I”—another kiss—“tormenting you? I just”—again—“made you such beautiful toast.”

       He reluctantly pries himself away from her kisses, pressing his forehead against hers. When William opens his eyes, Eliza has a twinkling gaze and a smirk on her face.

       She knows exactly what she is doing to him, that little minx. She knows how much power she wields over him, and she is enjoying every minute of it.

       And William is certainly not going to complain about it.

       Now, he places his hands on her backside and lifts her onto the counter, fast enough to catch Eliza by surprise. The sound she makes is somewhere between a scream and a laugh. “William! What are you—?”

       He doesn’t let her finish. He stands up against the counter, his arms on either side of her to box her in, and presses his lips against hers with all the strength he has.

       Their kiss is long, crushing, and he hears Eliza sigh softly, feels her breath in his mouth. She smells wonderful, like soap and sheets and sunlight, and he wishes he could bottle that scent and get drunk on it. His hands go down her sides, tracing the curves of her body, not restrained by her corset or undergarments. He loves the smooth curve of her waist and hips. Eliza has one hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his flesh as she grips him, and the other hand is still on his chest, fingers flexing and unflexing on his pectoral.

       “God,” he pants against her mouth, “I have to have you.”

       “You do have me,” Eliza says, sultry and sweet, and the smile is audible in her voice. “You have me in every way.” William pulls her further into him, and her legs weave around his waist.

       These six weeks of marriage to Eliza have been the closest thing to Heaven he has ever experienced, and not solely because of its physical pleasures. He loves to wake up next to her in the morning, see her in the evening when he gets home, and fall asleep beside her at night. It is a privilege to be with Eliza every day, to be one in body and soul. William expresses his silent thanks by kissing her like his life depends on it.

       Needless to say, breakfast grows cold.

Chapter Text

           They have been engaged for three weeks when William first calls Eliza “my love.”

            It comes out very casually, as if he’s said it to her a million times before. He’s come to pick her up at her office, because they have agreed to walk back to her house and spend the evening together. Eliza is busy tidying up her desk when he strolls inside, and she smiles when she sees him, a childish spasm of joy overtaking her at the sight of him. She rounds the desk to greet him, and William smiles back at her, giving her a quick peck on the lips. That’s when he says: “How was your day, my love?”

            She pulls back from him with a start, though she can’t move very far, seeing as how his arm is currently around her shoulders. Eliza tilts her head back and looks up at him, a laugh slipping from her lips. “What did you just call me?” she asks.

            “What? My love?”

            “Yes. You’ve never called me that before.”

            William shrugs, not seeming to share her surprise at the unexpected term of endearment. “Isn’t that what you are? I love you. You love me. What’s wrong with it?”

            There’s nothing wrong with it, per se, but it feels strange. William has never really had any nicknames for her—using each other’s first names had felt familiar enough to Eliza—and, come to think of it, no one else in her life really has any nicknames for her, either. Once upon a time, Eliza’s mother used to call her “darling,” sometimes, Lavinia Scarlet’s voice silky and adoring as she brushed Eliza’s hair back or kissed her before bed. That was a long time ago, of course. Her father called her “Lizzie,” and Ivy still does, years of habit being hard to break, but it’s not the same.

            “Well,” Eliza says at last, raising herself to her tiptoes so she can weave her arms around William’s neck, “I’m not calling you anything. William is familiar enough for me.”

            “Really? Because I was hoping for ‘my angel,’ ‘my treasure,’ ‘the one who makes my otherwise miserable life worth living.’”

            He can’t get the teasing words out without cracking a smile, and Eliza rolls her eyes at him, which only makes William smile wider. “You’re ridiculous,” she says. “Perhaps that’s what I should call you. My ridiculous one?”

            “My sweetling?”

            “My dearest annoyance?”

            “My light in a dark world?”

            “My perpetual pain in the backside?”

            They are both having a hard time containing their giggles now, and Eliza sighs, extracting herself from him with one last chaste kiss on the lips. She grabs her hat, slips it onto her head, reaches for her bag. “I just don’t really care for pet names,” she insists. “It’s nothing personal. I find them dreadfully trite.” She remembers how Ben Jonson once used “my fine flitter-mouse” as an endearing nickname and resists the urge to gag. Why any woman would want to be compared to any animal—especially one as unappealing as bat—confuses Eliza to no end.

            They start the walk home, but William won’t let the subject drop. “I’m sure there’s something I could call you that would please you.”

            Eliza pauses and pretends to contemplate. “Perhaps ‘my genius’? ‘She who knows everything’? ‘The most intelligent detective in all of London’? Those would be pleasing to me.”

            “Be serious.”

            “I am. You do know how I love to have my ego stroked.”

            William takes her arm as they stroll down the pavement, matching each other’s strides. “I think you’ll come to like it,” he says. “I bet you’ll have a term of endearment for me before long.”

            “If you say so, my dearest pest.”

            William shakes his head at her, then lets it go. He changes the subject, asking her about a case she’s been working on, and Eliza answers him with the confidence of someone who believes she is firmly in the right. She is never going to be a “sweetheart” and “my beloved” sort of person. William should accept that right now.

            Over the next few weeks, they proceed normally, William occasionally interjecting some sort of endearing nickname into the conversation. He asks her “Ready to go, beautiful?” when she is dressing for dinner, and he calls her “dear” when he’s helping her find the case file she’s misplaced.  Once, when she is cross, he calls her “sunshine” in a teasing way, and Eliza does not dignify his joke with a response.

            “My love” is his continual favorite though. It is spoken when she comes to see him at his office, when he walks her home from work, when he is biding her goodnight at the end of the evening. But Eliza stands firm. She always says “Hello, William,” or “Yes, William,” or “Goodnight, William,” having never been the type to forfeit her point easily.

            He might as well give up, she thinks. He’s never going to change her mind on this.

            They have been engaged for six weeks when Eliza first calls William “my love.”

            It is a total accident.

            It is a day much like it was when he first called her that: a Tuesday, cloudy, warm but not hot. May is transforming into June. The streets smell like the flower seller’s carts, overflowing with azaleas and rhododendrons, and the roses will join them soon, the last fragrant flush of spring. William has come to her office again, but Eliza needs a few more minutes before she can leave, so he sits down at her desk to wait, kicking his feet up onto it. Eliza is too distracted to chastise him for it.

            “What about September?” he asks.

            They have been planning their wedding, debating about what date would be best. Eliza does not want to rush it, but she also doesn’t want to take too long and drag her feet. She pauses from flicking through her file drawer to contemplate the attractions of an autumnal day. “September.” The weather should be fairly fine—perhaps cold enough to need a coat, but warm enough that it’s pleasant. It will rain a bit, but not every day, and a light sprinkling never hurt anyone. Indeed, Eliza thinks London can sometimes look quite lovely when it’s raining. “Yes, September sounds nice.”  

            William continues to talk, but she is effectively distracted when she realizes her files are out of order. Why is ‘N’ before ‘M’? That’s not right. And how is she supposed to find what she’s looking for when the file on the Ebenezer Lithgow case is filed under ‘E’ instead of ‘L’? She corrects her mistake with an audible sigh.

            She needs the notes she took during her interview today, but she left them on her desk. In her mind, she can visualize them, right next to the forgotten cup of tea she made three hours ago. God, she is all over the place today. “My love,” she says to William, “can you get me the—?”

            Eliza stops herself before she can finish the request. Realizing what she’s said, her eyes go wide, and she turns towards William, hoping he hasn’t heard it.

            Oh, he’s heard it.

            He stands up from her desk with a wicked sort of look in his eye, and a little smile on his face that makes her groan in irritation. “What did you just say to me?”

            Eliza deflects. “I said, can you get me the notes from my interview—?”

            “No, that’s not it.”

            He picks up the interview notes and walks over to her, still smiling, while Eliza looks anywhere but his face, desperate to get out of this conversation—and to prevent him from seeing the embarrassed flush that’s overtaken her cheeks. “You,” he says slowly and clearly, “just called me ‘my love.’”

            “I did not—”

            “Yes, you did. I heard you loud and clear.”

            Eliza lifts her head and meets his eyes, trying her best not to look sheepish. William looks altogether too pleased with himself for her liking. It’s radiating across his face like he’s just won a prize. “Don’t be insufferable,” she says.

            “I won’t be, my love.”

            Eliza scoffs in an intentionally loud manner as she snatches the interview notes from him, files them away into the proper spot. She tries to step around him, but when she does, William takes her lightly by both arms, his hands on her elbows. “Come on,” he says. “Is it really so awful?”

            “That you were right and I was wrong? Excruciating.”

            “No, I meant to express your affection to someone.”

            Eliza looks up at him, presses her lips together. Is she afraid to express her affection? She supposes part of it is just her nature—she doesn’t like to hug or kiss in front of prying eyes, would rather be admired for her professional achievements than a spectacle for her personal ones. But then again, she thinks back and wonders who there was in her life to express their affection to her. Her father loved her. Eliza doesn’t doubt that he did. But he wasn’t very touchy-feely, never called her “baby girl” or “sweetheart,” never begged her for a goodbye kiss, preferred to give her a pat on the back rather than a kiss on the head.

            Her mother was the more emotional one: the one who called Eliza “darling,” who cuddled her at night, who would say “Where’s my kiss?” if Eliza tried to leave the house without giving her one. She was the member of the family who was never afraid to show affection, who wore her heart on her sleeve. It was not the same when she was gone.

            “It was not an entirely unpleasant experience,” she says to William. “But don’t get used to it.”

            She brushes past him, beginning to gather up her things so she can go home for the evening. William approaches her from behind and quickly kisses her atop her head. “So,” he says, “where do you wish to go for dinner this evening, my genius?”

            A smile rises to her face instinctively. “Wherever you desire is fine by me, my ridiculous one.”

            Eliza supposes she will never be the biggest hopeless romantic out of all of womankind, but over the next weeks, she does find herself addressing William more affectionately now and again. When she visits him at his office, she greets him with a peck and a “Good morning, my love,” and when he pours a drink after a long day, she responds with a “Thank you, my love.” It is only every once in a while, when she is feeling particularly agreeable, and luckily, William accepts the endearment with nothing more than a knowing smile.

            She must admit that the term of endearment does not feel entirely out of place on her tongue. But she’s not going to tell William that. She’d rather be called “my fine flitter-mouse” every day than listen to him gloat.

Chapter Text

         William married Eliza knowing damn well that she was not much of a homemaker.

         All right, so she doesn’t dust the furniture or remember what to buy at the market. That’s fine. They have Ivy to do those things. And yes, the food Eliza cooks could be described as “a valiant attempt” or “somewhat edible” depending on how generous he is feeling that day. But William did put food on his table for many years of bachelorhood, even if he is not the most sophisticated of cooks himself, so they don’t starve while Ivy is away. They aren’t rich, but they can afford to go out, and he thinks he’s almost taught Eliza how to boil an egg and cook a chicken all the way through.

         (‘Almost’ being the key word. And she can toast bread without burning it. He supposes that’s a start.)

       All this to say, he married Eliza not for her homemaking skills, but because he loves her, inability to cook or clean be damned. He would rather be married to her and have to fend for himself from time to time than spend his life with even the most skilled of domestic goddesses. Anybody can dust a table or fold a shirt. Nobody else can be Eliza.

       Still, her utter lack of household management abilities manages to take him by surprise sometimes.

       It is a Monday, three months into their marriage, and they are home alone. Ivy has gone out of town for a few days to visit relatives and will be back on Friday. William and Eliza are together on the drawing room sofa, enjoying the companionable quiet, her feet in his lap. She is writing down some notes for one of her cases, and he is flicking through the newspaper he didn’t have time to finish that morning, when he casually mentions that they should probably do their laundry.

       Suddenly, Eliza goes still, and he looks up to find her paused while mid-page flip. “What?” William asks. Was it something he said?

       Eliza recovers herself and caps her pen, but she’s not meeting his eyes, and her face looks vaguely white. “What?” he repeats.

       Has he offended her somehow? He doesn’t understand how he could’ve. It was just a suggestion, not a demand.

       Eliza doesn’t say anything for several moments, calmly removing her feet from his lap so she might sit up straight, and she places her notebook down on the table. “Ivy isn’t here,” she says at last.

         William looks at her, not understanding how that has anything to do with what he just said. “And?”

         His wife still isn’t looking at him, pretending to tuck a nonexistent stray hair behind her ear, and that’s when William realizes what’s really going on here.

         “You don’t know how to do the laundry,” he asks, “do you?”

         Eliza hesitates, then shakes her head ‘no.’

         “Ivy does it for you?”

         A nod.

         “And what do you do when Ivy is out of town?”

         “…Wait for her to get back.”

         William sighs and runs a hand down his face, taking a moment before responding. “You,” he says slowly, “have never done your own laundry?”

         His wife frowns, giving him a sideways glare. “Don’t look at me like that!”

         He thinks about retorting that she’s almost thirty years old and should know how to do this simple household chore but then restrains himself. He can tell from Eliza’s expression that such a comment would not go over well.

         William softens a bit. Well, he knows her childhood was very different from his, and there are plenty of things that she learned but he didn’t. While she was reading Shakespeare and avoiding her embroidery lessons, he was taking care of himself, being an adult long before his time.

         Okay. Fine. He knows what he has to do.

         He stands and extends a hand towards Eliza, and she gives him a confused look. “What are you doing?” she asks.

         “I’m going to teach you how to do laundry.” When Eliza doesn’t move, he silently beckons her, and she sighs, accepting his outstretched hand.

         So, that’s how they end up in the kitchen, their sleeves rolled up in preparation for their task, and William surveys the room to confirm they have everything. There’s the pile of week-old clothes, the box of soap powder, the washboard…They look good to proceed.

         “Now,” he says, “the water is boiled. You can pour it into the tub. Don’t burn yourself.”

         Eliza rolls her eyes at him but does as she is told. “I know not to burn myself, William. I am not a child.” She dumps the hot water into the wooden tub—currently sitting in the center of their kitchen floor—and William kisses the top of her head, a silent peace offering.

         “Now, we’ll dump the clothes in, then add the soap.” He does exactly that, tossing in trousers, shirts, and waistcoats, pointing out to Eliza that anything particularly delicate ought to be washed by hand, and he adds a sprinkle of soap, then a little more.

         “How do you know how much to add?” Eliza asks.

         He shrugs. “You can eyeball it.” This answer doesn’t seem to please Eliza, who looks uncertain about the vagueness of the direction. “Just a shake of the box or two. If you have anything that’s stained, you can add extra soap to those spots, but I don’t think we need to worry about that tonight.”

         He stirs the clothes around in the soapy water, which Eliza seems to find mildly amusing. “Why do you have to stir it? I thought we were cleaning clothes, not making laundry soup.”

         “Don’t act like you know how to make soup,” he teases, and she gives him a playful glare, but when he chuckles, she does, too. “You just want to make sure everything is wet and you don’t miss a spot. Once they’re evenly coated, you can bunch them up and ring them over the washboard to ensure all the dirt is off. Then, we’ll hang everything up on the clothesline outside.”

         Eliza looks surprised. “That’s all there is to it?” He nods, and her shoulders relax. “Oh. Well, it doesn’t sound that difficult.”

         “It’s not. Any idiot can do it, so you definitely can. Many people stupider than us, Eliza, manage to keep themselves clothed.” The words get a slight smile out of her, and he reciprocates the gesture. “Come. Give it a try.”

         After a while, they develop a certain rhythm, he running over the clothes over the washboard and then handing them off to Eliza, who folds the damp clothes into the basket, which they’ll then carry out to the clothesline. As he passes her a pair of trousers, he shoots her a cheeky grin. “See? There still might be a housewife in you yet.”

         Eliza scoffs and gives him an exaggerated eye roll, which makes him chuckle. “Don’t start with me.”

         They work in companionable silence for several moments until Eliza breaks it, staring thoughtfully down at a tie, but in a way that indicates it’s not the garment she’s pondering, but an abstract idea. “You don’t think too badly of me,” she says, “do you?”

         The question surprises William. “Why would you say that?”

         “Because I’m a grown woman who has never done her own washing.”

         “Not at all.” William pauses with his hands half-submerged in the basin and looks at Eliza, his eyes searching her face. “After all, you are gifted in other aspects.”

         She stares at him and gives a breathless chuckle. “Like what?”

         He pauses for several moments, wiping his wet hands off on a towel, and then he fixes a slight, mischievous smile upon her. “Like…taking down crime syndicates. Diffusing bombs. Bossing around men.”

         Eliza shakes her head. “Be serious.”

         “I am.” He grabs her by the wrist, gently pulling her closer. “I believe half my men are scared of you, and the other half want to bed you.”

         Though Eliza doesn’t look at him at first, his hand trailing up her arm catches her attention, and she turns towards him, her face a breath away from his. “Is that so?” she says. “I hadn’t noticed.”

         “Mmhm. You’re extremely skilled at giving commands”—he takes her lightly by the chin and presses his lips against hers—“and thinking of sneaky ways to steal case files”—another kiss—“and somehow managing to occupy a man’s brain for every waking moment.”

         Eliza drops the tie haphazardly in the basket, not caring about where it will land, and she kisses him back, her body melting against his, her hands reaching up to grab him by his collar. “Mm. And is there anything else I’m good at it?”

         “Thinking of a hundred different ways to ruin a potato?” She laughs against him, the force of it vibrating his chest.

         But then William detaches their lips and looks into her eyes, no longer joking. “I did not marry you for your homemaking abilities, Mrs. Wellington. I married you because I am madly in love with you.”

         She stares at him with sparkling eyes, and he can feel her breath on his face. “Well,” she says, her voice soft and husky, “good thing I married you for the exact same reason.”

         They hold each other’s gazes. For a moment, he entirely forgets about the laundry, only thinking about how she’s looking at him like that, and how tempted he is to press her body against the kitchen table and kiss her, long and hard.

         But Eliza looks away first, letting out a slight sigh, releasing his shirt from her grip. “I suppose,” she says, placing the discarded tie into its proper place in the laundry basket, “we’re about done here.”

         A smile rises to William’s face, and he nods, takes the basket. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll hang this up.”

         “You will?” Eliza raises an eyebrow at him, like she’s waiting for the catch. “You’re not going to ensure I know how to open a clothespin properly?”

         “No.” He kisses her on the temple, then brushes past her. “You can handle the rest of it.”

         Though he can’t see the look on Eliza’s face in that instant, he can imagine it, and he’s halfway to the door when she calls out: “What do you mean the rest of it?”

         “This was only my laundry. Yours is still upstairs. Best get to it.” Stifling a laugh, he slips out of the room, and several moments pass in stunned silence before Eliza yells his name at his retreating back, along with a creative insult or two. 

         (He does end up helping her with the rest of the laundry. After he’s had his fun first.)

Chapter Text

         Eliza never gave pregnancy much thought before she herself was expecting.

         Growing up, she was rarely around babies, being the only child in her family. There were women in the neighborhood who had children, of course, who would parade themselves around with their glowing faces and rounded bellies, but the details of being “in the family way” weren’t discussed. It is rather funny how even though society expects children to be the natural consequence of any successful marriage, the actual logistics of how those children come to be has always been kept hush-hush.

         Perhaps the reason why no one talks about pregnancy is because it is absolutely terrible.

         She is eleven weeks, and though Eliza’s midwife has assured her that her sickness should abide soon, those words are of little comfort to her right now. She is queasy every morning, her head aches, and the slightest whiff of an offending food or smell can sicken her. It’s no wonder that no one told her about pregnancy while she was growing up. If young women knew that this was what it was like, they would probably think twice about reproducing.

         This is not to say she doesn’t want the baby, or isn’t grateful. She and William waited three years of marriage to conceive, and she knows he’s excited. She’s excited, too. She’s just also excited for the day when she’ll be able to keep breakfast down. Go more than an hour without having to use the water closet. Walk through the market without gagging. You know, those nice, normal things you take for granted when you don’t have a two-inch being in your womb, wreaking havoc on your body.

         This particular morning, Eliza wakes to the scent of Ivy cooking eggs, and what would normally be a welcome smell instead has her stomach churning. She starts another morning retching, and Eliza adds eggs to the ever-growing list of things she used to enjoy, but now can’t stand. She has her forehead pressed against the cold porcelain of the toilet when William comes to join her, quietly sitting beside her on the washroom floor. “Are you all right?” he asks, his hand rubbing circles on her lower back.

         “If by ‘all right’ you mean ‘possibly dying,’ then yes.”

         She hears him at the washbasin, and when Eliza lifts her head, William passes her a damp cloth. She accepts it with a weary smile and wipes her mouth. “I’d kiss you,” she says, “but I fear I probably taste like my own stomach acid.”

         Her husband smiles back and kisses her anyway—albeit, quickly, and with a closed mouth. “Shall I tell Ivy there are to be no more eggs in this house?”

         “Please. I do not even want to hear that word.”

         While he goes to ask their housekeeper to dispose of breakfast and find something less abhorrent, Eliza leans back against the toilet, taking a moment to catch her breath. God, she hates this. She really, really hates this. She never knows what is going to set her off these days, and it feels like constantly walking on eggshells.

         Ooh, bad choice of words. Her stomach roils again at the mere thought.

         By the time she is dressed and ready to come downstairs, the offending breakfast items are gone, and William gives her a reassuring look as she joins him at the table. Ivy slides a plate in front of Eliza, containing two slices of toast and a generous helping of fruit. “Eat,” Ivy commands her. “I’m not letting you leave for work until every bite is gone.”

         Eliza frowns at her tone. She is thirty-one, for Christ’s sake, not five. “I’m not hungry.” These days, she is either absolutely ravenous or has no appetite at all and currently, it’s the latter.

         But Ivy’s hands find her hips, and she gives Eliza a stern look. “How is that baby in your belly ever supposed to grow if you won’t eat anything?” Eliza starts to object, but Ivy cuts her off. “Anything besides biscuits, chocolate cake, and occasionally potatoes.”

         Eliza shuts her mouth. Well, it’s not her fault the baby likes certain things, and surely eating something is better than nothing? She glances at William, hoping for support, but he shrugs. “It might make you feel better. Can you manage just a little bit?”

         Eliza pouts and makes herself eat an inoffensive-looking piece of apple. It’s not so bad, she supposes. And she doesn’t want to throw it up after she’s eaten it. That’s a small victory.

         After she’s eaten the apple and one piece of toast, Ivy seems sufficiently appeased, and it’s time to go. “You can stay home today if you want,” William suggests gently, and though Eliza knows he is only trying to be helpful, she ignores him. No, she has to go to work. She needs to get out of here and do something normal. Something that will make her feel like herself, and not like a broodmare with a particularly demanding inhabitant.

         When she gets to the office, there is a case waiting for her, and the news makes Eliza feel cheerful for the first time all morning. Thank God for murders! She knows someone’s death is nothing to be grinning over, but well, she can’t help herself. She makes her way over to Victoria Street feeling like her luck is finally changing.

          It’s not.

         The crime is an interesting one, the deceased having been found at his dressing table, his throat slit, and a bloody razor in his hand. Scotland Yard immediately investigated the death as a suicide, but Eliza’s client—the dead man’s daughter—is adamant that her father would never have killed himself. Besides, the razor was found in her father’s right hand, and he was left-handed. It seems very promising.

         Except the moment Eliza walks into the dead man’s bedroom, a foul, metallic smell assaults her nostrils. The police haven’t bothered to clean the blood out of the washbasin, and it’s now brown and congealed, stinking up the place. She has to quickly throw open the nearest window to prevent herself from emptying the contents of her stomach onto the very expensive-looking Persian carpet.

         Time to add blood to the list of smells that make her want to hurl. Extremely inconvenient given her line of work. After she has finished being sick for the time being, she presses her face against the window pane. This child better be the most adorable child in the history of mankind after what it’s already put her through.

         When William gets home that day, she has fallen asleep on the washroom floor, curled up in a fetal position, and her forehead is slick with sweat. Eliza stirs at the feeling of his arms under her, and William scoops her up, as easily as if she were a doll. She is too weak to argue or fight him.

         “What was it this time?” he asks.

         “Blood. Our child clearly takes after you. They are already trying to keep me away from crime scenes.”

         Her husband manages a slight laugh at her deadpan joke—well, it’s really only half a joke—and kisses her on the brow. “I think you need to lay down somewhere other than the floor,” he says, before carrying her into their bedroom. Eliza doesn’t protest. In fact, a bed sounds lovely right about now. That’s another thing about pregnancy—it makes you very, very tired.

         She is half asleep by the time he has placed her down on the bed, and once William has ensured she is comfortable, he disappears back into the washroom. A few minutes later, Eliza feels the bed shift with his weight, and when she opens her eyes, he is sitting at the edge of the bed, dabbing at her forehead with a cold cloth.

         “There,” he says. “Any better?”

         Better, perhaps, but not good. She doesn’t know if she’s ever felt as poorly as she does right now. Eliza buries her face into the pillow and groans. “I hate this,” she mumbles. “I don’t even feel like myself anymore.”

         “I know. I’m sorry. I wish that I could make it better for you.”

         He sits there with her for a while longer, but Eliza keeps her eyes closed, doesn’t feel like talking. By the time he finally gets up and goes downstairs, she is already asleep.

         Two days later, she wakes up to golden early morning light and the taste of metal in her mouth. Great. Eliza lays there with her eyes screwed shut for a moment longer, dreading what she knows is coming, until she feels a familiar pair of hands brushing her hair back from her face.

         “Good morning.”

         She rolls over and sees William first, his face peering down at her with tender concern. He is already fully dressed for the day like the healthy, civilized, not pregnant member of society he is. His normalcy makes her feel a petty sense of hatred for him.

         “Don’t get up just yet,” he says. “I have some things for you.”

         Then, she sees what he’s left for her on the bedside table.

         William explains each one by one. “I’ve asked some of the men at the Yard who have children. Phelps says his wife drank peppermint tea every morning when she was pregnant, so you have that here. There’s water, because Jones says he brings his wife a glass every day before he leaves for work, and with a bit of lemon in it, because Peters’s wife swears by it. These? Hall’s wife could only eat plain, unsweetened biscuits every morning when she was expecting, but he says it helped her get out of bed without feeling sick, so I had Ivy bake some. What do you think?”

         Eliza doesn’t say anything for a moment. She glances at the spread—peppermint tea and lemon water and beautifully, wonderfully bland biscuits—then at William.

         Then, she bursts into tears.

         “Eliza”—he moves closer to her, rubbing up and down her arms as she sobs—“I’m sorry, I…I know we wanted to wait another week or two before telling anyone else, but they all promised they wouldn’t say anything, and I just wanted to—“

         Eliza cuts him off, wiping her eyes as she regains control of her emotions. “No, William. You don’t understand. I’m not”—a sniff—“I’m not crying because you said anything. I’m crying because I love you.”

         Has he really done all this, for her, so that she can feel well? It is simply the kindest, most thoughtful thing anyone has done for her in a long time, and her heart fills with love for him all over again. She grabs his face so she can thank him with a kiss on the mouth, and when she pulls back, William is smiling at her.

         He helps her sit up slowly, and she nibbles the end of a biscuit, takes small sips of the water and tea. It’s so simple, yet feels so heavenly. Eliza has almost forgotten how wonderful it is to not have a constant sick taste in your mouth. William rubs her knee, and by the time she has finished her second biscuit, the awful taste is gone from her mouth, and her nausea has settled down.

         “Did that help?” he asks.

         Eliza nods, runs her tongue over her teeth. “Yes.” For once, she doesn’t feel like rushing to the toilet. She doesn’t even like peppermint tea, and those biscuits might have been the worst she’s ever tasted, but by God, did they get the job done.

         She leans over and wraps her arms around William’s neck so she can kiss him again. “I,” she says, “want these awful, disgusting, flavorless biscuits every day for the rest of this trimester, do you understand? Every day.”

         William smiles, chuckles. “That can be arranged.”

         Eliza pauses, silently debating. You know, now that she doesn’t feel like she’s going to throw up, she is rather hungry, and there is one thing in particular that sounds good to her. “William? Do we…do we still have any of that chocolate cake?”

         She expects him to lecture her about how chocolate cake is not a healthy breakfast choice—not for anyone, and certainly not for a pregnant woman—but instead he shakes his head and kisses her on the temple. “I think there’s a few pieces left. I’ll do my best to sneak by Ivy while she is hanging the laundry out to dry. I won’t tell her if you won’t.”

         Eliza’s lower lip wobbles. “Really?” she asks, touched.

         “Of course.” He touches her cheek, looks her in the eye. “You’re carrying our child. The least I can do is bring you a piece of cake.”

         Something about the way William says the words—like she has hung the moon in the sky—makes her feel like she might cry again. He stands and starts for the door, but she sits up straighter in bed, calls his name, needing to share one last thought: “William.”

         He pauses in the doorway and turns back around, a teasing smile on his face. “Something else, my darling wife? I’m afraid I can’t whip up a five-course meal.”

         “No, it’s just”—she sucks her breath in, shakes her head, hoping it doesn’t sound silly—“you’re going to be a wonderful father.”

         Though he doesn’t say anything, she can see how his expression transforms, the sudden softness in his eyes. She knows how much those words mean to William, and she doesn’t say them lightly. He nods, a slight smile on his face, then leaves to fetch her cake.

         When he’s gone, Eliza sinks back against the headboard with a soft sigh. All the sickness, and pain—it will be worth it in the end. She knows it will.

         When William returns, he brings her an extra large slice of cake. Eliza beams and thanks him with an extra-long kiss.

Chapter Text

       The train pulls into St. Pancras Station, and William gently nudges Eliza, leaning over to whisper: “Home again.” 

       His wife—it is still wonderfully strange to think of her as such—lifts her head off his shoulder and smiles at him. “I enjoyed the seaside, but I am glad to be back in London. Our normal lives.” Her smile takes on a new element of mischief. “Hopefully, after living with me for a while, you won’t feel as if you’ve made a mistake.” 

       He doesn’t hesitate. “Never.” he has waited so many years for Eliza, through thick and thin, and nothing could change his mind now. He’s stubborn that way. 

       Her earlier mention of living together takes his thoughts in a new direction. He’s spent so many years in his bachelor lodgings, and the idea of finally sharing a home with someone so dear to him sparks up a bit of excitement. The fact that they will be living in Eliza’s house makes it all the more perfect. The Scarlet townhouse is one associated with fond memories, and William hopes they will make many more within those four walls. 

       As husband and wife. 

       God, it still sounds so good when he thinks it. 

       They disembark, luggage in tow, their hands finding each other’s. “You know,” William says to Eliza, “the honeymoon doesn’t have to end yet.” 

       “Oh?” Her eyebrow ticks up. “And what were you thinking, husband?” 

       Why tell her when he can show her? 

       He is about to bring his face to hers, their lips mere inches apart, and he can feel her soft breath on his face when a familiar voice shouts: “There they are!” 

       William pulls back with a muffled curse, while Eliza visibly suppresses a giggle as Ivy and Mr. Potts rush across the platform towards them. Ivy is waving and beaming brightly. “Ah,” Mr. Potts says, “there is our newly married couple! Did you have a safe journey?” 

       “We did.” Ivy leans over to kiss Eliza’s cheek, and she smiles at her housekeeper, accepting the peck. “I told you that you didn’t have to come to greet us.” 

       “Of course I did!” Ivy insists. Her hands find her mistress’s shoulders. “Now, Lizzie, how was the sea? Was it beautiful? Did you have a grand time?” Eliza starts to speak, but Ivy holds up a single finger, stopping her. “Actually, do not tell me yet. I am sure everyone will want to hear about it at dinner.” 

       Now, both William and Eliza are looking at her with wide eyes. “Everyone?” they repeat in unintentional unison. 

       Mr. Potts chuckles. “I’m afraid she has invited half the city.” 

       Ivy waves her husband off good-naturedly. “Nonsense! It’s just a few people from the neighborhood who have asked about you. The Barneses, the Plums, the Davises—”

       Ivy continues to list the names of neighbors she’s invited to this dinner, taking Eliza by the arm as they start walking toward the carriage. Mr. Potts follows behind them. William is left with the bags. 

       He pauses, sighs. All right, he really wanted to have some time alone with Eliza tonight, but it is fine. Ivy is just excited for them, and yes, it is less than ideal that she’s invited all these people to dine, but he tells himself that he can bear it as long as he gets to go to bed with Eliza afterward.

       Besides, it’s not like their dinner guests can stay all night. Right? 

       The party doesn’t break up until after eleven.

       Ivy makes an astounding six courses—William fears for his waistline if she plans to cook like this for much longer—and breaks out an old bottle of wine from their collection. William has one glass, while some of their neighbors help themselves to two. Or three. Or five.

       The ladies keep Eliza occupied, eager for all the details about the hotel they stayed at, asking what the weather was like or if they might see her engagement and wedding rings one more time. Mrs. Plum—without being asked—recounts how she and Mr. Plum went to Margate for their honeymoon, and they stayed in such a nice hotel, and the weather was fine, but she understands that Mrs. Wellington’s work prevented them from going during a more seasonable time of year, and well, perhaps not all husbands enjoy spoiling their wives like Mr. Plum enjoys spoiling her. Throughout the entire story, Eliza holds her smile, but later—when no one is looking—she shoots William a pained look out of the corner of her eye. They both lift their wine glasses to their mouths and take a long drink. 

       By the time the last dinner guests head out the front door—with some of Ivy’s leftover cream puffs to take home—and Ivy and Mr. Potts have said goodnight, it’s midnight. When the door finally closes for the last time, William and Eliza can only look at each other, the exhaustion evident on both their faces. 

       Needless to say, they change for bed and fall asleep almost immediately, their planned activities for the evening no longer seeming important, as they are desperate for at least five or six hours of sleep. 

       In the morning, William wakes to light filtering in through the window, and he stretches, rolls over so he might kiss Eliza on the head. “Good morning.” 

       She stirs with a soft moan, turning her head towards him, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders as he greets her with a kiss on the mouth. “Good morning,” she says back, stifling a yawn. “God, I missed my own bed."

       A few tendrils of her hair are tousled about her face, and—now that he’s well-rested—William can properly appreciate her beauty. He kisses her for several moments longer until she pulls back with a soft laugh. “Don’t we have to go to work?” she asks. 

       He shrugs. “You work for yourself. You can show up anytime you like.” 

       He moves in for another kiss, but she places her fingers on his chest, lightly pushing him back. “But you don’t.” 

       “I’ll tell the superintendent the train was delayed. Trust me, he won’t check.” His brow raises. “Besides, I did not get to have a proper homecoming with my wife last night. And this bed…may need some breaking in.” 

       This time, when he leans in, Eliza does not object. Indeed, he thinks that she moves a little bit closer, and this time, she kisses him first. 

       They are tangled up in each other, a mess of limbs and bedsheets, and he brushes her hair away from her cheek. His body is on top of hers, and she grabs him by the nightshirt when—

       A knock at the door. “Sorry to bother you,” Ivy calls, “but Detective Fitzroy is downstairs!” 

       Eliza sighs audibly, and William rolls off her with a groan. Fitzroy? Here? Seriously? “Can you tell the detective,” he yells back, “that I’ll speak to him after seven a.m.?” 

       “My apologies, but he says it’s of the utmost importance.” 

       The two of them exchange a look. Well, it seems this bed is going to go unbroken for the time being. 

       When William and Eliza come downstairs ten minutes later—hastily dressed and rather annoyed—Fitzroy is reading their newspaper and drinking a cup of tea Ivy made for him. “Welcome home!” he says brightly, smiling at the Wellingtons as they come into the kitchen. “How was the seaside? Was it ever so lovely? You know, when I was a boy, I always wanted my mother and father to take me to the seaside, but my father hates sand. An aunt did bring me to Brighton once, though—” 

       “Oliver,” William interrupts, “why are you here?” 

       The detective’s expression falls, and he folds up the newspaper, places it to the side. “The Yard has been a mess while you were away. There’s been two stabbings, three shootings, one strangulation, a suspected arson fire in Whitehall…I’ve been dispatched to summon you right away.” 

       “And these two stabbings, three shootings, one strangulation, and one suspected arson fire couldn’t wait until my shift?” 

       “Phelps says no.” 

       “Tell Phelps it’s still my honeymoon for one more hour.” 

       “I did tell him that. He still said no.” 

       William sighs and glances at Eliza, who is suppressing a smile beside him. He looks to her for backup, but she simply shrugs, and William runs a hand over his face in defeat. 

       “Ivy,” he tells the housekeeper, “Detective Fitzroy and I will be skipping breakfast.”

       William is honestly surprised that Scotland Yard is still standing after everything that’s happened while he was gone. 

       In addition to the cases Fitzroy already mentioned, there have been two more shootings, three assaults, three burglaries, and one missing cat that the owner has shown up every day to inquire about. All of these files end up on William’s desk, and Phelps adds another to the pile. 

       “Charlie,” he says, “I cannot possibly handle another one of these—”

       “Not my problem.” Phelps quirks a brow and gives William a sarcastic half-smile. “Hope you had a nice honeymoon.” 

       William glowers at his back as he leaves. 

       So, he has a lot of work to do, and the superintendent wants to be briefed tomorrow. William asks one of the constables to put the kettle on and foists the burglaries and missing cat onto the sergeants. Still, he has multiple murders to deal with. He has Fitzroy go to the file room, and when the detective returns with everything they need, William’s office is effectively overflowing. 

       “Well,” Fitzroy says, ever the optimist, “if we try very hard, we might be done by Thursday.” 

       In response, William sighs and reaches for the whisky bottle. 

       Even with the constables, it takes them hours to go through all the cases, and William reviews the notes, delegates his junior officers to follow up on leads. By six, they still haven’t taken so much as a break, two of the constables have fallen asleep at their posts, and even Fitzroy’s head is starting to nod. 

       The door opens, and Phelps walks in, with a grumpy look on his face and a piece of paper in his hand. “What?” William asks, so annoyed he doesn’t bother to check his tone.

       “Letter from Miss Scarlet.” Phelps pauses, wrinkles his nose. “Err, Mrs. Wellington.” 

       William pauses, then snatches the note from Phelps. 

       The letter is brief, written in Eliza’s familiar hand, and informing him that something’s come up and she needs him at her office as soon as possible. William suppresses a groan. Another emergency is the last thing he needs. Has Eliza managed to get herself in hot water after only one day back in London? 

       “I need to go,” he tells Phelps. 

       Phelps starts to form a protest. “What do you mean, go? You’re not done here yet!” 

       “Yes, I am.” William grabs his hat, nudges Fitzroy on the shoulder to wake him up, and puts on his coat. As he does so, he glances back at Phelps. “I’ll deal with this tomorrow. Right now, I need to help my wife out of another mess.” 

       Then, he dons his hat and slips out the door before anyone can object. 

       When he gets to Eliza’s office, her light is still on, and he opens the door to find her sitting on the edge of her desk, flipping through the newspaper and looking remarkably calm. William halts in the open doorway. “What is the emergency?” he asks, confused. 

       Eliza looks up, smiles, and discards her reading material. “Close the door, would you, William?” she asks. He is still not quite sure what is going on here, but he does as he is asked. 

       William shuts the door, and he is turning back around, about to ask her what she needs him for, when Eliza hurries towards him and attacks his lips. 

       She tosses her arms about his neck and pulls his face onto hers, so quickly that William can scarcely process what is happening. “That,” Eliza says, “was the emergency.” 

       William stares at her for a moment, and then—reluctantly—the corners of his mouth raise. “The emergency was that you wanted to give me a kiss?” 

       “Something like that. We have scarcely had a moment alone together since we arrived home, and I wanted you all to myself.” She smiles, running her fingers down his lapel. “Besides, I didn’t get to give you a proper homecoming gift.” 

       William quirks an eyebrow at Eliza. “What sort of gift?” 

       “Hmm, use your imagination.” Their eyes meet, hers alight with mischief. “I know,” Eliza says, “you shall probably be cross with me for the false pretenses, but I had to use some creative thinking to get you alone.” She glances at the desk over her shoulder. “And I can be very creative, William.” 

       God damn it. For once in his life, William is very glad that Eliza lied to him.

       He glances at the desk, having a sudden urge to shove all the papers off of it, except— “But what if someone walks in?” he asks. 

       It seems Eliza has truly thought of everything. “The door has a lock.” 

       She smiles at him, looking quite pleased with how her plan has turned out, and—no longer able to restrain himself—William breaks out into a full-on grin. He’s starting to think this is the best emergency he’s ever been a part of. 

       Keeping one arm around Eliza’s waist, he reaches behind him, and the latch on the door audibly locks into place. 

Chapter Text

         The room is loud with the sounds of a dozen conversations, men and women of various ages and accents speaking all at once, and Eliza sinks back against the booth with a sigh. They are in Henley-on-Thames, just under forty miles from London, in a pub called the Duke of Wellington—chosen by Eliza partially due to its charming exterior and riverfront view, but mostly because of the opportunities it gave her to tease William.

         He is sitting across from her now, one arm slung over the back of the booth, the other holding his whisky. Eliza has a sherry clasped tightly between her two hands, her lone comfort after a long day of investigating.

         “Well,” William sighs, “we still don’t have Creighton, but we’re close. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

         She nods, drains the last of the sherry just as he finishes the whisky. They’ve been on the trail of Duncan Creighton—London’s most wanted jewel thief—for days, William having been assigned to the case at the Yard, and Eliza privately hired by one of the store owners Creighton robbed. Together, they’d managed to discover the names of some of Creighton’s associates and determine his most likely path out of London, familiar places he might stop along the way. They lost the trail around Maidenhead, but a witness contacted the police station, having claimed to see a man matching Creighton’s description in Henley-on-Thames—hence, how Eliza and William found themselves in this pub.

         It is a picturesque town by daylight, with charming houses and quaint shops, and their interviews with the locals turned up a few leads. Multiple people claim to have seen a man resembling Creighton, so he is likely in this town somewhere, though they are not sure where.

         Eliza is distracted by another group of people entering the pub, their loud laughter standing out against the din. “Don’t you think,” she says to William, not tearing her eyes away, “that they’re awfully well-dressed for this sort of establishment?”

         “What do you mean?” he says sardonically. “The Duke of Wellington slept here in ‘15.”

         She looks away from the group long enough to make a face at him. Indeed, there is a sign outside claiming the military hero spent a night at this pub on his way home from Waterloo, but Henley-on-Thames would actually be out of the way for someone returning from Belgium. Eliza suspects the pub’s owners would be far from the first savvy businesspeople to invent a famous connection as a marketing ploy.

         No longer joking, William turns around in his seat to look at what she’s looking at. “I don’t see anything wrong with them.”

         “But look how they’re dressed.”

         The group consists of two men and two women, perhaps thirties or forties. One of the men is clutching a very fine-looking cane, dark wood with an expertly carved handle, while his friend has rings on every finger—a ruby, perhaps a sapphire, from what Eliza can see. As for the ladies, they have on very large feathered hats—how many birds gave their lives for them, Eliza scarcely knows—and their dresses are in the latest styles, with silk skirts and elaborate collars. They are rich, clearly. So why are they in an establishment like this? The Duke of Wellington pub is far from fine dining.

         The proprietress—a middle-aged lady with a thick East London accent—notices Eliza and William’s staring when she comes over to replenish their drinks and clear the empty plates. “Ah,” she says, following their gazes, “here for the regatta, I suspect.”

         They both look at her in the same moment, unintentionally in unison. “The regatta?” Eliza repeats.

         “Yes, my dear. Only the busiest time of year in Henley-on-Thames. Can I get you anything else?”

         They say no, and the proprietress leaves to tend to her other patrons. Yes, the regatta. It all makes sense now. Eliza has seen articles about it in the papers now and again. It’s an annual event every summer and a playground for some of England’s wealthiest individuals.

         William catches her eyes from across the table. “Are you thinking what I am?”

         “That if Creighton wished to sell his ill-gotten gains for a pretty penny, this would be the perfect place to do it?”

         They exchange a knowing look, and William places his glass down on the table. “I’ll ask the proprietress about rooms for the night. We’ll get up and head to the regatta first thing tomorrow. I hope you brought a dress that makes you look like a woman of means.”

         Eliza smiles, holds her head high. “A diamond or two would look nice on this throat, don’t you think?”

         He stands from the table, looks at her, chuckles. “No,” he says, in a low enough voice that she almost doesn’t hear. “You don’t need it.”

         The proprietress informs them that she does have room, and it is a lucky break for them, as all the hotels and pubs across the town have been booked up for the regatta. She leads Eliza and William up a winding staircase to the upper floor, the uneven planks creaking silently underneath their feet. “Each room has a small water closet,” she explains, “and if the tap isn’t hot, just pound on it a few times. Extra blankets are in the cupboard down the hall. Breakfast starts at six. Ah, here we are.”

         She pulls a key from her belt, unlocks the last door on the left. Eliza and William follow her inside, and Eliza narrowly avoids hitting her head on the beam across the ceiling. As for William, he can hardly stand upright. The room is a cozy one, almost like a loft, and the proprietress explains it is over the old stables, but her husband converted it several years back. She points out the water closet, the dressers, and the wash basin. There is only one problem.

         There is only one bed.

         Eliza is stunned into a rare bout of speechlessness, her face growing warm, and William shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Is this”—he says it coolly, but she can detect the undercurrent of unease in his voice—“the only room you have?”

         “Yes, sir. Only available room you’ll find in the county tonight, most like. Can I get you or your wife anything else?”

         Eliza looks at her shoes, her face surely red by now. She can feel the heat creeping up her neck and runs a hand over it, trying to disguise her discomfort. God. How is she supposed to tell this woman that they are not married? And goodness, they cannot share a bed—couldn’t possibly—

         “I think we shall be well. Eliza, do you need anything?”

         She looks up at William, her embarrassment transforming into surprise, and he raises an eyebrow at her, silently asking her to play along. Eliza gives him a look like one might give to a patient at an asylum.

         The proprietress smiles, drops off the bags, wishes them goodnight. As soon as she’s shut the door behind her, Eliza turns to look at William with wide eyes. “Are you insane?” she asks.

         “Eliza, it is either the street, or this. And as someone who actually has slept on the street, I’m telling you, this is the better option.”

         “What about my reputation?”

         “She thinks we’re married, and I’m not going to tell her that we’re not. Are you?”

         He raises his arms in a ‘what else am I supposed to do’ gesture, and Eliza stares at him. Well, she supposes he does have a point. She glances at the bed, contemplating its fluffy covers, clean white sheets, then turns back towards him, biting her lip. She is awfully tired…

         Eliza sighs. Fine. It’s just for one night, she tells herself.

         She crosses her arms over her chest. “I am not sharing the bed with you.”

         “That’s fine. I’ll take the sofa.”

         She’d expected him to put up more of a fight, and Eliza blinks, momentarily not comprehending what he’s said. He is not arguing with her? No, indeed he folds immediately, takes the throw off the bed, removes his jacket, starts to unbutton his shirt. When she still hasn’t moved, he nods towards the water closet. “You can change in there. I promise I won’t look.”

         She rolls her eyes at him. “And I certainly won’t look. I am not in the least bit interested.”

         “Really? Not even a little?” he says the words with a smirk, dropping his outer layers on the arm of the sofa. Now, he is just wearing his undershirt on top, just a thin piece of cotton covering his chest—

         She quickly snatches up her bag and slams the washroom door behind her.

         Eliza takes her time to change into her nightgown, brush out her hair, and pull it into a braid. This is fine, she tells herself, staring at her reflection in the mirror. They are just going to sleep—in separate areas, not touching. There’s nothing outrageous about that, is there? Besides, they are friends, and if he were a woman, or she were a man, it would not even be a question.

         Except she is a woman, and he is a man. And she is in her nightgown, and he is half-dressed, and they are going to be there, in the same room, listening to each other breathe. And there is only one bed.

         She stands straighter, composes herself, fixes her lips into a line. No, she is being absurd. If she can solve crimes, she can do this. Besides, it’s only for one night. Best get on with it. She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

         When she reenters the room, William is already lying on the sofa, facing away from the bed, towards the wall. She can’t tell exactly, because he’s covered himself with the throw, but she thinks he’s stripped down into his undergarments and socks, his shoes, trousers, and belt discarded on the floor. “Are you coming to bed?” he calls to her, and for a moment, Eliza startles, imagining that question being asked under a different set of circumstances.

         He turns his head, clearly recognizing the implication. “I just meant that I’m exhausted,” he clarifies, “so let’s extinguish the lights and go to sleep.”

         “Yes, in a minute.” Still, her feet don’t seem to move.

         They stare at each other for a moment, goose-pimples rising on her skin, her nightgown suddenly feeling dreadfully thin. She runs her hands up and down her arms. When did it get so cold?

         Then, William—as if just remembering he’s promised not to look—shakes his head, turns back around. “Goodnight,” he says tersely.

         “Goodnight.”

         She approaches the bed, peels back the blankets, climbs inside. It is a surprisingly soft bed—big, too. King size. She stretches her legs as far as they’ll go and finds they are still not close to touching the bottom. Yes, this will do. This will do nicely. She moves to extinguish the bedside lamp—

         Then stops.

         She glances over at William, thinking. God damn it, she is being emotional and silly, getting ideas in her head like this. She should roll back over, turn the lamp off, and go to sleep.

         But, well, it isn’t really fair to make him sleep on that sofa, is it? He can barely fit.

         This is a bad idea.

         She’s going to do it anyway.

         “William,” she calls softly, “do you want half the bed?”

         He raises his head, looks over at her, clearly surprised. She waits for several moments, wondering what he is going to say, and then a corner of his mouth lifts. “What,” he says slowly, “about your spotless reputation?”

         She half-laughs, half-snorts. “I can still rescind my offer, you know.” But then, she says, serious: “It’s a big bed. We won’t even have to be anywhere near each other. And I can make a pillow wall to protect my modesty.”

         Though he turns his head away, his chuckle is audible.

         Eliza smiles, shrugs. “So, do you…want to…?”

         William stares at her, no teasing on his face now. Wordlessly, he stands up and joins her.

         Five minutes later, they are on opposite sides of the bed, all the throw pillows forming a makeshift barricade between their bodies. “Remember,” Eliza says as they make themselves comfortable, “stay on your side.”

         He laughs, holds his hands up in surrender. “I promise I shall not lay a single finger out of place, Miss Scarlet. You’ll forget I’m here.”

         “Good.” After a long pause, both of them glancing at each other, she tosses her hair over the other shoulder, clears her throat. “We better go to sleep. I want to leave here early tomorrow morning.”

         “Whatever you say, Eliza,” William replies, his eyes already shutting.

         She turns off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The faint voices of pub patrons, drifting upward through the floorboards, are the only sounds in the room. The mattress shifts as she lays down, pulls her pillow close to her, and she can still feel his presence, sense him next to her. He is here, in bed beside her, the only thing separating them a few piled pillows—

         Perhaps this should unnerve her, but she is surprised to find that there is no discomfort in her stomach, no sweat on her palms, no racing of her heart. Indeed, she is rather…relaxed.

         She is about to close her eyes when he whispers to her in the darkness. “Eliza?” A long pause. “Goodnight.”

         She clutches her pillow tighter, burrows her face into it to disguise her little smile, even though there is no way he could see it anyway. “Goodnight, William,” she says, before shutting her eyes and drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

           The woman before him is elegantly attired—her dress is perhaps satin, the fabric a rich purple hue somewhere between plum and orchid. The delicate buttons and beading on her bodice are a dark brown color, similar to that of an expensive wooden table or a strong cup of tea. Her hat—which now rests on the hook by his door—is decorated with that same beading, designed to match her outfit perfectly.

            Clearly, she is a woman who puts much effort into her appearance. William could tell as much the first time he laid eyes on her. He pauses in the open doorway to his office, examining his guest carefully. Her hair is chocolate brown, the same color as her slightly slanted eyes, which almost resemble that of a cat due to their shape and spark of playfulness. Her skin is porcelain white, save for the bloom of her rosy cheeks—the color is pretty, but not natural looking, so he suspects she is wearing some type of makeup. Her petite, pink lips are pressed together, the lower lip slightly fuller than the top, and her hair is styled impeccably, not a single strand out of place.

            “Miss Hyde—” he starts to say, but she cuts him off, turning to look at him with a small smile and slow-blinking eyes.

            “Please,” she says, “call me Cecily.”

            He stares at her for a moment. “Cecily,” he repeats, the name sounding wrong on his tongue. “Of course.” Her smile widens at his assent, and she shows her teeth—they’re very nice teeth, bright white and perfectly straight, which is made an even more impressive accomplishment considering William has spent the past three days interviewing dozens of others for this case, and many of them did not have the same devotion to their dental health. “I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

            He expects her to demur, to bat her thick eyelashes and look away under the pretense of embarrassment or shyness. However, Cecily Hyde does not break eye contact with him. “It’s about Simon, isn’t it?” He opens his mouth, then closes it, but Miss Hyde is happy to keep talking. She nods to the door. “Do you mind, Inspector? I will tell you everything I know, but I should like to keep it between us, if possible.”

            He does as he is bid, shutting the office door behind him and walking over to take the seat behind his desk, directly across from her. He cannot object to the lady’s request, given the intimate nature of what they shall be discussing. He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk, and meets her eyes. “Miss Hyde—”

            “Cecily. How many times must I tell you, Inspector Wellington? My friends call me Cecily. Miss Hyde sounds so dreadfully formal.”

            He is far from this woman’s friend, but he voices no objection. He knows it is better to not argue with interviewees on such trivial matters, and if this will help her trust him, then it’s better this way. He clears his throat. “As you undoubtedly know, Cecily”—she smiles, pleased at his use of her Christian name—“Simon Bertram was murdered this past Tuesday. I’m trying to uncover who did it. It is my understanding that Mr. Bertram was your—”

            She doesn’t let him finish the sentence. “Lover?”

            In his career, he’s interviewed many women who have been conducting clandestine affairs or selling their bodies. Rarely do they treat the subject with such a blasé nature. Most at least pretend to act offended, batting their eyelashes and covering their hearts with their hand, asking him in a high-pitched voice what kind of woman he thinks she is. He suspects this woman is far from ordinary, however.  

            He’d heard of Cecily Hyde before he met her today—she is, after all, one of the most celebrated actresses on the London stage. Just last week, The Times published a review of her performance as Portia in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, currently running at Drury Lane. The glowing review described her as the most captivating woman in all of the West End, with “a voice made for reciting poetry” and “eyes that seemed capable of seeing into your soul.” But Cecily Hyde has earned an infamous reputation in London for more than her acting talent.

            Last year, the papers buzzed after a married baron stood outside Miss Hyde’s house in the middle of the night with a knife held to his throat, screaming that if she did not run away with him, he would kill himself. It took several Scotland Yard officers to talk the desperate nobleman out of his plan. There are rumors that even the young Prince Albert Victor has taken the enchanting actress as a mistress, though William will not inquire as to the veracity of that unsubstantiated claim.

            Miss Hyde sighs. “You are quite right, Inspector. Simon Bertram was my lover.”

            He nods. “Thank you for your transparency, Miss”—she gives him a pointed look—“Cecily. Would you tell me how long you were involved with the late Mr. Bertram?”

            She smiles a little, self-satisfied smile. “It is a long story, sir. I should need a drink if I am going to tell all of it.” She nods to the bottle of Scotch resting on the side table. He grabs one glass and pours her a drink, but when he makes no move to fetch one for himself, she raises an eyebrow at him. “Will you not have one too, Inspector? I hate drinking alone.”

            He shakes his head. “Not at present.” God knows he needs a drink after how long his day has been, but there’s something in this woman’s clever eyes he doesn’t like, and he will not give in to all of her demands. He must maintain control of the situation.  

            She takes a long sip of the whisky. “Mm,” she says, “that is good. But then again, you are a Scotsman, Inspector Wellington, so I suppose you should know your nation’s signature drink. You know, one of my first acting roles was at the Princess’s Theatre in Glasgow. Have you ever been? Charming place.”

            “Back to Mr. Bertram, if you please.”

            “Well, if you insist.” She drinks the whisky in silence for a few moments, appearing to think. “I met Mr. Bertram six months ago. I noticed him after he came to see the play I was in at the time five performances in a row—it’s not usual, you know? And every time I looked over at him, his eyes were already on me. One night, I was surprised to find him waiting outside the stage door with flowers for me. He was very kind, that Simon Bertram. That’s why I liked him so much. Us women, we desire a little tenderness, Inspector—though I’m sure you know that already.”

            He ignores her last comment. “Did you know that Simon Bertram was already married when you began seeing him?”

            “Yes, he told me.” She drains the rest of the whisky in one long gulp, before slamming the glass down on the desk. He is secretly impressed—she’s a lady who can handle her drink. “If you think Simon’s wife is the one who killed him—pardon my turn of phrase, Inspector—you’re dead wrong.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            “Because she knew Simon and I were sleeping together.”

            It’s not what he was expecting her to say, but it doesn’t shock him. After all these years as a detective, he’s heard about his fair share of unconventional marital arrangements. “And Mrs. Bertram was not upset?”

            “Not at all. She has lovers, too. Simon and his wife had an open marriage, Inspector. They were both allowed to sleep with as many people as they liked, as long as they told one another about it.” She glances up at him, dark eyes hooded by her lashes. “Tell me, Inspector, are you a one-woman kind of man?”

            He frowns, and though the words make him want to flinch, he keeps his expression hard, not expressing any emotion. “Miss Hyde,” he says sharply, “are you flirting with me?”

            She quirks an eyebrow. “Depends. Do you want me to be?”

            “No.”

            His firm refusal clearly throws her, as she recoils in her seat, her cheeks flushing—not from makeup this time, but from embarrassment. However, being the consummate actress she is, she recovers quickly, looking at him with a sly smile. “Now, Inspector,” she says, “if you try to tell me you are a virgin”—she laughs—“I’ll call you a liar.”

            “I’m nothing of the sort.” She seems pleased by this, but then he leans forward, looking her dead in the eye, and there’s no laughter on her face now. “Miss Hyde, my heart is elsewhere.”

            “Are you married?”

            “I’m not, but I am engaged.”

            “Your bride-to-be is not here now.”

            “No,” he agrees, “but I would not betray her.” He can’t imagine it, can’t even think it. “I love her.”

            Miss Hyde smiles at him, like a cat staring down a bird before it goes in for the kill. “You are a handsome man, Inspector, and—let’s be honest—I am a beautiful woman. I know it’s not proper for me to say it, but I’ve never given a fig about what’s proper. Can you really commit yourself to one woman for your entire life? That would be boring.” He opens his mouth to retort, but she continues quickly, not letting him get a word in edgewise. “I’m sure your bride is a lovely woman. I don’t mean this as an insult to her. I’m merely telling you that I’m attracted to you, Inspector Wellington, and it would be a tragedy for a man like yourself to keep to one bed. And I would be perfectly satisfied to have your body, even if I cannot have your heart.”

            For several moments, he doesn’t respond. Cecily Hyde is beautiful, and if she had said this to him two or three years ago, he probably would’ve fallen into bed with her. She’s the kind of woman it’s hard to say no to, what with her seductive manner and persistent nature. The thing is, his life looked very different two or three years ago.

            And, well, while Cecily Hyde may be beautiful, there’s one woman she’ll never be able to hold a candle to. At least, not in his eyes.

            “The answer is no, Miss Hyde. The answer will always be no. I am getting married to a woman that I love, and if I betrayed her in that way—with you or any other—I would never forgive myself for it. She doesn’t deserve that, and I’m a man of my word. When I give my loyalty to someone, I don’t take it back easily.” He pushes his chair out abruptly and rises to his feet. “You may go now, Miss Hyde. Someone will be in touch if we have any more questions for you.”

            She stares at him for a long moment, and her pretty mouth curls into a frown. William realizes very few men probably ever say no to her, but—to her credit—once she’s recovered from the momentary surprise of rejection, the actress nods brusquely, grabbing her handbag as she stands. She rubs her hands against the front of her dress, gives him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Very well, Inspector. I bid you a good day.”

            He doesn’t return her smile. “Good day, Miss Hyde.”

            He doesn’t watch her leave, waits until he hears the door open and shut before he grabs a clean glass and pours himself a drink. He drains it in a few gulps. He doesn’t know exactly why, but Miss Hyde’s proposal has shaken him. He doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore. The thought isn’t even pleasurable to him.

            The door opens, and there’s a light knocking. “May I come in?”

            He turns around abruptly and finds Eliza standing there in the doorway, her hand still on the knob. He glances at the clock and curses in his mind, not having realized how late it is. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Come in.”

            He forgot that he was supposed to take her out for dinner tonight—momentarily thrown by the actress’s failed seduction—and Eliza crosses the room without removing her hat, greeting him with a smile and a soft kiss on the lips. With her mouth on his, he finally exhales, kissing her back.

            “Mm,” she remarks, “you taste like whisky. Bad day?”

            He laughs quietly as she pulls back, looking up at him with gently inquiring eyes, her hand resting comfortably on his elbow. “You could say that.” But then he takes her hand in his, forcing himself to smile. “It’s better now that you’re here.”

            “Well, that’s good to hear.”

            He stares at her face for a moment, just drinking in her features, taking the time to observe all the little details about her that he loves.

            Many years ago, if you had asked William about his future, he would not have known what to tell you. Surely, there was no chance he would ever get to be with his beautiful, headstrong best friend, that she could ever love him back. So, he sought comfort in other arms, kissed other lips, trying—and failing—to forget her at every turn. He tried to imagine other lives, other futures, and every time, he never could. He’d started to suspect that he might end up a perennial bachelor with no wife, no children, no home. Not because he couldn’t have that with someone, but because he couldn’t have it with the one.

            But, if you were to ask him what he sees in his future now, he could give you an answer. His future is standing right in front of him.

            He doesn’t tell Eliza any of this, though. It would sound stupidly sentimental. He turns his head, clears his throat, attempts to act natural. “So,” he says, “where do you want to go for dinner?”

            She sighs. “Well, I think I’d like to avoid anything in the theatre district.”

            Immediately, his blood runs cold. When he turns back to her, she’s staring at him with a smile on her face.

            Christ. A million thoughts run through his mind. How long was she there? How much did she hear? He swallows, his throat feeling very dry all of a sudden. “Eliza, I –”

            “You don’t need to explain yourself. I heard everything.” Before he can respond, she stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You’re a good man.”

            He can feel his cheek tingle where her lips touched it, even after she pulls away. “I never would’ve slept with her, you know.”

            “I know.” She holds his gaze for a moment, and he thinks she is going to say something more about Miss Cecily Hyde, the talk of the West End, but she only squeezes his arm before releasing it, then turns to walk towards the door. “Come,” she says over her shoulder, “you ought to take me someplace nice.” He shakes his head, laughs, then follows her.

            Cecily Hyde was unquestionably wrong. 

            A life spent loving Eliza Scarlet could never, ever be boring.  

Chapter Text

            Eliza Wellington has never been above using her womanly wiles to achieve a goal.

            Even before she and William were a couple, she knew how to bat her lashes in a way that tested his resolve, how to twirl her hair around her finger without appearing rehearsed. And more than once, she asked Ivy to iron that red dress she knew William liked best, so she could “just happen to stop by” his office wearing it.

            And what Eliza wants now is the Scerri investigation.

            “Please, William,” she says for at least the fourth or fifth time this evening, her arms crossed over her chest as she follows him into the kitchen. They’d started having this argument in the entryway when he walked into the house, then the drawing room, and now, here. If William thinks he can go into another room just to get out of this conversation, he has another thing coming. Eliza will not be dissuaded by changing venues.

            “As I’ve already said,” her husband objects, “it’s too dangerous.” Eliza starts to form a protest, but he turns around before she can speak, approaching Ivy at the stove and asking: “Ivy, can I help with anything?”

            “Ivy doesn’t need help,” Eliza blurts out immediately. The housekeeper looks up from the stew she’s stirring to raise an eyebrow at Eliza, then answers William’s question.

            “I’m fine, almost done. If you want to make yourself useful, you can set the table.”

            William nods, clearly happy to have a task, and Eliza starts to follow him, but Ivy jabs the ladle in her direction. “And if you want to have this discussion,” she says, in a maternal voice, “you can have it while you’re polishing utensils.”

            So, that’s how Eliza and William continue their heated discussion over folding napkins and fetching spoons.

            “The Scerri brothers are dangerous criminals,” he says, to which Eliza stubbornly replies: “I’m not scared of them.”

            “You should be. You know they’re suspected of at least half a dozen shootings in Little Italy during the past year?”

            “Only half a dozen? They must be getting complacent.”

            Behind Eliza, Ivy audibly suppresses a chuckle.

            The Scerri crime family is one of London’s most infamous organized crime rings. The three Scerri brothers came to London from Malta about a decade ago and quickly set up shop, ruling their territory with iron fists. The police have often tried to take down the Scerris, but something has always gone wrong: missing evidence, hung juries, potentially a bribe or two. Years ago, one of the previous policemen investigating the brothers didn’t come home one day, and they’d found his carriage abandoned off Clerkenwell Road, with no sign of the policeman. They never found a body. It didn’t take a detective to guess what happened there.

            So, yes, the Scerri brothers are very dangerous, but Eliza doesn’t care. Scotland Yard is building an airtight case this time, and with William on the investigation, Eliza wants in. She’s heard many stories of poor families the Scerris have preyed on, wives left without husbands and children without fathers because of them. It would feel satisfying to play even a small part in taking them down.

            And the fact that the case will likely receive massive publicity doesn’t hurt either.

            William sighs as he lines up the forks and knives. “Eliza,” he says, “I don’t want you involved with this. You are my wife. You think I could in good conscience let you get anywhere near these people?”

            “You’re my husband,” she retorts, “and I’m letting you do it.”

            “I didn’t ask for your permission.”

            “Maybe you should have. Because, well, if you’re not going to let me in on the Scerri investigation, then I…forbid you from having any part in it!”

            William raises a brow, giving her an ‘oh please’ look.

            Ivy clears her throat. “Dinner’s ready.” Neither Eliza nor William acknowledges what she’s said, both currently engaged in a staring contest, waiting to see who will falter first.

            Ultimately, he’s the first to look away. “I’ll go wash up,” he says, excusing himself, but Eliza knows he’s already washed up, and it’s just a pretense to leave the room.

            Once he’s gone, Ivy puts the food down on the table, gives Eliza a thin-lipped smile. “Best to give it up,” she suggests gently. “You can’t win ‘em all, Lizzie. Let’s keep the peace.”

            Eliza’s resulting look tells Ivy that she has absolutely no intention of “giving it up.”

            Ivy starts to say something, but then stops. Nope, she’s been here long enough to know when she’s fighting a losing battle.

            “So,” she says instead, smiling, “these are beautiful carrots, don’t you think?”

            The next day, Eliza goes shopping.

            The saleswoman at the department store on Pall Mall shows Eliza all the new fabrics they’ve just gotten in: rose-colored silk, teal taffeta, emerald velvet. But Eliza’s eyes settle on one dress in particular. “That one,” she says, pointing. She can almost feel the wolfish grin spread across her face as the saleswoman pulls it off the rack.

            Later that day, William doesn’t look up from his desk as she pushes open the office door, steps inside. “Fitzroy,” he says, staring at his file, “if you’ve come to talk to me about Tolstoy again—”

            “Not Fitzroy,” Eliza says.

            William looks up.

            Immediately, his eyes widen, and though he tries to disguise it, Eliza sees him drink her in. She plays it coy, a hand on her hip. Her ensemble is in the latest style, expertly fitted to her corseted figure, the silk taffeta as dark as blood.

            He’s always liked her in red.

            William swallows. “New dress?”

            His voice is shaking. God, men are so easy.

            “Mmhm. Do you like it?”

            “It’s…nice.”

            Eliza suppresses her smirk as she approaches her husband’s desk. Before he can ask the reason for her visit, she takes him lightly by the chin and tilts his head back so she might press her lips against his. She starts slowly at first, then puts a little more force into the kiss, and she feels William sigh, hears him groan softly against her. He smells like morning, coffee and shaving cream.

            After several moments—once she’s confident that she has him in her trap—she pulls back with a devilish glint. He opens his eyes, disappointment slowly spreading across his face when he realizes that’s all he’s going to get.

            She smiles, runs her thumb along the edge of his jaw. “What time will you be home tonight? I have”—a bat of the lashes—“plans for you.”

            “Plans?” he hesitates, clearly aroused and suspicious at the same time, if the look in his eyes and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple are any indication. “What kind of plans?”

            “You’re a smart man, Inspector Wellington. I think you can figure it out.”

            He sits up straighter in his chair, a flicker of obvious lust on his face. She has him in the palm of her hand. Now is the moment. “So,” Eliza says casually, “how is the Scerri investigation coming along?”

            Immediately, all of her progress is gone.

            William’s face completely transforms in a matter of seconds, his brows drawing together and his lips falling into a frown. “I’m not letting you in on the investigation.”

            Eliza steps backward, a hand over heart in mock offense. “What? I was inquiring after your day at work, like any good wife would do.”

            “Nice try.”

            “But—”

            “I have work to do.”

            He turns back to his file with an audible huff, and Eliza resists the urge to sigh. She cannot let herself be so easily defeated. “Perhaps,” she says in her sweetest of voices, “if you just let me look at the file for a minute—”

            “No, Eliza.”

            He doesn’t look at her, his jaw clenched and voice firm, and she crosses her arms over her chest. Fine. So, this idea didn’t work, but she has others.

            “That reminds me,” she says. “I forgot that I had this very important interview today. It might take hours. I think I won’t be home until late after all. Oh well. Perhaps I’ll see you tonight—or maybe not. Don’t wait up.”

            The words are enough to make him finally look at her, and he opens his mouth, but she cuts him off with a kiss on the cheek. “Love you.” She then promptly saunters off, intentionally swinging her hips, and a slight smile rises on her face.

            Perhaps he’s won this round, but she will emerge victorious in the end. She is certain of that.

            Despite her instructions, William does wait up for her, and he sits in their bed, talking to her as she readies herself in the washroom.

            “So, how was that interview?”

            Eliza is examining herself in the looking glass, and she pauses in the middle of brushing her hair. In an instant, she recovers, resuming the usual hundred strokes. “Oh, it was quite illuminating.”

            “Was it?”

            “Indeed.”

            Of course, there was no important interview. Eliza knows that, and she suspects William knows it, too. She stayed at her office until six, then went out for two glasses of sherry and a meal at the pub.

            “Eliza,” William starts, “I know you want in on the Scerri—”

            He immediately stops speaking when she opens the washroom door.

            She’s left her hair loose, cascading like a blonde waterfall down her back, and her nightgown drips down her left shoulder, in a way that could be seen as natural, but is entirely intentional. This way, you can see her collarbone and the pale tops of her breasts. Really, this white nightgown is far too thin for this time of year, but warmth is not on Eliza’s mind. Winning is. And she knows this nightgown is well equipped to show off her…ahem, assets.

            “What,” she asks William, “were you saying?”

            He opens his mouth, but no words come out, the sight of her rendering him speechless.

         She walks over to the bed, but instead of climbing in her side, she heads over to his, lifting the covers so she might slip beside him. There is really not enough room, her bum half dangling off the edge, but that’s okay. She doesn’t intend to sit. She throws one leg over him, straddling his waist, and places her hands on his neck, smiling.

            “I’m not tired,” she says. “Are you?”

            William recovers his voice enough to say that he is wide awake.

            Their kissing is fast and feverish, her back arching, his hands exploring her curves. Her nightgown hitches up her thighs, and she can feel him leaning further and further into her, desperate for more. For a moment, she almost forgets her cunning design—the force of his lips and the strength of his hands being effective distractions—but Eliza recovers herself. She has a job to do.

            She pulls back, smiling coyly as she trails her fingers down William’s chest. “So, about the Scerri case…”

            The mention of that name has the same effect as before. His hands drop from her body and back to his sides, and his groan is of a different kind of frustration. “I know what you’re doing.”

            “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Eliza, don’t play this game with me.”

            The tone of his voice effectively cuts off her protests, and Eliza blinks, startled. Oh. So…he’s really upset.

            He maneuvers her off him, throws the blankets to the side as he climbs out of bed. “You,” he says, looking for where he’s left his socks, “are manipulating me, and I’m not going to fall for it.”

            “But—”

            “Eliza.” When William looks at her now, it’s not anger on his face, but hurt. All her powers of speech fail her, seeing that look. “I’m asking you to stay out of the Scerri business for your own safety. These men have killed before and they won’t hesitate to do so again. Don’t you understand that?”

            She tugs her nightgown up on her shoulder, sits on her haunches. She can’t look at him.

            William sighs. “I think I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight,” he says, before leaving the room.

            And her. 

            William is mad at her.

            Eliza does feel sort of bad.

            She wants to be on the Scerri case. Of course, she does. And she thought she could convince William to let her help, but well…she didn’t want to actually upset him. She thought he would fold and everything would work out all right. Perhaps that was her mistake. Her husband is as stubborn as she is, and even a bit of seduction isn’t enough to make him forfeit a point.

            The feeling gnaws at her: guilt. It’s an entirely unpleasant emotion.

            On Thursday, Eliza decides she will have to swallow her pride and…apologize. She doesn’t like doing it, and she practices what she’s going to say that afternoon in her office just to ensure she can get the word “sorry” out, but it’s necessary. As much as she wants the Scerri case, she wants William more.

            She is in the kitchen when she hears him at the door, Ivy having already left for the night, and Eliza steels herself. How hard can it be? I’m sorry. Just two little words.

            She turns around, and William is standing in the doorway, looking at her with a defeated expression.

            And there’s a file in his hand.

            He crosses the room, scarcely able to meet her eyes as he extends the file in her direction. Eliza accepts it with trepidation. “What is this?”

            “The…file on the Scerri case.”

            Eliza’s heart skips a beat. Now, that is an unexpected development.

            She toys with the edge of the file, and when she meets William’s eyes, he pauses, sighs. He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept well in days. “We have locations for two of the brothers,” he explains, “but we’ve been looking and looking all over for Roberto Scerri and we just…can’t find him. We have no idea where he is, and we can’t make the arrests unless we have all three. Because if we arrest the other two and one is still out there, he’ll get revenge. He’ll come after the police, he’ll come after our families, he’ll—” William cuts himself off, the implication clear.

            She hesitates, and the silence is deafening. “What,” she asks William, “do you want me to do?”

            “I want you to…look at the file. Tell me if there’s something I’m not seeing.” A long pause. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

            There’s no sound in the room save for the thumping of Eliza’s pulse. Though they’re not speaking, their eyes do all the talking. Two matching expressions, both of which convey the meaning their lips can’t speak.

            Eliza opens the file.

            William watches her as she reads it, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and Eliza reads closely, making sure she understands every detail. There’s everything they know about the Scerri brothers’ histories, their previous crimes, known associates…

            After several minutes without her saying anything, William asks, “Well?”, the nervousness audible in his tone.

            She nods her head, points to one part in particular. “Their father was a baker.”

            When she doesn’t elaborate, William blinks, clearly confused. “So?”

            She steps closer, leans over so he can read over her shoulder. “There is a Sicilian bakery, near St. Peter's. Seems like a respectable establishment, but recently, I read a Basil Sinclair piece—”

            William snorts. “Because he is so reliable.”

            “Well, he had valuable intel in this instance. Several witnesses came forth to report seeing strange men leaving the bakery at all hours of the night—some of them with bags that didn’t appear to contain baked goods, if you catch my meaning.” Eliza shrugs. “I’ve also heard that they make delicious cannoli.”

            When she looks back at William, he is nodding, clearly understanding her now. “So, you’re saying…?”

            “That Roberto Scerri may be using this bakery as a front for one of his money laundering schemes? That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

            They hold each other’s gazes, and, slowly, a smile crosses his face. “I knew you would figure it out,” he says, clearly impressed. This makes Eliza smile, too.

            “Well, I have my moments.”

            She places the file down on the counter, about to ask more about the investigation, when William takes her hand. “I’m sorry if you felt like I was patronizing you. I was only worried about you.”

            Eliza accepts his hand, squeezes it. It feels nice to hold it in hers again. “I know. And I’m sorry, too. For scheming.”

            “I can accept your apology if you can accept mine.”

            “Absolutely.”

            He turns to face her, taking both her hands. “I’ll tell my men to investigate that bakery tomorrow. I’m certain they’ll find Scerri there.” He tilts his head, smiles. “After all, my wife has good instincts about these things.”

            She feels herself grin. “Does she? I bet she’s a very intelligent woman.”

            “She is. Very determined, too.”

            He’s smirking now, and a slight laugh bursts from Eliza’s lips. She stands on her tiptoes and grabs William’s face so she might kiss him.

            He accepts her affection, the intimacy feeling even better after two days of tension, but when she tries to deepen the kiss, he pulls back, a question in his eyes. “This isn’t,” William asks, “another ploy, is it?”

            She giggles. “Perhaps.” But not to get on a case. To get him into bed, maybe.

            William seemingly doesn’t object to her machinations, for he closes the distance between their faces to kiss her some more.

            Eliza smiles, her hands in his hair. Yes, she thinks, this is one plan of hers that’s likely to succeed.

Chapter Text

        Only Eliza and her antics could bring William to this particular part of Spitalfields.

         It smells awful here, the air ripe with old trash and fresh death, but he makes no move to cover his nose with his shirt, as several of the constables are doing. William’s impoverished upbringing means he is all too familiar with the smell of rotten food scraps and excrement. Indeed, he barely registers the scent, being a man on a mission. The local division has blocked off the street, and he scans it with his eyes, in search of his wife.

         His day had started off well. He’d closed two cases, passed two more off to his colleagues, and the superintendent was seemingly humoring his request to hire more men. Indeed, William had been in a good mood when the constable came into his office with a telegraph.

         A telegraph telling him that Eliza had gone to Spitalfields chasing a lead and nearly gotten herself killed in a house fire.

         Needless to say, William is no longer in a good mood. 

         He tries to bypass the police barricade, but one of the H Division detectives approaches him, hands held out and a look of warning on his face. “Sir,” he says, “no one is allowed to—”

         William holds up his badge, and the lad immediately cuts himself off.

         “My apologies, Inspector Wellington. But…who called for you?”

         He doesn’t answer the question, tucks the badge back into his pocket. “What exactly happened here, Detective…?”

         “Palmer. Detective Palmer.” Palmer gestures for William to follow him, and he does so, the young detective explaining as they walk. “We’ve been looking for these blokes for the past three months. Blackwood and Fenn—at least, that’s what they call themselves. They’re connected with several trafficking rings throughout Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Well, today, little street urchin runs up to our office and tells us that we can find Blackwood and Fenn at this here address. Apparently, this lady detective—have you ever heard of such a ridiculous thing?—has been investigating a disappearance, and she happened to spot Blackwood and Fenn going by in a carriage, with the missing girl in the back.”

         “Esther Holliday,” William supplies, and Palmer looks at him with surprise.

         “Yes. By God, you’re well informed over there in Westminster.”

         William doesn’t answer him. Truthfully, he doesn’t know Esther Holliday’s name because of his job, but because Eliza has talked about her incessantly.

         The Hollidays are an upper-middle-class family from Holborn who hired Eliza to find their daughter. Young Esther—a beautiful and precocious girl of seventeen—had started stepping out with a fellow before her abrupt disappearance six weeks ago. Her family went to the police, but the inspector on the case had assumed that the teenager ran off to spite her disapproving parents. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Holliday had thought Esther’s fellow unsuitable—ill-dressed, ill-bred, and far too old for their daughter—but they suspected more was going on than mere disobedience. Especially since one of Esther’s acquaintances had spotted her being accosted by two men in the street, a mere day before she disappeared. Thus, they’d hired Eliza to figure out what danger Esther was in and what they could do to bring her home. If anything.

         “This lady detective,” Palmer continues, oblivious to this, “hired the kid to come fetch us, then followed Blackwood and Fenn to get the girl. Followed them into the house, can you believe it? What folly! This is why they don’t let ladies be detectives, Inspector. Far too emotional and impulsive.

         “Anyway, Miss Holliday was in the house, of course—drugged to keep her meek. Blackwood and Fenn wouldn’t go quietly, and they tried to set the house ablaze, hoping to escape in the chaos. Luckily, our men got there just in time. Blackwood and Fenn are in custody, and none of the poor ladies were hurt. Not seriously hurt, anyway. And, can you believe, there were five other missing girls in the basement! Quite a cathouse Blackwood and Fenn had going on, huh?”

         “Yes,” William says, under his breath, “one where the girls weren’t willing participants.” He looks at Palmer. “Where is this lady detective? I need to speak with her now.”

         “Right this way, sir.”

         Palmer leads William closer to the house, and this time, the smell—as ashy and burnt as the inside of a fireplace—does elicit a cough from him. More detectives are milling about in the street, some constables keeping the morbidly curious on-lookers at bay, and there are doctors to tend to the poor girls Blackwood and Fenn had trafficked. William scans the crowd for Eliza. Where is she? He doesn’t see her anywhere.

         His eyes land on one girl currently sitting on the curb, her knees to her chest and her eyes possessing a vacant stare. Lush brown hair, china doll eyes, mole under her right eye—Esther Holliday, matching her description perfectly. Except now her lip is busted and she has a violet bruise on her neck.

         The sight makes a lump rise in William’s throat. He does feel bad for the poor girl. Her mystery suitor—Blackwood or Fenn, whichever it was—manipulated her, took advantage of her teenage naïveté, and tried to coax her into prostitution. When that didn’t work, they clearly used force. She was but a child who believed herself in love.

         “William!”

         The sound of his name—shouted in that voice he knows so well—turns William’s attention away from poor Esther Holliday. Eliza is barreling towards him, her hair falling out of place and her shirtwaist stained with soot, but she is alive. William exhales and moves towards her, his arms reaching out just as she throws herself against his chest.

         Eliza grabs onto him for dear life, and he holds her close, pressing his lips to her head. Meanwhile, beside him, Detective Palmer looks with wide-eyed surprise, and he backs away quietly, mumbling something like “excuse me.” He is probably mentally kicking himself for bad-mouthing the lady detective in front of a man who turned out to be both her husband and a well-respected member of the Scotland Yard C.I.D. 

         William is not conscious of how long he holds Eliza, but at some point, she pulls back slightly, looking him in the face. He keeps one hand on her back, the other reaching up to cradle her cheek. There is a smear of ash on her chin, and her sleeve is ripped, but she is here, whole, alive. “Thank God,” he says, pressing his lips lightly against her forehead, “that you’re all right. Are you hurt?”

         He wipes that ash away with his thumb, and Eliza nods. Though her expression is composed, he can tell from the glistening in the corners of her eyes that this experience has shaken her, too, even if she won’t admit it. “I am fine,” she says. “I swear to you, I am fine. They didn’t touch me. They tried to set the house on fire, but we got out. I grabbed Esther and we got out.”

         “I heard.” William cradles his wife’s face, looking into her eyes. God, it is so good to look into those eyes. For a moment there, he thought he might never do it again. “I was so worried I lost you, Eliza. I love you so much.”

         Her lower lip wobbles. “I love you, too.”

         He brings his face to hers for a long kiss, and it tastes like fire, another reminder of the crisis they’ve averted. William pulls back when he needs air, and Eliza is reluctant to let go, her hands clenched tightly on his biceps. When she opens her eyes after the kiss, she looks up at him with slightly parted lips and batted lashes. “So,” she says slowly, “does this mean…you’re not going to yell at me?”

         William inhales, his thumb making an arc across her cheek. “Oh,” he says calmly, “I am still going to yell at you.”

         “William!”

         He steps back, dropping his hands to his sides. He had to behold her with his own eyes, and it had been a relief to see her, to hold her in his arms and know that she was safe. But—now that his fears have been successfully quenched—anger simmers back to the surface.

         “What,” he says, “were you thinking? You could’ve died!”

         Eliza appears frustrated, too, her arms crossing over her chest and her eyebrows knitting together. “William, they had Esther Holliday! What else was I supposed to do?”

         “Oh, I don’t know. Go to the police, like a sane person? Give a description of the men you saw and the carriage they were in? Not follow them into a house that’s on fire?”

         She cocks an eyebrow, clearly not appreciating his sarcasm. “It,” she says, “was not on fire when I went into it.”

         William laughs hollowly. Leave it to Eliza to argue technicalities. “You endangered your life, Eliza! What if they’d hurt you? What if they’d killed you? Did to you what they did to those girls?” God, just the thought sickens him. They could’ve done anything to her…anything they liked…

         For several moments, no one says anything, both of them staring at each other. Eliza’s face has gone rather white, her chest rising and falling with her silent breaths. “What would you have done?” she asks at last, barely above a whisper. “Gone for back-up, or gone after her?”

         An image of Esther Holliday sitting on that curb, with her vacant stare and bruised body, flashes across William’s mind. “That’s not important,” he says.

         Eliza scoffs, her hands finding her hips as she turns away from him. “Yes, it matters, William. I did what any good detective would do, because I am a good detective. It was my job to find Esther Holliday and bring her home, and I was going to do that job even if it killed me. I couldn’t leave her with those men. I”—she pauses, closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath—“I couldn’t have her death on my conscience.”

         William tries to speak, but can’t find the words. He wants to chastise her, the emotional part of him not wanting to relinquish the argument. Except…the rational part of him knows not a single word she’s said is untrue.

         When he still hasn’t said anything, Eliza sighs, starts to walk away. The action snaps William out of his contemplation and he follows her, calls her name, takes her lightly by the elbow so she can’t leave. She turns back to him with obvious annoyance. “What?”

         William gulps. “You’re right.”

         As his words register, the look of annoyance on her face transforms into one of disbelief. “Come again?”

         “I would’ve done the same thing as you. If I saw Esther Holliday in a carriage with those men, in her present state, I would’ve gone after them if it was the last thing I did. But, Eliza…” He trails off, the next words proving hard to say. Policemen and on-lookers are still all around them, and he takes Eliza’s hands. “Can we step away for a moment? Talk alone?”

         His seriousness must come across, because she does not hesitate to nod in agreement. Her expression transforming once more—this time, into a soft-eyed one full of tenderness and concern—Eliza accepts his hand and allows William to lead her away from the crowds.

         There is a mulberry tree on the next block, and they stand underneath its shade, away from prying eyes. Eliza leans up against the trunk, her hands still in William’s as she turns to face him. “What is it?” she asks. Now, she is not sharp with him, her tone both concerned and curious at the same time.

         He stares at her for a moment, eyes tracing the familiar cheekbones, the curve of her lips. He wishes suddenly that he could memorize every inch of her face. He fears the day that he will not be able to see it anymore. “Do you remember,” he begins tentatively, “the day of your father’s funeral, what I said to you?”

         Eliza shakes her head. “You said a lot of things that day. What in particular are you speaking of?”

         “I told you that I thought as the years went on, your father missed your mother more and more. That he didn’t know what to do without her. And the thing is, Eliza”—he pauses, feeling as if his voice may break—“that’s exactly how I feel about you. If I lost you…I’d never be able to get over your absence.”

         He wouldn’t know what to do in a world without her. Eliza has been in his life for so long—as a friend, then a lover, then a wife—that William feels almost as if she’s a part of him, as essential as breathing. If she were to ever leave him—by choice, or fate—it would leave a hole in his life that could never be mended. If someone killed her, it would kill him, too. Not as quickly, perhaps, but it would, all the same.

         She tilts her head, looking at him with a slight frown. “William…”

         “Let me finish. I know you are capable, Eliza. You are a good detective. But I can never be impartial where you are concerned.  Call it greedy, if you wish, or foolish, but you are more than just a fellow investigator to me. You are everything. You…you are the reason I wake up in the morning. You are—”

         Eliza interrupts him by stepping forward and kissing him.

         This kiss is soft, gentle, and all of William’s romantic declarations are swiftly forgotten at the touch of her lips. When Eliza pulls back, she places one hand on his forearm, the other touching his face. “I love you,” she says. “And I…understand how you feel.” Her mouth tilts into a half-smile. “While I cannot promise to never do something dangerous again, I can try to…be more mindful of your feelings. And possibly ask you to accompany me while I do those dangerous things.”

         Her words get a reluctant chuckle out of him. “That’s all I ask.” He smiles slightly, shaking his head as he contemplates her: this beautiful woman, who he’s lucky to call his wife. “I love you, Eliza. And you mean more to me than my own life.”

         Her eyes water in response, and she closes the distance between them so she might kiss him again.

         William tells himself that he has worried enough for one day—and Eliza will certainly give him cause to worry again soon enough. He will forget it for now. Right now, having her here in his arms, safe and sound, is enough.

Chapter Text

         The flower seller told them that white roses signify new beginnings. Eliza doesn’t know if that is true, but they certainly smell lovely. She lifts the bouquet to her nose and breathes them in once more, their scent even more fragrant than usual due to her currently heightened senses.

         The cemetery is quiet on this Sunday evening, and William holds her hand as they walk through, occasionally looking over at her. Eliza smiles slightly in return, to let him know she is all right. This is something she needs to do.

         The groundskeepers have been here recently. She can tell. The grass around her father’s grave is nicely cut, the stone easy to read, and they’ve plucked the weeds since the last time she was here. She kneels before the headstone, laying the flowers over the earth, and William kneels beside her, saying nothing, his hand still in hers.

         Eliza takes a moment, thinking about how she wants to begin. It is a late September day, neither hot nor cold, and a soft wind whistles through the trees, making them dance.

         “Hello, Father,” she begins, her lips rising into a melancholy smile. “It’s Lizzie. William is here with me today. I know it has been a while since we visited you. We have both been very busy. I just worked on an important case for a member of Parliament, and it was our wedding anniversary last Saturday. Three years, can you believe it?”

         She pauses, even though she knows she will not receive an answer, and there is no sound in the cemetery save for the rustling of branches. William wraps his arm around her, his thumb rubbing up and down the small of her back.

         “We wanted to tell you something,” she continues. “William and I”—Eliza pauses, inhales, taking a moment to steady her suddenly shaking voice—“William and I are expecting a baby in the spring.”

         This is the first time she has said the words, that they have told anyone—if speaking to your late father’s grave counts as “telling someone.” Still, she finds herself getting emotional. William squeezes her hand and takes over for her.

         “You’re the first person we wanted to tell. It wouldn’t have felt right not to. Even though you’re not here with us anymore, everything we have now…well, it’s because of you, Henry. You’re the one who brought us together. Thank you.”

         Though he maintains his composure, there is audible emotion in his voice, too, and Eliza looks at her husband. Tears well in her eyes, and his own are shiny, focused not on the gravestone, but on her face.

       “We still miss you,” she says to her father, her eyes still on William, “but you don’t have to worry about us. We’re going to be fine.” More than fine. They’re going to be happy.

         She misses her father, and her mother—always has, probably always will. But the good news is that, for the first time since she was six, she is going to have a family with a mother and a father and a child, and she is going to have it with the man she loves. And she is really very happy about that.

         William hesitates, his hand on her cheek. “And Henry?” he says. “I don’t know what it’s like out there, but if you have the power to look after us one more time, to watch over Eliza and our child, I would greatly appreciate it.”

         A tear falls from her eye now, and she closes the gap between their faces to give her husband a long, loving kiss. He kisses her back, and even afterward, she remains there with her forehead pressed against his for several moments, just enjoying the silence, the feeling of being quietly together with him.

         “Come,” she says at last, smiling up at him. “Let’s go home.”

         When they arrive back at the house, the sun is starting to go down, and Ivy must be in the kitchen, for they can hear the sounds of her dinner preparations. As they remove their hats and coats in the entryway, Eliza turns to William with a little smile. “Should we tell her?”

         They had planned to wait to share their good news with their friends until Eliza is twelve weeks—the midwife assures them at that point the chance of miscarriage is greatly diminished, and William knows he personally will breathe easier once they reach that milestone. However, hiding the pregnancy from Ivy has proven difficult. She is around all the time, and she is no fool. She has surely noticed Eliza’s sudden food aversions and queasiness, or that William is hovering more than usual.

         Plus, William must admit, it will feel good to tell her. Though he has enjoyed sharing this happiness with Eliza alone, he also looks forward to sharing their bundle of joy with someone else, being able to freely discuss their good fortune. “All right,” he tells Eliza now, and his wife’s little smile widens into a grin. “Let’s tell her.” Eliza nearly squeals in delight and gives him a quick kiss, which makes William smile, too.

         They walk into the kitchen hand-in-hand, and Ivy must hear their footsteps, because she starts speaking to them without looking up from what she’s doing. “I was wondering where you two were. I’ll set the table—”

         “Ivy,” Eliza interrupts gently, “we want to talk to you about something.”

         The housekeeper finally turns around, and her eyes go wide, her hands coming together. William suppresses a smile. “Oh?” Ivy says, looking from one of them to the other, and William can tell she is suspicious, silently hoping that this is what she thinks it is.

         The two of them exchange a look, a mischievous glint in Eliza’s eyes. “We,” she says, “were thinking about getting new curtains.”

         Immediately, the sparkle in Ivy’s eyes dims, and William has to resist the urge to laugh. Based on Eliza’s expression, she is doing the same. “Curtains?” Ivy says, clearly surprised, and looking at each other now, William and Eliza cannot help but snicker. “You came in here just to ask me about curtains?”

         William forces himself to don a serious expression. “Curtains are very serious business. We’ve had the same ones for so long now, but Eliza and I cannot decide what to get. She was thinking blue, but I’m not entirely convinced. Your thoughts?”

         Ivy puts her hands on her hips, giving them an annoyed look. “Goodness, I don’t know. Why are you asking me? I thought…” she frowns, trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

         All right, they’ve teased the poor woman enough. William gives Eliza a look, and she smiles, turns back toward Ivy. “Well,” she says, “we have lots of plans to fix up the house—say, in the next seven months or so. We were thinking about changing the curtains…cleaning out the spare room upstairs…and, of course, we’ll have to buy a crib…”

         She delivers the words in a casual manner, but Ivy catches on immediately, her face going soft. “A crib?” she repeats, barely above a whisper, voice already trembling with emotion.

         “And, of course, we’ll have to secure all these cabinets,” William adds, “as surely any child of mine and Eliza’s will prove to be inquisitive once they’re walk—”

         He ends up not being able to finish the sentence, as Ivy crosses the room in two strides to pull both of them into her arms for an abrupt hug. “A child! This is wonderful news! I thought something was different, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Oh”—she pulls back, one of her hands touching Eliza’s cheek, the other lightly against William’s arm, and she smiles, looking at them tenderly—“I am so, so happy for the both of you. You are going to be wonderful parents.”

         The genuine, heartfelt nature of her compliment warms William’s chest, and when he glances over at his wife, Eliza’s eyes have gone vaguely glassy. Being with child has made her more emotional than usual, but William cannot blame her for crying. “Thank you,” she tells Ivy. “We’re both very excited.”

         Their housekeeper is beaming at them now, seizing Eliza and William’s hands as she peppers them with questions. “Now, tell me everything. How long have you known? Have you been to see a doctor? When is the baby due?”

         “We got the confirmation two weeks ago. I’ve been to see a midwife, and she says everything looks perfectly well, though we are going to hold off on telling more people for the time being. I am about ten weeks, and due in April.”

          “April! Oh, how lovely! A little springtime baby! Oh, but goodness, there will be so much to plan. We don’t have anything for a baby, do we? We’ll have to go shopping, Lizzie.”

         William smiles and gives his wife a look. “I’m sure,” he says, “that the two of you will have that covered.” He does not doubt for a moment that Eliza and Ivy will be only too happy to buy anything an infant could possibly need, and some things they probably don’t. His wife good-naturedly rolls her eyes at his obvious teasing.

         Now, Ivy turns her attention solely to Eliza, her eyes widening with a realization. “You, young lady,” she says, in her most maternal tone of voice, “need to take better care of yourself! To think, you’ve been running around and skipping meals and staying up late with this baby inside you? William, tell her she must take better care of herself!” Ivy glances at him, and he opens his mouth, but she turns back to Eliza and continues without waiting for a response. “No more working these long days, you hear me? You will be home to have a healthy dinner every night. And if you start to feel ill, just let me know. There’s this special tea that they say is the ideal remedy for morning sickness—”

         Ivy continues to ramble, walking off to rummage through the cabinets as she describes the ingredients that are in this supposedly magic tea. Eliza looks at William, silently mouthing the words: “Help me.”

         He smiles and pulls her into his side, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Well,” he says with a laugh, “it was your idea to tell her.”

         Almost two weeks later, Eliza leans back against William’s desk, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Someone is smoking. She doesn’t know where exactly, but it is somewhere around here. She can smell the stench, feeling as if it’s infecting every pore, seeping into every corner.

         William and Fitzroy are oblivious, continuing to chat about the case they’ve been consulting on together, but they are two lucky, non-pregnant members of society, who do not have to put up with a superhuman sense of smell or a permanent metallic taste in their mouths. Men! Eliza thinks. They do not know how good they have it…

         When several minutes go by without Eliza saying anything—a rare occurrence because Eliza always has an opinion about everything—William and Fitzroy go quiet, and Eliza opens her eyes to find them both looking at her with concern. “Are you all right?” her husband asks.

         She forces a smile to her face, though she knows it is strained. “Fine,” she lies, glancing toward Fitzroy, not wanting to act suspicious in his presence. “I just…have a bit of a headache.”

         “Would you like me to fetch you something for it?” the younger man asks in his usual sweet, earnest way, which softens Eliza’s mood somewhat.

         “I’m fine, thank you.”

         “Are you certain? You do look rather pale…”

         Eliza is about to reassure him that she is quite well, but William distracts her when he walks over, pulls out the desk chair for her. “Fitzroy is right, you do look pale. Why don’t you sit down for a while?”

         “I don’t need to sit down,” Eliza starts to say, but William has already gently taken her arm, helping her into the chair.

         “How are you?” he asks, an undercurrent of concern in his voice. “You’ve been on your feet for a while. Have you eaten recently?”

         “I am fine.”

         “She does look a trifle faint,” Fitzroy agrees. “Perhaps I could fetch some water…” William quickly latches onto this idea, and Oliver moves to leave the room, but Eliza—whose pregnancy mood swings have her nerves hanging by a fragile thread these days—sighs, rolls her eyes, folding both hands over her stomach.

         “For God’s sake, William,” she snaps, “I’m not infirm, just pregnant.”

         The words fly out of her mouth before she can think it through, and as soon as she realizes what she’s said, her eyes go wide. William and Fitzroy both freeze—William hovering about her chair, Fitzroy halfway to the door—staring at her. “Pregnant?” the latter stammers, visibly surprised. “Like…with a baby?”

         Eliza and William exchange a look, and William smiles, silently shrugs as if to say ‘oh, well.’ Eliza sighs inaudibly. Well, she hadn’t planned to reveal this news today, but too late. “Yes, Oliver,” she says, “like with a baby.”

         The young man opens and closes his mouth several times, glancing between Eliza and William with visible surprise, and Eliza is about to ask him if he needs to sit down when Fitzroy recovers from his shock. “That’s…that’s amazing news! Congratulations!”

         Now, Eliza has a genuine smile, and the expression is mirrored on William’s face. “Thank you. We’re very happy.”

         The younger detective pauses, his face brightening with an obvious realization. “I,” he says, moving towards the door again, “will get you that water. You haven’t had anything to drink in hours, and it’s unseasonably warm today.”

         “Oliver,” Eliza begins, “that’s not—”

         “That’s a good idea, Oliver,” William interrupts, and Eliza shoots him an irritated glare, which goes ignored.

         Fitzroy smiles, glad to be of use. “And I think we have some digestive biscuits! Digestive biscuits are good for pregnant women, aren’t they? When my mother was with child, she ate a lot of digestive biscuits.” Eliza tries to speak, but can’t get a word in. “Hold on, I’ll be right back!” And then he quickly disappears out the door, still mumbling about their snack options. While William chuckles, Eliza sinks back into her seat.

         She thinks her headache is worsening, but at least she can’t smell that cigar anymore. And, all right, now that she thinks about it, a digestive biscuit does sound good…

         Eliza proves to be rather agreeable after consuming an entire sleeve of digestive biscuits, and that evening, everything seems to be going well. It is a Friday night, and Mr. Potts has come over to dine with them—he does so a few times every week, usually, so that Ivy will not have to prepare a dinner for William and Eliza and another for herself and her husband at home.

         As they settle around the kitchen table to eat, everyone seems to be in a good mood, and Eliza has a healthy color to her cheeks. William smiles to himself, feeling truly relaxed for the first time all day long. It is going to be a good night tonight, he thinks.

         Dinner passes by pleasantly, and once the plates are cleared away, Ivy suggests dessert. She baked a beautiful blackberry tart this morning—which Eliza looks at with obvious interest—but the moment Ivy reaches for their liquor bottles, it is all over. Uh-oh. William starts to turn towards Eliza, but she has already pushed out her chair and—without saying a word—bolted from the kitchen.

         William deflates, sighs, and when he looks at Ivy, she has a guilty expression. “Still no to the whisky?” she asks, and William shakes his head ‘no.’ It seems that pregnant Eliza cannot stand the smell of whisky, brandy, gin, or really any other spirit. William has not had a glass of his favorite libation in three weeks—well, no, that’s not exactly true. He drank a whisky at work one day, and hours later, Eliza still somehow smelled it on his breath when he kissed her.

         “Better toss the bottles out,” he tells Ivy, and the housekeeper gathers them up with an audible sigh. The midwife has said the aversions might improve next trimester, and for all their sakes, William hopes so.

         He gets up to check on his wife, and meanwhile, Mr. Potts—who, before Eliza’s abrupt exit, had been happily recounting a story from that day at the morgue—looks between William and Ivy, clearly at a loss. “What is the matter?” he asks. “Is she unwell?”

         Ivy blanches, hesitates. “Erm, no. Not quite.”

         William finds Eliza in the bathroom, looking slightly green, but otherwise fine. After a few sips of water—and William’s assurance that the offensive alcohol is gone—she says she is well enough to go back to the kitchen.

         Upon their return, they find absolutely no traces of any spirits, and Mr. Potts looks even more concerned than he did when William left. They resume their seats, and Ivy tries to redirect the conversation as she cuts the tart, but Mr. Potts leans forward, looking at Eliza with obvious curiosity and confusion.

         “Are you certain you’re well, Mrs. Wellington? There have been quite a few ailments going around recently.”

         “I’m certain, Mr. Potts,” Eliza says, forcing a smile to her face, though William can tell from the look in her eye that she’s desperate to change the subject.

         William clears his throat. “You know,” he says to Mr. Potts, “I’m dying to hear the rest of that story—”

         “The flu has been particularly bad as of late,” Mr. Potts continues, ignoring or not noticing the hint. “I’ve seen at least a dozen dead from it this week. You may want to consult a doctor, to confirm it’s nothing serious. And if you’re contagious—”

         Ivy sighs loudly and drops her knife. “Goodness, Barnabas, she does not have the flu! She is just with child!”

         Mr. Potts effectively cuts himself off, and silence reverberates around the room for several seconds. You would think this news would make Mr. Potts less disconcerted, but instead, he seems to have gone even paler. “Oh,” he says at last, averting his eyes. “I see.”

         William and Ivy exchange a glance from opposite sides of the table, while Eliza’s cheeks have turned pale pink. William supposes men of Mr. Potts’s generation are not used to discussing child-bearing. In the past decades especially, women in the “family way” were often encouraged to stay home, lest their condition prove too distressing for male eyes—after all, how were men expected to look at her, knowing she had engaged in the activities necessary to produce progeny? It sounds silly, because it is, but that is what men like Mr. Potts would’ve been taught.

         After an awkward pause, he looks up tentatively, nodding first at Eliza, then at William. “Congratulations,” Mr. Potts manages to say. “A child is…a great blessing.” Despite his obvious discomfort, William can tell the words are meant genuinely.

         When he looks at Eliza, she also appears touched, and he takes her hand underneath the table. “Thank you,” he tells Mr. Potts.  

         Ivy smiles and pats her husband’s arm. “So,” she says brightly, looking around the table, “who wants dessert?”

         Later that night, after Ivy and Mr. Potts have gone home, Eliza sinks into bed beside William, the mattress feeling so unexpectedly heavenly, she sighs out loud. “God,” she says, “I am tired. It is a lot of work growing another person.”

         “Is that why,” William asks with a wry smile, “after you ate that large slice of blackberry tart Ivy cut for you, you also ate half of mine?”

         “Oh, don’t tease me, William! Besides, it was not half. Two bites, at most.” Off his look, Eliza relents and admits: “Fine, three.”

         Chuckling, her husband moves closer to her, his arm slung lightly over her waist. His lips find her brow. “You know I love you,” he says, “and you may have as much of my desserts as you want. It’s the least I can do.”

         “Thank you.” Eliza hesitates for a moment, enjoying the feeling of his thumb tracing circles on her hip bone, then smiles. “I am glad everyone knows now.”

         Though she is not looking at him, she can feel him smile, too. “Me too.”

         They don’t say anything more, and William turns off the light, lays back down beside her. Eliza burrows further into his arms, enjoying the familiar feeling of being held by him.

         When she got pregnant, she thought of it as her and William starting their own family, but that is not entirely true, is it? Family is more than just the ties of blood, and she is happy they have so many people in their lives to share their joy with, to be around as their child grows up.

         There is still a smile on her face as she drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

         It’s all starting to feel very real.

         As William examines what was once Eliza’s childhood bedroom, a little smile comes to his face unbidden. This room is where his wife slept as a baby, next door to her mother and father’s room, and as she grew into girlhood, then teenage years, then adulthood, the room changed with her, the crib being swapped out for a bed, the shelves which once held her toys and games now containing novels and crime articles she cut out of the newspaper. When they married three and a half years ago, this bedroom was abandoned so that they might share the master together, and it became a place to hold old furniture or boxes of Eliza’s work files.

         It's been over thirty years since this room was last home to a baby, but in approximately six weeks, it will be once again, the precocious little girl who once slept here now being the mother instead of the child.

         Looking around the room, it’s impossible not to get excited.

         They started redecorating the room when Eliza was six months pregnant and, finally, it has all come together. Long gone is the pink floral wallpaper Lavinia Scarlet once picked out for her infant daughter—that was replaced when Eliza was a stubborn two-year-old who claimed she hated pink, a blue-and-white pattern put up in its place. That wallpaper having become faded over the years, they’ve replaced it with a calming, light green one patterned with white leaves, perfect for a little boy or a little girl.

         Speaking of a boy or girl, he opens the dresser to once more examine the overwhelming amount of clothes Ivy has already bought for the forthcoming addition. She was too excited about her mistress’s forthcoming child to wait nine months for a shopping spree. Everything a baby could possibly need—nightshirts and smocks, blankets and socks, all in shades of cream and white, yellow, light blue, or green—is accounted for.

         His favorite item out of his future child’s wardrobe, however, is not something Ivy’s bought. It has to be the pair of baby booties that occupy the place of honor on top of the dresser, the same shoes that were in the store window the day Eliza told him they were finally going to be parents. Every time William looks at these shoes, he feels such a rush of love for her.

         For a long time, he considered the day he and Eliza got married to be the best day of his life, but then that fateful day came along and supplanted its place. He has a feeling that, in a short time, he will have a new best day of his life when their child is born.

         Above the dresser, the shelves no longer carry novels and crime articles, but house a selection of children’s toys: silver baby rattles, a new zoetrope, books about the alphabet or fairy tales. William picks up one of those books, running his thumb across the illustrated cover. He allows himself to imagine reading it to his son or daughter, turning the pages with one hand while cuddling that little body with the other. His own father never read him a story while he was growing up—not one. But his child will be different.

         Truthfully, when William thinks about it, he’s not sure he ever had a toy. Maybe when he was a baby, he might’ve had a rattle or something of that sort, but he can’t recall, and when they moved into the workhouse, none of the children were allowed to have any toys, books, or anything. It was believed idle time would only encourage their supposed genetic predisposition to laziness.

         He frowns for the first time since he entered this room. Once when he was about four years old or so, one of the other boys tried to improvise a game for them all. He drew a circle on the floor with a stick and stole some beads from the sewing room so they could play with them like marbles. When the master found out, that boy was beaten within an inch of his life.

         All because he wanted to do the things that a child was supposed to do.

         The rest of them were forced to watch it happen.

         None of them ever tried to play again.

         William shakes his head. That was a dark time in his life, but this is a brighter one. His and Eliza’s child will not have to grow up like that. They will have picture books to read and a soft bed to sleep on and so many other things, including a father who will love them. He will give their child all the things he never had.

         It’s a little scary: thinking about becoming a father, knowing someone will depend on you for everything. It’s a lot of responsibility, but he’s also excited for it. There are so many moments he can’t wait to experience—not just the big things, like their child’s first steps or first words, but the little things, too. He has wanted to be a father for a long time, and he will have Eliza by his side through it all. He knows he can do it, because she believes in him.  

         He places the book back in its proper place and approaches the crib, running his hand along the rim. The bassinet that currently sits alongside his and Eliza’s bed is made of the same medium brown oak wood, and that’s where the baby will sleep for the first six months or so, so they can easily get to him or her in the night. Still, the crib is outfitted with the proper mattress so the baby may take their naps here, a fluffy blanket draped over the side of the crib, a mobile dangling overhead.

         Six weeks. It won’t be much longer now.

         Luckily, the baby’s room is ready, and now that he has found the finishing touch, it is perfect. He hopes Eliza will like it.

         He stands there for several minutes longer, trying to imagine a baby lying on that mattress, when he hears the sound of his wife calling his name, asking where he is. He calls back that he’s in the nursery, and he pushes open the door to meet her in the hallway just as she reaches the top of the stairs.

         Their eyes lock, and a smile spreads across her face, which makes him smile, too. Seeing Eliza is always the best part of his day. “Hello,” she says, coming to greet him with a kiss. “How was your day, my love?”

         He tells her it was fine, and she responds the same when asked, and he pulls back to look at her, his hands on her cheeks. God, she is so effortlessly lovely. “How are you feeling?”

         She chuckles. “Huge,” she says, dropping a hand to her belly. “I cannot wait to get this baby out of me.”

         “Only six more weeks. Perhaps less.” The midwife mentioned at Eliza’s last appointment that it’s not abnormal for babies to come earlier than expected. Some of them, she said, are just anxious to join the world. The thought exhilarates him.

         “Or more,” Eliza responds, eyes gleaming. “You forget that Mrs. Byrd said I may well go past my due date, and at this rate, I think I might. He or she is quite at home in there, currently nestled between my ribs. They might never leave.”

         William doesn’t respond at first, examining her rosy expression, bright eyes, full cheeks. He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

         Eliza laughs at first, but then realizes he’s serious. “I am tired, fat, and constantly uncomfortable.”

         “I still stand by my assessment.”

         She smiles, rolls her eyes, and kisses him again. “You are too kind to me.”

         William smiles back and takes her hand. “Come in. I want to show you something.”

         This clearly piques Eliza’s interest. “Did you get me a gift?”

         “You could say that. Come along.”

         He leads her into the nursery, Eliza looking giddy as a child awaiting a surprise, and he feels nervous all of a sudden, hoping she’ll like it.

         When her eyes land upon it, she gasps, and he knows the gift is well-received.

         “It’s a rocking chair,” he feels compelled to explain, even though pregnancy has not affected his wife’s vision and she knows perfectly well what it is. The oversized chair is made out of oak to match the other furniture, intricately designed with Scottish bobbin turnings on the back, legs, and arms, and cream-colored upholstery on the seat.

         Eliza doesn’t say anything at first, staring with wide eyes, and William squeezes her hand. “I thought you could use it when you were nursing, or just to have a moment to yourself. Do you like it?”

         She turns to look at him, a big grin coming over her face. “Oh William, I love it! Might I sit in it?”

         “Of course. It’s yours.”

         He feels a surge of pride, seeing he’s made her happy, and once she gets herself situated, he kneels down before her. She keeps one hand folded over her belly and uses the other to reach down and touch his cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

         “You’re welcome.”

         She bends down and kisses him softly, and he smiles, thinking about how much he loves her. He might’ve surprised her with the rocking chair, but she’s the one who is giving him the real gift.

         “You know,” he says, “I only have one memory of my life before the workhouse. It’s about how my mother used to rock me to sleep.”

         He wasn’t planning to share this story, but the tender impulse of the moment forces it out, and Eliza fixes a gentle expression upon him, her fingers brushing against his cheek. He knows he can tell her anything, even the things that are hard.

         “She used to sing me this song,” he says, and Eliza nods, silently encouraging him to go on. “Ba Ba Mo Leanabh. It’s Gaelic.”

         “Ba Ba Mo Leanabh?” Eliza tries to pronounce the foreign words, scrunching up her nose. “What does that mean?”

         “Hush, my little baby. It’s just an old lullaby meant to get children to sleep—a little gruesome, now that I think about it.” He has a hard time remembering the words after all this time, but he thinks he knows the chorus, and maybe one of the three verses. He can vaguely hear it in his mind.

         Dhìrich mi bheinn mhòr gun anal (I breathlessly climbed the great mountain)

         Dhìrich agus thearn (I climbed and I descended)

         Chuirinn falt mo chinn fo d' chasan (I would put the hair of my head under your feet)

         Agus craicionn mo dhà làimh (And the skin of my two hands)

         “I think,” he says to Eliza, “there was something in there about heads on a post, which in hindsight, probably isn’t appropriate for a child.” She chuckles at that.

         “Perhaps that’s why you ended up investigating murders for a living. Your mother got you used to blood and gore at a young age.”

         “Hmm, perhaps.” He runs his thumb over the back of Eliza’s hand, thinking back to that hazy childhood memory. He can hardly remember his mother’s face anymore, but he can remember her singing voice: high and clear as she rocked him to sleep in her arms. For those few moments they were alone together before bed, that normally sad woman sounded almost joyful.

         Eliza smiles at him, her eyes watery. “Thank you for sharing that with me. It was a beautiful story.” She laughs quietly. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at singing, but I think I would like to rock our baby to sleep at night in this chair. Little Henry or Anne.”

         Emotion tugs at his throat. “Little Henry or Anne,” he repeats. Those are the names they agreed on.

         Henry, after her father, or Anne, after his mother.

         William thinks he understands the words of that lullaby now. As a boy, he never thought twice about them, just happy to hear his mother’s voice, but now—as macabre as some of the lyrics sound—he recognizes that they are meant to describe the depth of a parent’s devotion. They would gladly rip the hair from their head or tear the skin off their bones if that’s what it took, would die if they had to keep their child safe, because when you love someone that strongly, when their life is more important than your own, you’d do anything for them. When you’re a child, you don’t understand what that sort of love feels like. Now, he does.

         He knows, without a doubt, he would die for Eliza or their child if he had to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for them.

         His family.

         Eliza shifts in her seat, and William is about to ask her what is wrong, but she smiles at him. “Ooh,” she says, “kicking again. Here, feel.” She seizes William’s hand before he can reply, placing it over the spot where their baby is currently tossing and turning in her womb. The sensation stirs something in William’s chest. Though he has felt their child move many times, it never ceases to amaze him.

         They are really bringing a new life into the world. A life that’s entirely their own.

         When he looks up at Eliza again, she’s beaming. “I think,” she says, “he or she likes the gift their father got them.” The words make him smile too.

         Yes, these last six weeks can’t go fast enough.

Chapter Text

       Eliza has been pushing her food around her plate for the last ten minutes, and she can almost feel Ivy’s stare burning a hole in her head. Still, she keeps her eyes trained downward, her stubborn indignation in this instance more powerful than her love for her housekeeper.

       “—wonderful,” Eliza’s father is saying. She has zoned out for a moment and lost the thread of conversation, but quickly picks it back up again. Not just because she’s adept at context clues, but because Eliza’s father has been talking about the same thing for their entire dinner.

       William.

       Eliza cautiously looks away from her peas to glance at him across the kitchen table. William’s eyes are focused on her father, and though she stares at the side of his head, he doesn’t look her way.

       Ivy discreetly slaps her knee under the table. “Eat,” she mouths. Eliza pulls a face but takes a forkful of peas to appease her. She makes a great show of chewing them. Ivy sighs inaudibly and shakes her head.

       “And,” Mr. Scarlet continues, “what inspector are you working with?”

       “Perry,” William replies.

       “Ah, good old Albert Perry! Bertie is a fine fellow.”

       “Inspector Perry is a hard-ass, and I can’t imagine anyone calling him Bertie.”

       “I did for ten years.” Eliza’s father smiles, lifting his wine glass. “I know he seems very severe, but he has a soft side, too. Just ask him about his wife, and you’ll find him very agreeable.” He takes a sip of the wine, but then snaps, his face brightening as a memory comes. “Emma! That’s her name. She is Welsh and a very good piano player, if I recall. No children, but a nephew Bertie has all but adopted—Archie or Arnie, something of that sort. And if all else fails, Bertie Perry can always be tempted with his favorite Scotch whisky. Glenlivet.”

       William’s mouth quirks. “Something he and I have in common, then.” He and Mr. Scarlet both laugh.

       Eliza rolls her eyes. Ivy gives her a reproaching look that even eating the peas can’t fix.

       William has just been promoted to sergeant, and it’s all her father has talked about all week. Morning, noon, and night, he is talking about his protege, his face aglow as he comments on how William is rising in the ranks even faster than he himself did, and isn’t it so wonderful, Lizzie? Eliza had smiled and nodded at first, said “Yes, Father,” or “Wonderful, indeed.” Now, though, she doesn’t know how much longer she can humor him.

       She’s started staring at William again without realizing it. He turns his head, their eyes meeting, and he gives her a tentative little smile. Eliza blanches and looks away quickly.

       “Father,” she says, playing with her peas so much that one rolls off her plate, “how is it progressing with the Whitworth case?”

       Her father looks up, his eyes wide as if he’s surprised by the sound of her voice. He shakes his head, waves her off. “Oh, the same.”

       “But I thought you had an interview today with the solicitor?”

       Her father hesitates. “Yes,” he says at last, his face pointed at his plate, “but it wasn’t important.”

       Eliza frowns. Her father might say it was unimportant, but that pregnant pause told her everything she needed to know.

       The Whitworth case has been the talk of high society for three weeks now. The upper crust may have fickle attention spans, but the sheer drama of it all has managed to capture their interests. Rufus Whitworth Sr was a very successful textile tycoon who died in mysterious circumstances at his home in Islington. When his family—consisting of three adult sons from his first marriage, his much younger second wife, and the ten-year-old boy he shared with the latter—planned to go over his will, they discovered that said will had been secretly modified only three days before Whitworth Sr's death, and the new version was missing.

       Naturally, the two eldest sons were pointing the finger at their stepmother, while Mrs. Whitworth was adamant that she had nothing to do with her husband’s demise. Perhaps surprisingly, the third son agreed with her. The resulting family rift was almost as immense as the manpower on the police investigation.

       “What,” William asks Mr. Scarlet now, “did the original will say?”

       “Only that his eldest son, Rufus Whitworth Jr, was to take over the family business, while the remaining assets were to be split evenly among all four of Mr. Whitworth’s sons,” Eliza’s father explains. “There was a bit more—trinkets left to the long-standing servants, a thousand pounds or two for the family solicitor, and a sizable income for Mrs. Whitworth. All bog standard. But Rufus Whitworth Jr and his brother Robert are adamant that their stepmother was up to something.”

       “Like what?” William asks.

       “They think that perhaps she tried to convince their father to disinherit them in favor of her own boy. It is their theory that their father created a new will, then—once he came to his senses—destroyed it. Mrs. Whitworth was so enraged that she killed her husband.”

       “Did she truly have that much power over him?”

       Eliza’s father shrugs. “Mr. Whitworth’s second wife is quite beautiful—and significantly younger than her late husband. Gossip says that she was a childhood playmate of the third son, Raphael, being of an age with him. But when she was twenty-two, she turned Rufus Sr’s eye, and he proposed marriage to her. He wouldn’t be the first man to succumb to womanly wiles.”

       “Or,” Eliza interjects, “she wouldn’t be the first young woman pressured by her family into accepting the proposal of an old man thirty years her senior.”

       Ivy coughs so loudly, that William asks her if she needs some water. She says no and casts a sidelong glance at Eliza. Eliza merely tosses her head and sits with her shoulders back.

       “Yes,” Mr. Scarlet continues, as if they hadn’t been interrupted, “but here’s another thing. Rufus Whitworth Sr’s health has been in a long decline. He started showing symptoms of a chronic lung condition while his first wife was still alive—the doctors never expected him to outlive her, let alone make it as long as he did. Things only got worse for him when he was confined to a wheelchair. It would’ve been easy enough for his young, able-bodied wife to pressure him into doing something he didn’t wish to do.”

       “Wheelchair?” William repeats, his brow wrinkled in obvious thought. “How did that happen?”

       Eliza opens her mouth to respond, being familiar with the story, but her father beats her to it. “Eleven years ago, he and Mrs. Whitworth were riding through Rotten Row when their carriage flipped over. Apparently, the horses saw something that spooked them, and the driver had only been on the job for a week, so he did not have the touch necessary to calm them down. Mrs. Whitworth was lucky enough to escape with only minor injuries, but her husband lost complete use of his legs. They’d only been married for six months when it happened. He was confined to a wheelchair ever since that day.”

       “Five months,” Eliza corrects, earning her a raised brow from her father and a head shake from Ivy. “And it was an unleashed dog—that spooked the horses.” She got the whole story from Mrs. Parker the day before last—second or third hand, perhaps, but detailed all the same. It was worth the two hours Eliza had to spend with her and Rupert at tea.

       “And,” she continues, placing down her fork and knife, “what I think we need to consider is—”

       But William and her father aren’t looking at her now, their eyes focused on each other. “Does he look like the late Mr. Whitworth?” William asks. “The youngest son.”

       Mr. Scarlet nods. “A great deal.” He chuckles under his breath. “I must confess all of those Whitworth men look alike. They all have the same large ears.”

       “Yes,” Eliza starts, “but—”

       “But,” William says, “if Mr. Whitworth has been wheelchair bound for eleven years, and the boy is ten, is it possible that he was not…ahem”—a sideways glance at Eliza, accompanied by a slight redness to the cheeks—“able to perform?”

       Several seconds pass in silence. Eliza’s father stares at William, while William rubs his neck, clearly embarrassed to have said those words in front of females. Ivy has given up all of her attempts to redirect the conversation to more pleasant topics. Meanwhile, Eliza has picked up her knife again and is currently clutching it tightly in her right hand.

       “Are you saying,” her father begins at last, “that the boy…”

       “Might not be Whitworth’s?” Williams supplies. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Or, more accurately, he is a Whitworth. But his father is…”

       “Raphael Whitworth.” Her father finishes William’s sentence, and Eliza rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. It is so annoying when they do that. Her sentences used to be the only ones her father ever finished. “I think you might be onto something, dear boy,” Mr. Scarlet says.

       William has just begun to smile when Eliza abruptly pushes her chair back from the table, throws her napkin down, and stands up. “Excuse me,” she barks, not waiting for a response before she stomps out of the kitchen.

       She crosses her arms over her chest and walks furiously down the hall, seeking the privacy of the drawing room.  She knows she’s being childish, but she can’t help herself.

       She suspected the same thing about Mrs. Whitworth and her old playmate, Raphael. After all, it was possible that if Mr. Whitworth had no use of his legs, he may not have had much use of other things below the waist, and if Eliza were in Mrs. Whitworth’s place, the company of the gregarious Raphael would be preferable to her than that of her ornery husband. Seeing as Mrs. Whitworth’s son was born nine months after the accident, the conception date would be easy to lie about. Besides, Eliza’s father and the Whitworth boys were only speculating about what was in the revised will. It was entirely possible that the destroyed will was not to raise up the youngest Whitworth child.

       But to disinherit him entirely.

       She has spent the last day and a half trying to bring these possibilities up with her father, but whenever she broached the subject, he would say that he was too busy, or too tired, or ask her in a slightly elevated tone to please drop it. Yet, when William brings it up to him, he is suddenly all ears. And not just that: heaping praise upon him. Eliza will probably have to listen to her father talk about what a genius breakthrough dear William has had for the next week.

       She can’t stand it. 

       Once inside the drawing room, she flops dramatically on the sofa, her chin propped up on her arm.  Tears form in her eyes before she can stop them, pouring down her cheeks fast and hot. It’s not fair. Not fair at all.

       Why will her father never look at her the way he looks at William?

       Her father loves her, of course he does. He has done his best to ensure that she is taken care of, safe, well-brought-up. He has given her everything except the one thing that she wants more than anything else in the world. The one thing that he will give to William without a second thought.

       Because William is a man, and she is not.

       That’s really all there is to it, isn’t it? She’s just as smart as him, just as brave, and just as willing, if not more so. The only difference between the two of them is what is between their legs, and yet, they shall have two entirely different lives because of it.

       Sniffling, Eliza wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. It would be easier if she could hate William and her father. If she could stomp her foot and pitch a fit and blame them for all the unhappiness in her life, yell and scream at them and say that someday she will leave this house and they will never see her again. If she could just store up all her anger and direct it towards them, it would be easier.

       But she cannot do that.

       As angry as William and her father have made her tonight, she can never ever hate them.

       “Eliza?”

       William’s voice startles her—she hadn’t heard the door open—and she sits up, discreetly wipes the corners of her eyes. William approaches the sofa, in the same tentative way one might approach a wild animal. “Are you crying?” he asks.

       “No,” Eliza says stubbornly, even though the wetness clinging to her eyelashes is a dead giveaway.

       She averts her eyes, not looking at him directly, and after a moment’s hesitation, William lowers himself onto the cushion next to her. “Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.”

       “I told you, I’m not crying.”

       He shakes his head slightly, clearly not believing her. Why should he? Eliza doesn’t know if she’s ever told a less convincing lie. “Why are you sad?” William asks softly.

       Eliza sniffles, a humorless laugh slipping out of her. “I’m not sad,” she says. “I’m…I’m angry.”

       “Why?”

       She slumps back in her seat. Of course he would ask that. He doesn’t get what it’s like to be a woman, doesn’t get what it’s like to be her. When she doesn’t respond, he inches closer to her on the sofa, reaching for her hand. “Eliza, tell me what’s wrong.”

      His fingertips just barely graze the back of her hand, and that little touch zaps, like the shock you get after dragging your feet across the carpet. Eliza yanks her hand away. She doesn’t want his comfort. She wants to stew in her righteous anger for a minute.

       “Don’t you,” she says, “have more important things to do than stoop to talk to me, Mr. Fancy Sergeant?”

       The words are undoubtedly petty, and William’s resulting silence tells her that they’ve produced their intended effect. When she glances over at him, he’s recoiled away from her, his eyebrows knit together and eyes darkened by a flash of confusion. “Have I upset you?”

       He says it so quietly, with a tremor in his voice, and for a moment, Eliza’s resolve wavers. She feels a sharp instinct to apologize, to take it back, but she shoves it down, down, down, anger being easier to feel than guilt. “Not at all. I just thought you and my father had important things to discuss about the Whitworth case. Since the two of you are best friends and all.”

       She stares blankly ahead, looking at the wallpaper but not truly seeing it. She hopes that her terse statement will finally get William to leave her alone, but he doesn’t move. Eliza can feel his eyes on the side of her head.

       He swallows. “You know he’s not my best friend. You are.”

       Eliza’s shoulders sink, and her heart churns in her chest. She doesn’t respond.

       William rises from the sofa with a sigh, but he doesn’t leave immediately. He is still staring at her, and though Eliza knows he wants her to look at him, she refuses. She can be very petulant when she wants to be. Ivy says that when Eliza was a little girl she threw infamous tantrums, having never been the type to relinquish a point easily.

       “I’m trying to help,” William says, “but I can’t if you won’t tell me what’s wrong. Whatever I’ve done to make you hate me so much—” He cuts himself off, the sentence ending in a choke.

       “I don’t hate you.” The words pour from Eliza’s mouth instinctively. She does not hate William. That is not what this is about at all. 

       I want to be you.

       The thought makes tears rise again and she stares at her lap. William has everything she wants—a rising detective career, prospects on the horizon, the respect of his superiors…and the respect of her father. It’s all fallen into his lap in a matter of years and she can do nothing but stand by, watching it happen.

       She knows he’s smart and that he works hard. He deserves his success. But doesn’t she deserve success, too? She’s just as smart, just as hard-working, but no one will ever give her an opportunity, because she was born a girl. There’s nothing she can do about that.

       She wants to be by his side, to share his accomplishments, but she never will.

       She wants that impossible dream most of all.

       William’s scoff is barely audible. “All right,” he says. “Well, when you want to talk, you let me know.” The frustration is obvious in his voice. Eliza knows she’s upset him.

       That was her goal, but she takes no pleasure in it.

       He turns to leave, and the tears burn Eliza’s eyes, but she makes no move to stop him. The door slams shut behind William as he leaves the room.

       As soon as he’s gone, she lies down on the sofa and cries quietly into the cushions.   

Chapter Text

         “Now, Jimmy, I need you to look very hard and tell me if you recognize any of these men.”

         William lowers himself into a half-crouch, this soft command addressed to the child beside him. The boy is perhaps seven or eight, though William can’t be certain—his spindly body makes it difficult to tell, and the years of starvation have impacted his growth, made the bones sharp and protruding in his face. The boy raises his chin and looks up at William. He is clearly trying to be brave, despite the moisture in his eyes.

         “And after,” Jimmy says, barely above a whisper, “I’ll get to have cake?”

         A low chuckle slips from William’s mouth, but he quickly resumes his serious expression. “I promise.”

         “What kind?”

         “Chocolate, and a big glass of milk. It’s waiting for you in my office. Does that sound agreeable?”

         Little Jimmy nods vigorously.  William suddenly wonders when the boy last had chocolate cake. If he’s ever had it in his short life.

         A moment passes in silence. It is very late, even the night owls at Scotland Yard having gone home, but William can’t go home, not until he gets this identification. Jimmy stares at that thin piece of glass, his chin trembling as he says: “Can they see me?”

         His bony hand is shaking, clenched so tightly that William can see all his feeble muscles, the pull of sinew. He reaches over and takes that bony hand in his, holding it in his much larger one and squeezing gently. “I promise,” he tells Jimmy, “that they cannot see you. They won’t hear you. They won’t know you’re here, and they can’t hurt you.” Off Jimmy’s still uncertain look, William cocks an eyebrow. “Haven’t I kept my promises to you so far?”

         Jimmy nods.  

         “So, if I promise you that you’ll be safe, can you promise me that you’ll be brave?”

         “Yes, Mr. Inspector.”

         It’s not a way William has ever been addressed before, but hearing young Jimmy say it so innocently, he can’t bear to correct the boy. A slight smile rises to his lips, and he raises himself into a standing position, nodding over to the glass. “Come. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”

         He leads Jimmy over, the boy quaking beside him.  He is too short to see the lineup, so one of the constables brings over a box of files for him to stand on. As he steps up, Jimmy’s knees wobble, and William quietly entreats him to look at these men and say if he’s seen any of them before.

         Jimmy’s chin is on his chest, like he is afraid to look. William clutches his hand tighter, quietly repeating his request to the boy, his eyes focused on that malnourished, young face. Slowly, Jimmy looks up.  

         His eyes—big and brown, accentuated by long, delicate lashes—take in the scene before him. As he scans the lineup of six men, the trembling in his legs begins to subside, and William feels Jimmy squeeze his hand back, the lad holding onto him as best as he possibly can.

         After several silent moments, during which Williams scarcely dares to breathe, Jimmy’s eyes go back over the lineup a second time. This time, he stops on number three. Something touches his eyes, and William watches him swallow, face pale as a ghost.

         Jimmy turns his head, and those brown eyes focus on William. “Number three, Mr. Inspector.”

         William exhales inaudibly. That’s their suspect, but he can’t celebrate getting their man just yet. He needs Jimmy to say the words. “And,” William prompts, “how do you know this man?”

         Jimmy’s lips falter. “Because, Mr. Inspector. He killed my mother.”

         The words are what William needed to hear, but something about them—perhaps the way they’re said, the look in Jimmy’s eyes as he speaks—plunges like a dagger into William’s heart. He doesn’t say anything as he helps Jimmy off the makeshift step, passing the boy’s hand off to the awaiting constable.

         “Tell the superintendent,” he whispers, “that the boy identified Horace Dent.”

         The constable nods, obediently starting to lead Jimmy towards the door, but halfway there, Jimmy stops, turns back to look at William. His eyes are so wide and wet, those lashes blinking slowly. “Did I do a good job, Mr. Inspector?” he asks. “Can I have my cake and milk now?”

         Jimmy eats every last bite of chocolate cake and drinks every last bit of milk. When he’d been escorted into William’s office, his eyes had been wide as saucers, his voice awed as he asked “Mr. Inspector” if he was someone really important.

         As Jimmy devours his treat, William stands off to the side and watches the boy lick every crumb from his dirty fingers. William leans over to his boss, whispering: “What will happen to him now?”

         The superintendent shrugs. “He may have to testify at the trial. But that’s a long way away yet.”

         William doesn’t tear his eyes away from Jimmy as he speaks. “No,” he says, “I meant tonight.”

         “What do you mean, Wellington?”

         He doesn’t understand what part of the question is confusing the superintendent. “Tonight,” he repeats. “Where is he going to sleep?”

         In his peripheral vision, he sees the superintendent turn his head, a quizzical look raising his brows. “Where else?” he says, like it’s a stupid question William is asking. “The workhouse.”

         William’s expression drops. Immediately, his heart plunges to his feet.

         The superintendent either doesn’t notice the change in him or doesn’t care. “The boy has nowhere else to go, Wellington. His mother being dead doesn’t change any of that. Really, I thought you would know that already.”

         William doesn’t respond.

         Across the room, Jimmy tilts his head back to get the last drop of milk, and it trickles down his lips.

         The carriage doesn’t drop William off at home until two o’clock, and the entire street is hushed. As he puts his key in the lock, hangs up his hat and coat, he observes the house for any signs of his wife and doesn’t find any. Eliza is probably asleep.

         Which is good, because, for once in his life, he doesn’t feel like talking to her.

         He knows he should probably go up to bed himself, for his limbs ache and his head hurts, but for some reason, he can’t make himself do it. Instead, he goes into the drawing room, not bothering to turn on any of the lamps as he sits on the sofa. William stares into the empty fireplace, elbows resting on his knees, hands folded in front of his face.

         Where is Jimmy right now?

         He imagines the boy being led by some matron, roughly changed into pajamas falling apart at the seams, placed into one of many uniform beds lined up in the hundreds. Perhaps “bed” is too generous a word. The one William slept in for years was more like a mattress, no more than five inches, placed directly on the floor.

         His vision blurs, and William shuts his eyes, pinches his nose. “God damn it.” He silently tells himself not to cry, and when that doesn’t work, commands himself not to. The tears burn his eyes, hot and fast. He tries to blink them back but can’t.

         In the darkness of his mind, he cannot shake the thought of Jimmy: tired, cold, hungry. Living in a merciless world, now made all the crueler without a mother.

         William buries his face into his hands and cries.

         He can’t stop himself. The tears demand release, strong enough to shake his shoulders and wrench a sob from his throat. When was the last time he cried like this? Perhaps when he was about Jimmy’s age. Tears were a luxury he had not allowed himself for so long. Ever since he struck out on his own, he told himself that he had no time for crying, that tears were for people who had given up, and he was not going to give up, not ever. He was going to fight until the very last, and die trying if he had to.

         But, now, William can’t help himself. The events of the day come rushing back over him in a wave, and he cries into his palms: for Jimmy, for dead mothers, and—perhaps—for himself.

         The drawing room door bursts open, and he lurches upright in his seat, quickly wiping his eyes with his thumb. “There you are!” Eliza’s voice, clearly irritated. “Where have you been? I was five minutes away from checking the morgues!”

         The room brightens with a faint glow as she turns on the gas lamp, and William ducks his head, dabbing at his face with the collar of his shirt. Meanwhile, Eliza approaches the sofa, continuing to rant and rave.

         “Honestly, William, do you know what time it is? You could’ve at least sent a note! Then, I could’ve gone to bed, but oh no, I was up with anxiety wondering whether you were dead. If I pulled something like this, you would—”

         She circumvents the sofa and stops abruptly, her sentence cut off with a choke. “Are you all right?”

         Tentatively, he raises his head. She’s standing mere feet from him, dressed in her nightgown and robe, blond hair hanging down her back in a mass of loose waves, the way she knows he likes best. And her wide eyes are fixed on his face, her own going pale.

         William sniffs and shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he lies, his first instinct being to keep this to himself. It’s one thing to cry to yourself in the dark. It’s another to tell your wife about it in the light. “Just a long day—”

         Eliza doesn’t let him finish, approaching the sofa and seizing his hand. “Are you really going to lie to me now?”

         The words aren’t spoken with irritation, but softly, mixed with friendly jest and genuine concern. When he catches Eliza’s eyes, they’re looking at him with such tenderness, waiting for an answer.

         Another tear slips down his cheek, and William curses, rubs at it with his fist.

         His wife murmurs his name and joins him on the sofa. She curls up next to him, half in his lap, and wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she says.

         “Eliza, I’m—”

         “Do not,” she says, “say that you’re fine. I won’t believe you.” She raises an eyebrow. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”

         He appreciates the sentiment, but this isn’t something they can fix. William knows that Eliza always tackles problems with gusto, but even her ingenuity can’t make things better for Jimmy. Can’t make things better for the thousands of boys and girls like him across this city. Maybe even millions.

         Relenting, William rests his head against his wife’s. Eliza holds him tighter, waiting for the moment when he will be ready to speak.

         “It was a case,” he begins, and he feels her nod, silently encouraging him to go on. “This woman, found strangled in an alleyway in St. Pancras. Her name was Mary. Mary Green. And she”—he takes a deep breath—“she lived at St. Pancras workhouse.”

         Eliza’s hand—which, until then, had been rubbing up and down his shoulder—momentarily stalls. “Oh, William…” Clearly, she can guess where this is going. 

         But he presses on. He can’t let her interrupt, because if she does, then he won’t be able to get the story out. “She was begging, apparently. Begging to get out of the workhouse. One of her sons had already died in there—tuberculosis, I think. Her other son…her other son was with her. Jimmy. He watched his mother be killed.”

         He lifts his face, and Eliza is watching him with a composed expression, though he swears the corners of her eyes glimmer. “A man called Horace Dent tried to solicit sex from her, and when Mary refused, he strangled her. Jimmy was hiding behind the rubbish, so he wasn’t seen. We found them both and brought Dent in for a lineup. Jimmy, he—he identified Dent.” A slight smile rises to William’s lips unbidden at the thought of the boy’s face. “I gave him milk and chocolate cake in my office, for being so brave.”

         Eliza doesn’t say anything for several moments. Her hand resumes its earlier motion, moving up and down his arm. “You got justice for her,” she says at last. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

         William laughs mirthlessly, a sound scarcely above a scoff. “Yes, but…Jimmy. He’s just a little boy, Eliza. A little boy left completely alone in this world, with no mother, no one who loves him.” A long pause, then: “I know what that’s like.”

         That’s really the heart of the matter, isn’t it? William sees victims and witnesses every day, including young ones, but none of them have ever touched him like this boy Jimmy did, with his bony body and sad brown eyes. Because when he looked into those sad eyes or took in that malnourished frame, he saw himself. He knows what Jimmy is going through, and how badly it hurts.

         He spent his childhood in a workhouse. He didn’t know the love of a father. And he watched his mother die—lying on a thin workhouse pallet, with blood on her lips instead of hands about her throat, but watching the light drain from your mother’s eyes is horrible, no matter how it happens. It’s something you can never get out of your mind no matter how hard you try.

         He begins to cry again, dropping his face into his hand, and Eliza murmurs to him, hugging him with one arm while reaching for his hand with the other. “I’m sorry,” she says, taking William’s free hand in hers. “I’m sorry for him—and for you.”

         “I don’t want pity, Eliza.”

         “I’m not trying to pity you. I’m just telling you…I know how hard that must have been. And I’m sorry that you had to live through it, but I’m certain that you made what was sure to be a very difficult day more bearable for that little boy.”

         William sniffs.  Reluctantly, he accepts his wife’s hand, weaves his fingers through hers. “How can you possibly know that?”

         “Because I know you,” she answers without hesitation. “And I know what a wonderful man you are.”

         Jimmy’s voice echoes in his head. Mr. Inspector. The corners of William's mouth lift, just slightly, so slightly you can’t even really call it a smile.

         He sits back on the sofa, gathering his emotions, and when Eliza rests her head against his neck, he doesn’t fight her, instead accepting the offered intimacy. “If you want to talk about it,” she says, “or anything, I’m here. Or, if you prefer, we can just sit here in silence for a while. We can do whatever you want.”

         The way she says it—genuinely, openly, without pressure—opens his heart. He really does love his wife…

         William sighs, considers. What can he share with her while keeping himself in check? Something meaningful, but safe? “Did you know,” he says at last, “that I never had cake until I was ten years old? Until then, I thought it was only for rich people.”

         Eliza blinks at him in surprised silence, but when he looks at her, a smile stretches across her face, and she laughs. “You would have thought I was very rich when I was young, then. I used to take sweets from the kitchen all the time.”

         “Ivy allowed that?”

         “No, but I was sneaky.”

         “Was?” he jokes. They share a soft chuckle at that.

         A melancholy smile plays with William’s lips. “My mother always promised me that someday we were going to have our own house, with our own food, and big beds, with canopies. She really wanted a canopy, I think. She deserved one.” She never got to have it, of course. Anne Wellington was a good woman who deserved more than the twenty-five sad years life gave her. It is so strange to think that he is her son, and yet he is older than she will ever get to be. She never turned thirty, never had a grey hair. Never saw her boy grow up.

         There’s a beat of silence, William lost in his thoughts, Eliza running her thumb across his palm. “I’m sure,” she says at last, “that your mother would be very proud of you, and all your accomplishments. You have become an amazing detective, an amazing man—and an amazing husband.”

         His lips reluctantly lift. He hopes his mother would be proud. He likes to think so.

         Clearing her throat, Eliza takes his hand more forcefully, standing from the sofa and pulling him up with her. “Come along. I am exhausted, and I want to fall asleep in my own bed, in the arms of my husband, whom I love very much.”

         Her eyes glint, and William holds her hand, nodding his agreement. “That can be arranged,” he says, and Eliza beams, practically dragging him along after her in the direction of the stairs.

         As they head to bed, he spares another thought for young Jimmy. William suspects that the boy will linger in his thoughts for a long time. He hopes that everything will work out for him in the end, that he will be able to heal from what he has suffered, that he will eventually find a home.

         As, William thinks, glancing at Eliza, he himself has done.

Chapter Text

            “Do I look appropriately desperate?” Eliza asks, checking her reflection in a shop window as they walk past. She’s not sure if she looks pale enough. Sad women are usually pale, aren’t they?

Chapter Text

         William returns home that Wednesday thinking it is going to be just an ordinary night.

         The sky is clear, the sun just beginning to set, and he turns the corner onto Knightly Lane, eager to see his wife. Their neighbor from across the street, Mrs. Marle, is out walking with her grandchildren as usual, and she bids him a ‘good evening.’ The children—a boy, aged five, and a girl, aged three—wave at William with their tiny hands, shy smiles on their faces. William smiles back at them, in a good mood after a particularly productive day. Everything in the world seems right.

         That is until he walks up to his and Eliza’s house and sees a strange woman showing herself out.

         William knows exactly what that means.

         She has her head bent, her shoulders slumped, the telltale sign of a defeated person, and she wrings the straps of her handbag as she steps onto the pavement. William gives her a weak smile, murmurs ‘Good day.’ When the poor creature lifts her head to meet his gaze, a flash of raw anger twists her features. She brushes past him and down the street without another word.

         William curses in his mind. God damn it, Eliza. That’s the third one this week.

         He lets himself into the house and calls her name, his wife yelling back to let him know she’s in the drawing room. When he enters, he finds her stretched on the sofa with her feet propped up, the book she’s reading resting on her belly. Recently, she’s started using that six-month bump as her personal portable table.

         William stops just short of reaching her, and he sighs. “What was wrong with this one?”

         Eliza tears her eyes away from her reading, tilting her head back to look at him. “She said she was in favor of corporal punishment. I’m not letting some woman hit our child, William. Honestly.”

         “But didn’t you say the one from last week was too soft?”

         “Well, yes, but I want our child to be fairly reprimanded—no hitting, but no letting them get away with murder either. Is that so hard to understand?”

         With a slight shake of his head, he lifts her feet so he might sit down on the sofa, then plops them back into his lap, massaging her ankle. “Eliza,” he says calmly, “I understand. However, we’ve had at least a dozen nurserymaids visit us, and you haven’t found a single one you like.”

         “Well, perhaps if there were better candidates—”

         “They’ve all come highly recommended, but you’ve found fault in each of them. Some were large, yes, but others were small, like the one you said was too old—”

         Eliza discards her book on the table and leans back, arms behind her head. “William,” she says, “a woman in her seventies cannot chase after a child! Especially if that child is as willful as us—”

         He continues. “—or too relaxed—”

         “She acted like she didn’t even want the job—”

         “—or too French.”

         “Now, it wasn’t her being French that was the problem! It was how she was constantly looking down at me like she was horrified by my unsophisticated British ways. I don’t want someone who’s going to teach our child to think us uncultured just because we’re not from the Continent.”

         In response, William sighs and rubs his temples.

       Eliza made it clear to him before they married that she would—under no circumstances—give up her career to be a homemaker, and he accepted that about her. Her pregnancy complicated things, however, as with both of them working, they will need a creative solution for childcare. They have Ivy, of course, but she is busy enough with her own duties. It would be inconsiderate for them to foist an infant upon her for eight hours every day. A nurserymaid seemed like the best solution. Thus, for the past month, they’ve been interviewing candidates with little success. 

         Every time they think they've found someone, something goes wrong. First of all, many of the women charge exorbitant rates, just because they once served in the household of an earl or a foreign ambassador. While William and Eliza make decent livings, they don’t have a nobleman or dignitary’s disposable income. At the same time, while there are cheaper options, they do not want to entrust their firstborn to someone who has no experience taking care of children. And though they’ve managed to find several candidates who are both reasonably priced and experienced, Eliza has sent each one away from their house with some reason as to why they’re wrong. William is starting to feel hopeless.

         He takes a deep breath, then lifts his head. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll keep trying. We still have a few months left to find someone. And if we don’t…” God, he doesn’t even want to think about such a thing. “If we don’t, you’re already planning to take six weeks off anyway. Perhaps you can extend it.”

         He thinks this is a reasonable proposition, but Eliza’s quick refusal lets him know she disagrees. “Absolutely not.”

         Must she always argue with him? He is not feeling up to it right now. “Eliza, I wish I could do more, but I’ve already had to sell my soul to the superintendent just for a few days off after you give birth.” His boss had looked at him like he was crazy for asking for even that. I’ve fathered six children myself, the man had laughed, and when they’re first born, they’re not that interesting. The idea that William might want to parent his own infant had seemed foreign to him.

         Eliza starts to protest. “William—”

         “Christ, Eliza, why not?”  

         She retracts her feet from his lap and sits up quickly enough to make the sofa shake. “Because, William, then six weeks will become two months, and two months will become three, and we’ll keep making excuses until I never go back.”

         “And would that be so bad? Perhaps you’ll like it.”

         He knows as soon as he’s said the words that they were unquestionably the wrong thing to say.

         Eliza stares at him in silence, and the look on her face is perhaps the most scathing look she’s ever given him. “Yes,” she insists, “it would be so bad, because then you know what would happen, William? I would resent you. Maybe not at first, but eventually, I would. I love you, but if you did this to me, someday, I would look at you and our child and all I would think is that you were responsible for taking something I love from me. I would hate both of you. Is that what you want?”

         He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Eliza bursts into tears.

         For a moment, he says nothing, her sudden onslaught of tears startling him into speechlessness, and then he inches closer to her on the sofa, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as he presses his lips lightly to the top of her head. “Hey. Hey, hey, it’s all right. I don’t have any intention of taking your career away from you, all right? We’ll figure something out. Don’t be sad—”

         “I’m not sad,” she interjects. “I’m…I’m just so frustrated!”

         She sniffles, resting her head on his shoulder, and he rubs up and down her arm, waiting for her to speak. Though ordinary Eliza isn’t much of a crier, pregnant Eliza is, and he’s learned over the past six months that when she’s upset about something, the best thing he can do is sit there and be as comforting as he can.

         After several moments, she’s recovered herself enough to talk, and he rubs her back as she dries her wet eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Do you remember,” she asks, “how I’ve been working this case for the Marquess of Esthwaite?”

         He nods, though he’s not sure where she’s going with this. Landing Lord Esthwaite had been a triumph for her. The man is one of the most well-known peers in England, and many believe he is a shoo-in to become Prime Minister someday. After he hired her, Eliza talked about nothing else for days on end.

         “Well, his secretary told me Lord Esthwaite was thrilled with our progress on the case. Everything was going so well, until…”

         “Until what?”

         Eliza lifts her face to look at him, her eyes wet and glistening. “Until today, when he showed up at my office unannounced, took one look at me, and immediately said he was taking his business elsewhere. Couldn’t have a married mother investigating his case, he said. It wouldn’t be right, he said—as well as some other choice words about my conduct I’d rather not repeat.”

         He suddenly understands what she’s getting at. “Eliza…”

         But she shakes her head, continuing to talk. “It’s so frustrating,” she says, “because no one tells men when they get married or have children that they’re not capable of doing their job anymore, but for women…once you’re a wife and a mother, that’s all you are to some people. You cease to be your own individual, and they start looking to your husband or your son, because what does your opinion matter when you have a man to tell you what your opinions are? And I don’t want to be like that, William. I want to be with you, and still be myself. But now I don’t know if anyone will ever take me seriously ever again. Not that it matters if I can’t find a nurserymaid, because no one will ever hire me if I can’t go to the office…”

         The tears start up again, and she lowers her face into his shoulder, crying into his jacket. “And now Lord Esthwaite is refusing to pay me for the hours I’ve already spent investigating! I don’t know what I’m going to do. What will people say when they find out he fired me? What if he tells all his friends about the impropriety of the pregnant lady investigator? What if no one ever hires me again?”

         They sit in silence for a moment, Eliza sniffling into his shoulder, and William rests his head lightly atop hers, holding her closer to him. “Do you,” he asks half-jokingly, “want me to have him arrested?”

         The sentiment gets a reluctant, hiccupping laugh from her. “Be serious, William.”

         “I am serious. He had a contract with you, didn’t he? I can drag His Lordship down to the Yard and teach him a lesson. Perhaps I’ll arrest him in a public place to maximize his humiliation.”

         She laughs harder, and when she looks up, she gives him a tentative little smile, a tear dripping down her cheek. He wipes that tear away with his thumb. It’s nice to see her smile again, even if it’s a small one.

         “That won’t be necessary, but thank you for offering.”

         Now that she’s no longer crying, he kisses her softly atop the head, taking her hand in his own. “You,” he insists, “will be taken seriously again. You’re not the type of person to let what someone like Lord Esthwaite says get you down, are you?”

         After a moment’s hesitation, Eliza shakes her head against his shoulder. “No,” she admits in a small voice.

         “No, you’re not. If anything, you should let what he said inspire you to prove him wrong. You’re Eliza Scarlet Wellington. You don’t let anyone tell you what to do.” He smiles, his thumb gliding across her cheek. “As your husband, I know that better than anyone.”

         Eliza gives him a look, but the corners of her mouth pop up.

         With a sigh, she leans in to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

         “Of course.” He takes her face in his hands, dropping one last kiss to the tip of her nose. Though he has never had to face the problems she’s facing, will never know what it feels like, he knows he doesn’t want her to be sad. Especially not during what’s supposed to be the happiest time of their lives.

         “And don’t worry about the nurserymaid,” he adds. “I’ll figure something out.”

         Eliza looks at him like she doesn’t quite believe it, but says nothing.

         He will figure something out. He doesn’t know how, but he will.

         William mulls over their predicament for the next day and a half. Mid-day Friday, the solution hits him out of the blue right while he’s sitting at his desk at the Yard, a sudden stroke of genius. He leaves early that day, wanting to set his plan in motion immediately.

         When he slips inside the house later that evening, no dejected woman is making her way down the front steps, and he can scarcely contain his smile as he steps inside, calls Eliza’s name. He doesn’t receive an answer.

         He discovers why when he steps into the drawing room and finds her curled up on the sofa, her book discarded on the table, one arm tucked under her head, the other hand folded over her belly as she sleeps. William just stands there admiring her for a moment: her peaceful expression, the rising and falling of her chest, her tousled hair. A sudden rush of love for her overcomes him. She really is the best woman in the world.

         He kneels beside the sofa and brushes her hair out of her face, his lips touching her forehead. Eliza’s eyes open halfway, and when they land on him, she shoots him a sleepy smile. “Hmm, what time is it?”

         “Half past five. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Go back to sleep.”

         “Oh, don’t worry. I”—she yawns—“plan on it.”

         She closes her eyes again, sighing contently at the feeling of William’s fingers in her hair, and he’s about to leave her to nap a little longer, but then both her eyes fly open. She scrunches her nose at him. “Wait. Why are you home so early?”

         “I left early. I had to”—he pauses, trying not to sound cryptic—“go somewhere.”

         This attempt, however, completely fails, for Eliza pushes herself into a sitting position, giving him a suspicious look. “Go where?”

         “An errand. It was nothing.”

         “Nothing? Well, now you must tell me.”

         He was planning to save his announcement for dinner, but Eliza is looking at him with intrigue, and William’s resolve wavers. Fine, he’ll tell her. “You know Mrs. Marle? From across the street?”

         “Of course. Nice woman, fifty or so, husband owns a pharmacy. When my father died, she brought me flowers and a plum cake. Why do you ask?”

         “I went to see her today. You know how Mrs. Marle watches her grandchildren every day, since her son is widowed?” Eliza nods, and William takes a deep breath, before delivering his announcement: “Well…I asked her, and she said that when the baby comes, she’d be happy to watch him or her during the week, if that’s agreeable to you.”

         For several moments, Eliza stares at him in slow-blinking silence, clearly processing the implications of what he’s said. “For how much?”

         William smiles. “Nothing. She said she likes babies and she’s happy to do it. Besides, she’s still grateful for your help when Harold’s work was burglarized. Said you can consider it her returning the favor.”

         Eliza opens her mouth, then closes it without speaking, her eyes gone wide. For a moment, William wonders if she’s gone into shock. She’s not going to faint, is she? “The only thing,” he continues quickly, “is she can only keep the baby until teatime, so one of us will have to be there by then, or Ivy will—”

         He’s effectively cut off when Eliza throws her arms around his neck, and she squeezes him tightly, smiling into his hair. “Oh, William. Thank you! You”—she pauses, and he can hear the tears in her voice—“you have no idea how much this means to me.”

         He smiles and hugs her back. He’d hoped that this would please her, and the teary gratefulness in her voice goes straight to his heart. “You’re welcome.”

         When she pulls back, her eyes shimmer, and he touches her cheek. “I want you to be happy, Eliza. I hope you know that.”

         She looks at him with the softest, tenderest smile, and she takes his face in her hands as she kisses him on the lips. “Thank you, my love,” she whispers to him, and he smiles, then kisses her again.

         He knows pregnancy hasn’t been the easiest for her, and if he can do this one thing to take some worries off her mind, he’s happy to do it. He wants her to be as happy as she’s made him.

         He suspects he’s successful, for this time when Eliza cries, it’s definitely not out of frustration.

Chapter Text

       Everybody says that childbirth is a beautiful thing, the miracle of life and all that nonsense. Eliza is starting to think they’re all liars.

       As pain shoots through her body again, she grips the edge of the mattress, hard enough to whiten her knuckles, and mumbles an unladylike word. Ivy is there beside her bed, holding her hand, but it is little consolation at this moment.

       “You are doing excellent, my dear,” Mrs. Byrd says, the midwife offering a reassuring smile. “Just breathe through it.” Meanwhile, Mrs. Byrd’s assistant—a young woman of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three—flits about the bedroom like a moth, gathering blankets and hot water and all the other things that are supposed to see Eliza through this agony.

       “I hate this,” she says to Ivy, once the contraction ends. “It’s just started, and I already want it to be over.”

       Ivy pats her knee. “You’re doing so well, Lizzie. Just think about holding this sweet baby.”

       Eliza doesn’t know if ‘sweet’ is the right word for her child. ‘Stubborn’ seems more applicable. They’ve already overstayed their welcome inside her by almost two weeks, and now, they refuse to come out.

       She leans back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling.

       She wants William.

       She knows it’s not considered proper for men to be in the birthing room, but at this moment, she doesn’t care. She wants to hold his hand, hear him tell her everything will be all right. It sounds emotional and silly, but well, if there were ever a time to be emotional and silly, she thinks it is now.

       “Are you certain,” Mrs. Byrd asks her kindly, “that you do not want any chloroform?”

       Eliza shakes her head. “No.” Though chloroform has been a cosmopolitan childbirth trend these past few decades—popularized by Her Majesty the Queen, a known detractor of all things pregnancy—she has done her research and doesn’t want any. Though chloroform does numb pain, it also numbs all the other senses, and the last thing Eliza wants is to be incoherent.

       She looks over at Ivy. “I don’t want chloroform. I want—"

       “Eliza!”

       The sound of that familiar voice calling her name is followed by feet thundering on the stairs, and Eliza cuts herself off mid-sentence, her heart in her throat. The bedroom door opens, and when she catches William’s gaze from across the room—his eyes on her and only her—it makes her tear up.

       “Sir,” Mrs. Byrd’s assistant starts to say, “you can’t—"

       They aren’t listening, however. Ivy instinctively moves out of the way, allowing William to occupy the place by Eliza’s side. When he drops down at the edge of her bed, Eliza greets him with a teary-eyed smile. “You came.”

       “Of course I did.” William brushes her hair back from her face, his hands on her cheeks as he looks at her with loving concern.  “How are you? Are you in too much pain?”

       “No, I’m better now that you’re—”

       “Sir,” the assistant repeats, “you can’t be in—”

       William effectively cuts her off with a biting look. “And who is going to stop me?”

       The girl blanches and shuts her mouth.

       Mrs. Byrd does not seem bothered by the intrusion. “Hush, Mary,” she whispers to her assistant, “let’s leave them be.” Then, smiling at Eliza, she says: “We’ll give you both a minute,” before ushering Ivy and young Mary out of the room.

       Once the door closes behind them, William brings Eliza’s hand to his lips, kissing her along her knuckles. “I am so glad you’re here,” she says, meaning it.

       “I came as soon as I heard. When did your pain start?”

       Eliza bites down on her lip, hesitating before she answers. “I started feeling a little off before bed last night—”

       “Before bed?” The concern on William’s face is evident. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

       “It was not so bad yet! Besides, I have been trying to get this baby out of me for two weeks without success, so I didn’t want everyone to panic over nothing. It was only this morning that I started to—”

       She is cut off by another painful contraction, and she doubles over, sucking air in through clenched teeth. William leans closer to her, holding her hand, and she grips it as tightly as the contraction is gripping her. “You’re all right,” he assures her. “Just breathe.”

       She tries, in through the nose and out through the mouth, squeezing William’s hand as tightly as she can. When the contraction ends, she sighs, relaxes, and looks up at him in silent apology. “I think I may have broken your hand.”

       He smiles, flexes his fingers. “Well, luckily, I have two of them.”

       Eliza releases a shaky laugh at his words, but then grows serious. She is holding William’s hand gently now, and his thumb glides across her palm, light as a feather. She knows what she is about to ask him is unconventional, and she speaks in a soft whisper. “William…will you stay with me?”

       To his credit, her husband does not seem thrown by the request. “Do you want me to?”

       “Yes. Yes, please, don’t go.” Eliza knows that she is strong and capable enough to withstand childbirth on her own, but the thing is, she doesn’t want to be alone. Not when she could have him there.

       William nods, and the moment before he responds feels long. “Then,” he says at last, “I won’t leave your side, even if they try to drag me away.”

       Her chest warms with a sense of relief—relief, and love for him. “Thank you,” Eliza says, before bringing her face closer to his for a gentle kiss. She can feel his smile.

       Their touching moment, however, abruptly ends when Eliza is overtaken by another contraction. She pulls back with a curse, squeezing William’s hand in a death grip.

       Well, it was nice while it lasted.

       Here is another thing Eliza has learned about childbirth: it is very, very long, and very, very painful.

       Over the next several hours, she does her best to breathe through the contractions, clutching William’s hand or the blanket or the bedpost as pain shoots through her torso, often mumbling unladylike words. To his credit, William scarcely leaves her side and lets her squeeze the Hell out of his hand, and he takes it like a champion when Eliza tells him she wishes he had never been born.

       “You,” she snarls at him around three p.m., when she has been in labor for six hours with still no baby, “did this to me. This is your fault! You sick bastard, you just had to stick your, ahh—” The pain is overpowering, and she can’t finish her condemnations, speaking becoming too difficult.

       “I’m sorry,” William says, rubbing her back. “Do you want more water? Remember your breathing.”

       Though it is well-intentioned advice, it does nothing to ease her discomfort, and Eliza looks at him with eyes like daggers. “Don’t touch me. You are never to touch me ever again, you understand? Not a single finger! That’s what got me into this position!”

       William does as he is bid, giving her space, but he suppresses a smile at her hyperbolic use of absolutes. “Of course, Eliza. Whatever you say…”

       Mrs. Byrd and her assistant come to check on her, but her labor is progressing achingly slow—or, well, what feels to Eliza like achingly slow. Mrs. Byrd tells them that everything is going normally, and first childbirths are usually long, but these words do not make Eliza feel any better. If she has to stay in this bed for much longer, she might scream.

       At one point, around three-thirty, she and William find themselves alone in the room—Mrs. Byrd is getting more water, the assistant has been sent on an errand, and Ivy is in the midst of deep-cleaning their house, an attempt to distract her worried mind. Eliza is between contractions, and when she looks over at William, remaining so loyally by her bedside, her heart softens. Now that she isn’t in pain and can actually think straight, she likes him again.

       “William?”

       At the sound of her voice, he looks up, patiently awaiting whatever abuse she’s about to hurtle at him, but Eliza smiles instead. “I love you. Thank you.”

       Her words make him smile as well. “Even though I’m the sick bastard who put you in this position?”

       “Even still.” And then, not joking, she says: “I really do love you.”

       In response, he lifts her hand to his lips to kiss.

       As afternoon fades into evening, boredom also settles in. Ivy forces William to get up and stretch his legs for a little while, promising to sit with Eliza in the meantime, but he is back in fifteen minutes, not seeming to know what else to do with himself. “Men,” Ivy says with a playful roll of the eyes, which pries a reluctant laugh from Eliza. Her housekeeper squeezes her hand and then leaves them once again, to busy herself with sweeping every inch of the house.

       “I am so bored,” Eliza tells William around five. She feels like she’s been staring at these bedroom walls forever. “Talk to me about something. Something to distract me.” A pain cuts her off, strong enough to make her feel as if her body may split in two. “Anything!”

       “Well, all right.” William fidgets by her bed, clearly trying to think of something to say, and Eliza gives him a pleading look, desperate for a distraction. “The baby,” he supplies, and Eliza narrows her eyes. Really? He couldn’t think of a more creative topic?

       “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl? This is your last chance to guess.”

       Eliza grits her teeth, breathes through her pain. “Right now, all I can think about is how much I want them out of me.” But once her contraction is over, she indulges him. “I think the opposite of whatever you think.”

       “Ah, still belligerent, I see.”

       “Always.” She sighs, smiles. “I bet he’s a boy. Only a boy could cause me this much trouble.”

       William’s lips lift in return. “I don’t know,” he says. “I would say it’s a girl who has caused me the most trouble.” The two of them share a knowing glance. “Now, what else shall I talk to you about?”

       Eliza adjusts her position in bed, contemplates. “Work?”

       He raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but then Eliza is back to cursing, grasping his hand, and William quickly obliges, not going to question his distressed wife. “Well, have you heard about that woman who was murdered? Found parts of her in four different neighborhoods.”

       She sits up straighter in bed, momentarily forgetting how much she hurts. Eliza knows that a woman’s brutal murder is not something to get excited over, but she can’t help it. Finally, something else to think about! “Are the police sure it’s just one woman? Not four different murders?”

       “Fairly sure. The arms matched—”

       They go like this for a while: William telling her about all the recent cases, Eliza providing her theories, and when he runs out, he goes downstairs to get a copy of that day’s newspaper to see what other salacious crimes are lurking in its ink. Around six p.m., Mrs. Byrd and the assistant enter the room just as William and Eliza are discussing disembowelment.

       “Well,” the midwife says, smiling, “I have to say, this is a first. But whatever works for you, my dear.” Meanwhile, her assistant looks from one of them to the other, wide-eyed and visibly stunned.

       Eliza thinks that girl probably hates them.

       By eight p.m., even the most interesting of crimes prove insufficient distractions. Eliza’s pains seem to come one on top of the other, sixty to ninety seconds each, and Mrs. Byrd says this is the worst part. “But it’s good,” she says, trying to be reassuring. “It means you’re almost done. Just another hour, maybe two.”

       Two hours? Eliza doesn’t know how she is supposed to stand this for another minute. Right now, she feels as if she might literally die. Surely, being stabbed would hurt less than this.

       William wipes the sweat from her brow, holds her hand, says all the encouraging things he can think of. “Be grateful,” Eliza mumbles to him, as her body goes from freezing cold to boiling hot in mere seconds, “that you are a man and shall never have to endure such torment.”        

       “Believe me,” he mutters under his breath, “I am.” But then he immediately goes back to adjusting her blankets, asking if there’s anything he can get her. Eliza resists the urge to throttle him.

       By nine p.m., she is exhausted. She has fought for twelve hours, and she doesn’t know how she is going to take it anymore. When she looks over at William, he appears tired, too, though he hasn’t shown it. “William?” she says, her voice coming out sounding timid. “Please…don’t let me die.”

       It’s almost funny: over the last nine months, William has always been the worried one out of the two of them, Eliza at turns annoyed by or laughing at his overprotective nature. Really, the idea of giving birth hadn’t scared her. Surely, if she could catch criminals, she could deliver a baby?

       Except now, in the throes of her agony, she feels herself seized by a fear as ancient and primal as life itself. So many women die in childbirth, and she is not ready to die. There’s so much more she wants to do. And what if something happens to her child, if all of this has been for nothing? What if something happens to them both? She can’t leave William in this world alone—

       “Eliza,” he says. “You are not going to die”

       “How can you be sure? Women and children die during birth all the time—you’ve said so yourself—”

       “Because I forbid it.”

       The sheer stubbornness of the statement gets a choked laugh from her. “William, even someone as stubborn as you cannot argue with Death.”

       “I can and I will. Eliza”—he takes her hands in both of his, looking her in the eye—“you are not going to die. You are going to stick around and argue with me for many years more.”

       She starts to form an objection, but William doesn’t let her get a word in, answering her question before she can voice it. “How do I know that? Because I know you. And I know there’s nothing in this world that you can’t do.”

       Rising tears make her chin tremble, though these tears are not of pain. “You really believe that?”

       A little smirk crosses his face. “Eliza, I learned not to doubt your abilities a long time ago.”

       His voice—filled with such trust and belief in her—makes it impossible to speak. Blinking back tears, Eliza answers him with a kiss, communicating her silent thanks. 

       They pull apart when Mrs. Byrd says it’s time to check her progress. Labor has been going on for so long, that Eliza fully expects Mrs. Byrd to tell her it’s still not time.

       Except when Mrs. Byrd stands up again, she clasps her hands together and smiles. “Well, looks like you’re fully dilated. Are you ready to have a baby now, my dear?”

       Eliza looks over at William, not sure whether she feels excited or panicked, and though she says nothing, he seems to read her mind. “I’ll be here with you the whole time,” he promises. “You can do this.”

       At his words, a renewed sense of resolve fills her, and Eliza smiles, squeezing his hand lightly in hers. He’s right, she can do this. Because he believes in her, and she believes in herself.

       “All right,” she says. “I’m ready.”

       She pushes for almost an hour, but it all passes by in a hazy fog of pain, Mrs. Byrd giving her instructions and encouragement that she can barely hear.

       “You’re a soldier, my dear girl,” the midwife says. “You’ve done exceptionally well. Just one more, and it’ll all be done.”

       It is just after ten p.m.—Tuesday, the first of May, 1888. Eliza squeezes William’s hand for dear life and gives this last push everything she has.

       For a moment, all the pain stops, and the room is still, the air almost seeming to hum with anticipation. This is the first time in thirteen hours that she should be able to relax, to breathe, but she can’t, she’s waiting, waiting for—

       That first cry splits the air, high-pitched and squalling.

       Immediately, Eliza collapses against the pillows, releasing a breath that she feels like she has held for an eternity. William is still holding her hand, and he brushes her hair back from her forehead, kissing her there.

       “You did it,” he whispers against her skin. “You were so, so brave, Eliza. I love you.”

       The assistant hands Mrs. Byrd scissors to cut the cord, and the midwife looks up at Eliza with a broad grin. “Well done, my dear. You have a beautiful baby boy.”

       Tears spring to her eyes immediately, and she hears William’s quiet, breathless laugh, a sound of shock and awe. Eliza clutches his hand, at a loss for words. She does not know if she has ever felt so many emotions at once before.

       She tries to catch a glimpse of the baby, whom Mrs. Byrd is currently cleaning off, but he is quickly bundled up and passed to Mrs. Byrd’s assistant. Eliza cannot see anything other than a flailing arm, a flash of hair.

       “Is he all right?” she asks, pushing herself up on her elbows despite how her lower half screams in protest. “Where are you taking him?”

       The assistant brings the baby to the dresser, turned into a makeshift examining table, and Mrs. Byrd smiles reassuringly. “He is just fine, my dear. My girl is going to take care of him while I take care of you. As soon as I’m done, I’ll bring him over so you can hold him, all right? Right now, I’m going to give your cord a little tug, so that the placenta will come out. It might feel a little strange, but I’ll try not to hurt you…”

       Eliza nods, though her pain is no longer on her mind. Already, her maternal instincts have kicked in, and all she wants is her baby. She looks over at William, lower lip wobbling as she attempts to keep herself from crying, and through her veil of tears, she can see him smiling at her. His hands tenderly cup her face, and his lips find her forehead once more.

     “You did so well, my love. I am so, so proud of you.”

       She can hear his emotion, his voice made thick, and the realization makes her own tears fall. Never in her life has she seen William cry from happiness. Half-crying, half-laughing, she says: “We have a son. Can you believe it?”

       William stares at her for a moment, his eyes focused on hers, and such love is reflected in them. “We have a son,” he repeats. “God, I love you.” When he kisses her, Eliza kisses him back with an outpouring of love and relief.

       Meanwhile, Mrs. Byrd checks Eliza, confirming that everything looks right, and once the child receives his own clean bill of health, Mrs. Byrd brings him over. “He is a lovely little boy,” the midwife says, smiling as she gently transfers him into Eliza’s awaiting arms. “Absolutely beautiful, and healthy—eight pounds, two ounces. Congratulations.”

       Eliza can only give her a watery smile in thanks, and Mrs. Byrd and her assistant quietly slip away, mumbling about giving them some time to get acquainted. The door closes behind them, but Eliza is hardly paying attention. Her eyes are only for her son.

       He isn’t crying anymore, his eyes closed, and one of his tiny hands has escaped his white blanket, reaching up to cover his face. “Hello, my darling,” she whispers to him, lifting his hand to kiss. “So, you are the one who was kicking me all these months, hmm? We’re so happy to meet you.”

       His little body is so soft in her arms, so warm. Just looking at him—this tiny being who lived underneath her heart, with his fine lashes and perfectly formed fingers and downy dark hair, the same color as his papa’s—makes Eliza feel like her heart may break. Never before had she known it was possible to love someone this much, this soon. Is this how her mother and father once felt about her? Did it consume them like this? How did they bear the weight of such strong love?

       When she looks at William, he is staring at her with shiny-eyed, wordless wonder, and Eliza beams at him. “Look at our little boy, William. Isn’t he wonderful?”

       He admires their child with a soft smile, placing his hand atop hers, their fingers joined over the baby blanket. “He is perfect,” he says, then shaking his head, as if in disbelief: “Absolutely perfect.”

       On that, they agree.

       “I’ll have to get used to not being the person you love most,” she says, teasing. “But if I must share you, I suppose I don’t mind doing so with our child.”

       “The two of you can be tied.” When William looks up at her again, his eyes are as wet as hers surely are. “I love you so much, Eliza. Thank you.”

       There is emotion in his voice and such tenderness in his expression. It’s enough to make her get choked up again, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I love you, too.”

       When William closes the distance between their faces, Eliza kisses him back, his mouth gentle and reverent on hers. Meanwhile, snuggled safely between them, their son drifts to sleep, having no idea what joy he has just brought, or how beloved he is.

       All right, Eliza concedes. Perhaps those people were right about childbirth. Because this certainly feels like a miracle to her.

Chapter Text

September, 1885 — First Anniversary

         In two weeks leading up to their first wedding anniversary, Eliza peppers William with at least a thousand guesses about what he’s bought her. And that’s his conservative estimate.

         “Hmm,” she says one day. “I bet it’s a print for my office wall.” But then the next she says, “It’s most definitely a book,” followed the next day by: “No, no, stationery, final answer.” Every day, she has another guess, and every day, William tells her she is wrong.

         It was Eliza’s idea that they should surprise each other with anniversary gifts—something related to paper, in accordance with tradition, not expensive, and very unexpected. She’d told him that she wanted to be surprised by what he got her, and yet, now she is all but begging him to tell her what it is. One day, William comes home from work to find her rummaging through the closets, trying to see if she can find it.

         (Luckily, William is a smart man who left the gift in his office at Scotland Yard.)

         Finally, the day arrives, and Eliza is beaming like a child on Christmas. William pours her a drink, suggests they have dinner first, but Eliza is too excited. Because William does not want to watch her leg bounce throughout their entire meal—and, okay, because the glimmer in her eye is rather endearing—he acquiesces.

         They sit facing each on the sofa, gifts laid out in the coffee table. The gift he got for her is large and rectangular, wrapped in blue paper, while hers for him is in a white envelope, his name written on the outside in her familiar hand. “Do you want to open yours first,” William asks, “or should I?”

         “You go first,” Eliza says, but William has just reached for the envelope when Eliza changes her mind. He suppresses a chuckle at his wife’s indecision.

         When she tears the first corner of the wrapping paper, William shifts in his seat, feeling a sudden rush of nervousness. Will she like it? He thought she would, but now that the moment’s come, he begins to doubt himself slightly. She said she didn’t want something expensive, but maybe she was just saying that? He takes a sip of whisky to quiet his nerves.

         The last bit of paper comes off, falling to the floor, and Eliza’s hands clench the sides of the picture frame, her eyes wide as saucers. Her silence doesn’t ease William’s nerves—his wife is never, ever silent, and he can think of so many reasons for what it might mean. “The Times?” she asks at last. “You got me a copy of The Times?”

         William nods. “But look at the date on it.”

         Eliza scans the paper, and when she finds her desired object, her eyes twinkle. “October, 1883. This is the article about the Rutledge case.”

         William nods again, waiting for her to say more.

         Eliza stares at it for another moment, and finally, she smiles. “It was the first time you and I made the front page.”

         Happiness is audible in her voice, and William smiles, too, glad to know she is pleased. “And, also, the first time we said we loved each other.”

         Beaming, Eliza leans over to give him a quick kiss. “This is the perfect gift! I’m going to hang it up in my office, so I can look at it all the time. Thank you.” She nods towards the envelope now, perhaps even more excited than she was before, if that’s even possible. “Now, your turn.”

         William breaks the seal on the envelope with his thumb, pulls out a slim sheet of paper. It is torn along the edge—ripped out of something? He unfolds it and recognizes Eliza’s handwriting. “What is it?”

         Eliza is scarcely breathing, literally and figuratively on the edge of her seat. “Look at the date on it,” she says, echoing his earlier words.

         William looks. Immediately, he realizes what this is. “Eliza…”

         “This is from my old childhood journal,” his wife explains, the broad grin on her face transforming into a small smile. She bites her lip. “I”—a blush steals to her cheeks—“wrote this the day I met you.”

         Something about her almost shy delivery tugs at his heartstrings, like he’s getting a glimpse at the girl she was back then. William drops his eyes and begins to read.

         Father’s new friend came by the house today. His name is William—William Wellington, like the Duke, though I mentioned the Duke of Wellington to him and I don’t think he knew who that was. He is two or three years older than me and tall, with nice hair. I took it upon myself to—like any good detective—study his behavior, and I must say I found him rather impudent, and most certainly ill-mannered. It’s really fascinating to meet someone who has seemingly no understanding of polite society. I intend to make a case study of him.

         But, despite all that, there is something about him that compels me. Even now I don’t know how to describe it to you. His eyes are intelligent, and there was this moment when he looked over at me, and he smiled. My stomach flipped when he did that. He has a very nice smile. I want to see it many more times.

         He’s very clever, too. I liked talking to him. It’s the first time in a long time—perhaps forever—that I feel like there’s something who can keep up with me, besides Father. I’m not saying that to be arrogant, Diary, it’s just the truth.

         Diary, you know how they say detectives have a natural instinct? Well, here is what mine is telling me about this William Wellington: I like him very much. And I can’t shake the feeling that he will be someone important to me.

         By the time he finishes reading, the page is blurry before William’s eyes. He blinks, takes a deep breath in, not wanting Eliza to see him cry.

         She is the love of his life, and he knew from the very first, too. He knew she was someone special.

         William looks at his wife. “Do you,” he says slowly, trying to disguise the emotion in his voice, “know how much I love you?”

         In response, Eliza smiles. “I do,” she says, “because I love you the same.”

September, 1886 — Second Anniversary

         Eliza Wellington is going to spend her second wedding anniversary alone.

         Well, not entirely alone. Ivy is going to make her favorite dinner, and Mr. Potts will join them, but Eliza’s husband is out of town. There are some cons to marrying a police inspector, one of them being that the Yard might send him to Lancashire at a moment’s notice. There’s been a triple murder in the countryside there that the local police aren’t capable of handling, and thus, William will be spending their anniversary dealing with constables and crime scenes instead of being with Eliza.

         Ivy gave her a pitying look this morning, but it is fine, honestly. An anniversary isn’t that different from any other day of the year, is it? And Eliza has work, too. She’s been busy herself with a murder and two robberies. Now, as she takes a cab back to her office after a particularly enlightening interview in Hampstead, she adjusts her gloves, sighs. So what if William isn’t here? She will take some notes about her interview, have dinner, then pass a quiet evening. She might take a bath, read a book, or squeeze a few more hours of work in. Indeed, it’s really not so bad to be alone…

         Even if it means William’s warmth won’t be beside her in bed. And she won’t get to kiss him. Or cuddle him. Or…

         Eliza lets out a sigh loud enough to turn the carriage driver’s head. God damn it, she does miss her husband. She wants to hear his voice, talk to him, touch him. All the little things she usually takes for granted.

         When she arrives back at her office, she has pulled herself together, and her secretary says there is a delivery waiting for her. For a moment, Eliza feels a rush of excitement. It must be those files from the Ottoman embassy! She requested them for a case and expected them to put up more of a fight. But no, her secretary says, and Eliza’s shoulders sink. It’s not from the Ottoman embassy, but someone else. The secretary has a faint smile on his lips as he says it. Annoyed by his coyness, Eliza enters her office and slams the door.

         What she finds waiting for her on her desk makes her stop in her tracks.

         It is a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers she has ever seen: dahlias the size of dinner plates, dainty Queen Anne’s lace, orange and red zinnias, artfully arranged in a glass vase tied with a scarlet bow. There is a card attached, and Eliza plucks it so she may read.

         My wife —

         We have officially been married for 730 days. I hate that we shall have to spend this one apart, but I hope these flowers are some form of consolation. They are beautiful, of course, but not as beautiful as you.

         Seeing as declarations don’t come natural to me, I will take this opportunity to write the words I don’t trust my lips to speak. Eliza, I have thought of you incessantly for every day we’ve been together and every one we’ve been apart. I want 730 days with you and then many, many more. To be your husband has been the greatest privilege of my life.

         Happy anniversary, my love. I will return to you via the 3:30 train on Saturday. We will have to think of a way to celebrate then.

         Eliza smiles. Oh, she has an idea, but it is not appropriate to write on a card.

         I remain, as always, your faithful husband –

         William

         As soon as she finishes the message, she goes back to read it a second time. The smile on her face grows even bigger. She takes a smell of the beautiful flowers and sighs—both at their luscious fragrance, and the thought of her husband. She really does love him so much. Just one more day, and he will be back.

         She can’t wait.

         When Inspector Wellington returns to London the next day, his wife is there to greet him at the train station. As she hugs him, she whispers into his ear how she intends to thank him for the flowers. The words almost make him blush in the middle of Euston. 

September, 1887 — Third Anniversary

         William is putting the finishing touches on his surprise when he hears Eliza open the front door. “William? Are you home?”

         He smiles inadvertently at his wife’s voice. Even after many years of friendship, three years of marriage, and now a child on the way, he still gets stupidly happy when he sees her at the end of the day. It is such a simple thing, but something he once thought he would never have. “In the drawing room!”

         Eliza’s steps grow closer, and she continues to call out to him as she walks down the hall. “I am exhausted. I had to go all the way to Southwark for an interview today and they made me wait half an hour. I was so annoyed. God, I hope Ivy is making a good dinner tonight. I haven’t eaten since—”

         She opens the drawing room door, then pauses, her eyes going wide. “What’s all this?”

         “Your gifts. Happy anniversary.”

         “Our anniversary?” She blinks, the realization whitening her face. “Today is Saturday. Oh my God, I completely forgot. I’ve been so scatter-brained recently.”

         “Well, I think you have a perfectly good excuse—being very busy, running a detective agency while growing another human and all.” Her face softens, and William smiles. “I know we said we would keep it simple, but I couldn’t help myself.”

         Eliza looks up at him, her eyes glistening and lower lip trembling. “I’m not crying,” she says, though her voice indicates otherwise. “I swear I’m not.”

         William closes the distance so that he might take her hand and greet her with a soft kiss. “You look beautiful today,” he says, and his wife gives him a disbelieving look, but he is not saying it merely to appeal to her vanity. He always thinks she is beautiful, even when she’s crying. She is the most beautiful woman in the world.

         He nods towards the coffee table. “Come. See what I got you.”

         A little smile rises to Eliza’s lips, and she allows him to lead her over. The flowers—sunflowers—are traditional for the third anniversary, if the florist can be believed, and Eliza smiles bigger, seeing the round box with the gold bow. “You got me truffles?”

         The genuine happiness in her voice makes William’s chest swell with pride, knowing he’s the cause. “You mentioned having a craving for them. I know they’re your favorite.” And they also cost an arm and a leg, but well, he supposes it is a husband’s right to spoil his pregnant wife on their wedding anniversary.

         Eliza looks at him with a teary-eyed smile and raises herself up to kiss him again. “Thank you,” she whispers, touched, and he brushes his thumb across her cheek, kissing her for a third time.

         “Now,” William says, indicating the gift bag beside the flowers and truffles, “one thing left. Open it.”

         Eliza is tentative with the paper at first, then more fervent, and when she pulls out her gift, she looks at William with silent glee. The notebook is leather-bound, with a burgundy cover and a set of fountain pens to match. “Leather is the traditional third anniversary gift,” William explains, “and I know you mentioned that you needed another notebook for work. Do you like it?”

         “Like it?” Eliza repeats the words as if it is a ridiculous question he is asking. She runs her finger over the cover. “I love it. It’s beautiful.”

         He smiles to himself as she marvels at his gift. He knows that her favorite part of gift-giving is opening her presents, and he thinks his favorite part is watching her do it.

         When his wife looks at him again, her lips falter. “I feel bad,” she says, “that I did not get you anything.”

         But William only smiles wider. “You know, Eliza, I take no joy in telling you that you’re wrong—”

         She scoffs. “That’s a lie. We both know you take a great deal of joy in it.”

         They exchange a knowing look, but then—not joking—he steps closer to Eliza, his arms weaving about her waist, so he might pull her into him. It has been three years, and it still amazes him that she is his wife—and, soon to be, the mother of his child. He hopes that the joy never wears off.

         “You’re wrong,” William says, slowly and clearly, “because you’ve already given me so much.”

September, 1888 — Fourth Anniversary

         She awakens to the sound of soft, familiar cries just around seven a.m. Golden light falls on her closed lids, and Eliza blinks, opens her eyes. Ooh, she slept well last night. And Henry only woke her up once, thank God.

         She turns her head, her eyes landing on William, still fast asleep beside her. His arm is slung over her waist, a warm and familiar weight. Eliza gracefully slips out from under that arm, careful not to wake him as she gets up to fetch their son.

         Her bare feet pad across the hardwood to the bassinet, and she peers inside, instinctively smiling at the sight of her four-months-old’s face. “Good morning, beautiful boy.”

         Henry turns towards the sound of her voice, and Eliza leans over, lifts his tiny body into her arms. His cries soften, his head burrowing into her neck, and she holds him against her chest. Why is it that babies’ skin smells so wonderful, powdery and sweet? She closes her eyes for a moment, breathes a contented sigh. Seeing her little boy in the morning makes her feel so…calm. Eliza doesn’t know how else to describe it. There is something about looking down at the child you created, and holding that life in your arms, that really puts everything into perspective.

         She nurses Henry for a few minutes, one of his chubby hands knotted up in her nightgown as he suckles, and while Eliza waits for him to finish, she turns back towards the bed. William has stirred slightly, half-awake and half-asleep, one of his arms covering his eyes.

         Once Henry detaches himself from her breast, she tucks it back into her nightgown and rubs his back, planting a kiss into her baby son’s hair. “Should we wake Papa up?” she whispers to him. Henry coos, as if in answer.

         With Henry in a chair hold, she climbs back onto the bed, inching closer to her husband. William moves his head, and Eliza resists the urge to laugh, leaning so that she and Henry are hovering over him. “Give Papa a kiss,” she suggests to the boy, but Henry only takes his little hand and whacks William on his shoulder. This time, it is impossible not to laugh.

         William scrunches his nose, clearly disgruntled at being so rudely woken. But when he opens his eyes, sees Eliza and Henry giggling, his mouth quirks. “Now, Henry, is that any way to treat your papa?” he asks, voice still thick from sleep.

         “I told him to kiss you, but he didn’t listen.”

         “Of course he didn’t listen. He’s your child.”

         She laughs again. “And yours.”

         She lays down on her side, and William touches her waist, pulling her closer, Henry between them. Her husband’s lips find hers. “Hmm, good morning.”

         “Good morning.” In between kisses, she smiles, adds: “And happy anniversary.”

         William's eyes catch hers, and neither of them says anything for several moments. His hand goes from her waist to her face, brushing back her loose hair. Eliza beams, just like the sun filtering through their bedroom curtains, then glances down at Henry. “Four years,” she muses. “I’m surprised you put up with me this long.”

         William half-laughs, a small, choked sound from the back of the throat. “Lucky for you, I’m very forgiving,” he deadpans, which makes Eliza snort.

         He looks down at their son, and Eliza follows his gaze. Henry currently has his toes in his mouth, because—being a little detective in training—he recently realized he has feet and is enthralled with his new discovery. Eliza’s heart swells with a fresh wave of maternal love. She runs her fingers over Henry’s dark hair, while William takes the toes that are not currently covered in Henry’s drool and kisses them.

         “Eliza?” He says her name so softly, she almost doesn’t hear it. She looks up, and William is staring at her, love reflected in his expression.

         “These four years,” he says, “have been the happiest of my entire life.”

         Those words—spoken like a confession, so quiet and lovely—fill Eliza with a different kind of love. Careful not to squish Henry, she leans over to kiss William, her silent way of telling him that she is very happy, too.

         And—though she doesn’t say it aloud—Eliza suspects their best days are yet to come.

September, 1889 – Fifth Anniversary

         Their fifth wedding anniversary falls on a fair-weather day, the sky a clear blue.

         William leans back on one hand, the other placed on his wife’s waist. They are sitting on a blanket in Regent’s Park, sprawled out on the grass by the boating lake, shaded by a tree. Their picnic basket—so lovingly packed by Ivy—now contains nothing but empty plates, and Henry has toddled off on his unsteady sixteen-month-old legs, in search of amusement. They instructed the little boy not to go too far, and William can see Henry now, bending down to pick dandelions. The sight makes him smile.

         He reluctantly tears his eyes away from his son to look at Eliza. She is leaning against him, her head on his shoulder and her eyes half-closed, the picture of contentment. Wisps of hair blow against her face in the breeze. The skirt of her pink dress billows around her, and the same color dusts the apples of her cheeks.

         William presses his nose against his wife’s. “I love you,” he whispers to her. Eliza opens her eyes, and when they land on him, a relaxed smile spreads across her face. She answers him by tilting her head back and giving him a long, loving kiss. Truthfully, they probably shouldn’t kiss like this in public, but well, no one is looking, and even if they were, William is not thinking of them in this moment. He removes his hand from Eliza’s waist so he might caress her cheek.

         They didn’t plan anything elaborate for their anniversary this year, didn’t buy each other gifts. But their jobs and their young child have kept them busy recently, and just being able to spend a peaceful evening together is enough. The comfort of her familiar society is worth more to him than anything money can buy.

         When they pull apart, Eliza grins and drops one quick, final kiss to his lips. “I love you, too,” she says, toying with his tie. Then, she adds, almost bashfully: “You are an amazing husband, William.”

         The compliment warms him, and he averts his eyes for a moment, so she can’t see him flush. Truthfully, he can’t take too much credit, because being a husband is easier when one has an amazing wife. Eliza is beautiful, brilliant, brave, and over these past five years, she has brightened his life in too many ways to count.

         Henry comes back over to them, yellow dandelions clenched in his chubby fist, his arm outstretched. “Mama,” he says in his sweet toddler voice, presenting his gift to her. Though they are weeds, not flowers, William suspects they will nonetheless be treasured.

         “For me?” Eliza sits up and accepts her little dandelion bouquet from Henry. “Thank you, my dearest. Might I have a kiss?” She presses her lips to Henry’s cheek, then tickles his sides, which makes him giggle madly.

         “Mama!” he says amidst his laughter. “Mama, no!”

         “What?” Eliza feigns shock. “No tickles?”

         “No, Mama!”

         “Well, all right then. We’ll have kisses instead.”

         Henry sucks on his knuckles, allowing Eliza to wrap her arms around him and kiss his head. William smiles, watching them. He is perhaps the luckiest man in London.

         Eliza bops Henry’s nose, asking him if he wants to go see the ducks, and Henry nods vigorously. He loves the ducks at Regent’s Park and always has. Eliza leans over to give William a chaste kiss, and she instructs Henry to kiss Papa too, which he does, toddling over to accept William’s peck and a loving squeeze. Eliza says they will be back shortly, then stands up and takes Henry by the hand, leading him towards the pond.

         William watches them go, stares at their domestic tableau for a moment: Eliza bent to Henry’s level, her hand in his, Henry leaning against her as she points out the ducks to him. A truly touching scene of mother and child, and he’s lucky enough to call the models his. Looking at them, William can’t help but contemplate his good fortune. No, he’s not the luckiest man in London. All of Britain—all the world, maybe.

         Eliza is the woman of his dreams. These five years with her have been more than he could’ve asked for.

         Still smiling, he gets up, dusts off his trousers, and goes to rejoin his family.

September, 1894 – Tenth Anniversary

         Eliza catches her reflection in the silver of the candlestick, and the corners of her lips lift. This is the first time she’s worn this dress—dark red velvet, with a tasteful v-neckline—since before her last pregnancy, and after some slight alterations at the tailor’s this week, it now fits Eliza perfectly. Though it’s not in the latest style, Eliza hates those leg o’ mutton sleeves anyway, and she knows William has always liked this dress.

         Speaking of her husband, it is almost six, and he should be home any minute. She smooths down her hair while she waits. Though she is closer to forty than thirty now, William has never made her feel anything less than desirable, and she doesn’t fear growing older. Every year has simply brought her new opportunities—for her business, her family, and yes, her marriage. And why should she be upset at more time spent with those she loves?

         The front door opening announces William’s presence, and Eliza rises from the table, going to greet him. “Eliza,” he starts to say, “I’m—” But when he looks up, his eyes landing on her, he cuts himself off.

         William’s eyes rove her figure, and Eliza smiles, flattered by the shift in his expression. “God,” he says after several moments of staring, “you look gorgeous.”

         “Thank you.” She walks closer, places her hands lightly on his arms as she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him. William is more than receptive, deepening the kiss, his arm going about her waist. Eliza laughs quietly, her husband visibly disappointed when she pulls away. “Happy anniversary.”

         His mouth curves upward, eyes dark with obvious desire for her. “Happy anniversary. It’s a big one. Ten years.”

         “Indeed. And I have a surprise for you.”

         “You do?”

         “Mmhm. Come.” She takes him by the hand, leading him towards the kitchen, and William looks around, clearly confused by the house’s silence.

         “Where is everyone?” he asks. Their household is never this quiet.

         “Ivy and Mr. Potts,” Eliza explains, “took the children to a magic show. Afterwards, they are going for ice cream, so they’ll be gone for at least three hours.” She looks at William over her shoulder. “I thought we deserved an evening to ourselves.”

         Her words make the smile grow on his face. Clearly, this idea is not disagreeable to him.

         In the kitchen, their dinner is laid out on the table, placed on the fine china plates they never seem to use. Two candles burn brightly, illuminating the dark room, and a bottle of red wine is resting. “Don’t worry,” Eliza says. “I didn’t cook any of this. What do you think?”

         William observes the scene for a moment in silence, then turns to her, thanking her with a kiss on the mouth. “I think it’s perfect. And I shall very much enjoy spending the evening with you.”

         His smile makes one rise to her own face, and she leads him to the table, offering to pour them some wine. “Ivy said it’s from Bordeaux, and apparently highly sought after by the sorts of people who know things about wines. I cannot claim to be an expert, so don’t ask me the name of it or the flavor palate or anything like that. It says it’s an 1870. I think that’s good?”

          William shakes his head. “After the day I’ve had, all I care is that it has alcohol in it, and plenty of it.”

         They clink their glasses, cheersing to their anniversary, and each take a sip. While Eliza is no wine connoisseur, it does taste good to her, intense and full-bodied. “We should probably eat,” she says to William. “I don’t want it to get cold—”

         But before she can finish, he effectively interrupts her by leaning over to kiss her once more. This once is soft, gentle, making all Eliza’s breath catch in her throat. The kiss lasts for several moments, and when William pulls back, he smiles, cradling her chin. “I love you,” he says in a low voice, full of reverence. “These past ten years with you…I don’t even know what to say, other than that they’ve made me very happy.”

         His sentiment—so tenderly said—makes her throat clog. “I love you. And I’m happy, too.” Eliza laughs so she does not cry, blinking away the tears threatening her. “But I must admit, I will not be satisfied with just ten years with you.”

         “Why am I not surprised?” he jokes. “You are a hard woman to please.”

         “I’m very greedy, you see, and I want at least fifty more. I’m determined that we shall both make it to ninety. Maybe even a hundred.”

         “Ambitious. And what if the reaper comes when we’re seventy? Eighty?”

         “Then I’ll tell him to go away, because I’m not finished with you yet.”

         “Well,” William says, “if he’s smart, he won’t argue with Eliza Scarlet Wellington. You’re more willful than the forces of nature.” They both chuckle softly at that.  

         They hold each other’s eyes for a moment, tender smiles on both their faces, hands joined on the table. Nothing more needs to be said, both their hearts understanding each other’s perfectly. After these many years, they’ve gotten quite skilled at speaking without words.

         Eliza truly meant what she said. Ten years of being married to William aren’t enough for her. She wants many more decades by his side. She wants a whole lifetime—and a very long one, at that.

         And that’s exactly what she’ll get, if she has anything to say about it. She thinks her love for him is powerful enough to move death itself. At least, she hopes so.  

Chapter Text

        Eliza Wellington wakes up with a smile on her face and the sunlight glinting on her wedding ring.

        She pushes herself upright in the bed, groaning softly as she leaves her dream world for the real one. She stretches her arms above her head, blinks her eyes, yawns. Falling asleep in William’s arms, it turns out, lends itself to a good night’s sleep. The last thing she remembers from the night before is the warmth of his embrace, his strong biceps wrapped around her shoulders…

        Speaking of her new husband, he is not here. Eliza glances around their hotel room, instinctively searching for him. The bed sheets are a tangled mess, their clothes are where they left them—tossed haphazardly onto a chair, surely wrinkled—and their dinner plates from the night before are still stacked on the table. The innkeeper delivered their meals to their room. Truthfully, they scarcely left their bed yesterday…the thought almost makes Eliza laugh…

        It must be early—perhaps half past six, she guesses, based on the way the sunlight is falling against the floorboards. Normally, Eliza would sleep for a while longer, but she is not tired, and the thought of her husband proves more alluring than slumber. As she kicks off the blankets, she shivers, the sea breeze making goose-pimples rise on her naked skin. That’s when she notices that the balcony door is slightly ajar, the gauzy curtains dancing in the breeze.

        Eliza gets out of bed, picks her nightgown up off the bedroom floor, and slips it over her head. She runs her hands through her hair. She’d tried to braid it last night, in order to prevent tangling, but William had immediately undone all her hard work. Eliza had tried to scold him for it, but she had to admit, secretly, she quite enjoyed the feeling of his hands in her hair…

        She pushes open the balcony door, the soft wind immediately caressing her cheeks, and the smell of salt hitting her nose. Their room at the inn is on the third floor, so their small balcony—facing out toward the water—provides them a degree of privacy. William is sitting with his back facing her, and instead of taking the chair next to him, Eliza creeps up behind. She kisses him on the cheek and then makes herself at home in his lap.

        “Good morning,” she says.

        William looks at her with a slight smile. He is leaning back in his seat, relaxed, wearing his bottoms but no shirt. She cannot decide if his bare chest is even more handsome in the morning glow than it is in the dark… “Good morning,” he says to her.

        Eliza wraps her arms around his neck, her legs tossed casually over the arm of the chair. If William is upset about her blocking his view, he doesn’t indicate it. Indeed, he greets her with another kiss, on the lips this time.

        They sit in silence for a moment: William’s arms loosely about Eliza’s waist, her head resting against his. She sighs contently, and closes her eyes, cuddling him. In the distance, the waves crash, and gulls caw.

        They’ve come to the seaside for a quick honeymoon—three days, because they both had too much to do at work to take much longer, but Eliza intends to enjoy every moment they have. Today is their second day, and they already wasted most of yesterday in their hotel room. Well, no, wasted is the wrong word…indeed, Eliza found the activities of the day quite pleasurable…

        However, they should probably do something with their day, and she knows how it will look if she comes back from a long weekend at the beach as pale as she left. “What shall we do today?” she asks William, her nose brushing against his as she pulls back to look him in the face.

        “Hmm,” her husband says, “I’m not choosy. I believe I would be quite content staying in this position all day…”

        “Be serious.”

        “I am. The view is quite nice here, don’t you think?”

        Eliza smiles. The sky above them is colorful and brilliant—the clouds fluffy and white, the sun pale yellow, pink and purple streaking across the vast expanse—but the sky is not what William is talking about.

        She places her hands on his cheeks, toys with his hair. She thinks she is starting to understand why William likes her with her hair down so much. They are so used to seeing each other in full dress, and there’s something about William with his hair tousled and uncombed, a dark curl dangling against his forehead, that Eliza loves. She loves seeing him in a way that no one else gets to see him.

        “Still,” she says, touching that single curl, wrapping it around her little finger, “we probably should see something other than the walls of our hotel room. Do the things that couples at the seaside usually do.”

        “And what is that, exactly?”

        “I don’t know.” Truthfully, it has been a long time since Eliza took a holiday. She has spent her entire life in London, and she likes the city’s familiar hustle and bustle: the people, the noises, all of it thrumming with life. “There’s the pier, the theatre, restaurants, games. And the sea, of course.”

        Eliza remembers the last time she visited the sea. It was a long time ago, when her mother was still alive. Eliza was about four years old or so. Henry Scarlet had to work often, so they did not take many family vacations, but one particularly humid summer, Lavinia Scarlet insisted they all go to the beach. Eliza does not remember much of that holiday, but she does remember holding her mother’s hand, hitching their skirts as they wet their feet. She recalls how cold the sea was when it hit their exposed skin, the sand grainy between their toes, how they both laughed.

        William makes a small “hmm” of consideration, and he is no longer looking at her, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s pretty,” he muses randomly. “The sea. It just seems to go on and on.”

        “You say that as if you’ve never seen it before,” Eliza jokes.

        “Because I haven’t.”

        She cuts herself off mid-laugh. “Never seen the sea?” Going to the seaside has been a popular activity for families and couples alike for decades and decades, resorts popping up along every coast: Blackpool, Brighton, Whitby, Llandudno. Every bank holiday, people leave the cities in droves, their striped blankets laid out on the beaches, men and women walking along the piers arm-in-arm, children laughing along at Punch and Judy shows.

        Though, now that she thinks about it, she supposes she should not be surprised. William spent his formative years in the workhouse, where he certainly was not entitled to a holiday. And in the many years she’s known him, she can’t remember him ever taking time off for a trip.

        “Never,” he confirms, shaking his head. “I know Glasgow, London, a bit of Manchester…been sent somewhere by the Yard a few times, but none of those work trips were by the sea, and I scarcely saw anything save for the police stations and the pubs.” He punctuates the sentence with a slight chuckle, a clear attempt to prevent the conversation from going anywhere too melancholy.

        Eliza hesitates, thinking. “Well then,” she says at last, the corners of her lips rising, “we are definitely leaving this room. I am giving you a proper holiday, William Wellington.”

        She stands up from his lap, and William sighs, laughs. “Eliza, you don’t have—”

        She doesn’t let him finish, already pushing open the balcony door. “We’re going to get dressed,” she says, and off William’s still reluctant look, she adds: “I’m serious. Have you ever known me to abandon an idea once it’s gotten into my head?” She nods toward the room. “Come along.”

        William cracks a smile. “I suppose,” he says teasingly, “I shall have to get used to you bossing me around for the rest of our lives.”

        Eliza smiles back. “Absolutely.” She seizes his hand, and her husband offers up no further protests as she all but drags him inside.

        Thirty minutes later, they have made themselves presentable, left last night’s dishes in the hall for the housekeeper to fetch, and headed down toward the beach. Eliza takes charge, of course, William following along silently as she leads him by the hand. It is early and the beach is mostly empty—the crowds are not so bad on mild September days such as this one. There are no souls around, save for an old man sitting on a bench and a young family several feet down the beach. They leave their shoes by the stairs and walk, hand-in-hand, across the cool sand.

        “So,” William asks as they come to stop along the shoreline, “what exactly do we do?”

        “We put our feet in it,” Eliza says matter-of-factly. “The waves are going out, but they’ll come back. My mother used to say that you should dig your toes into the sand, to get used to the temperature quicker. She had an aunt in Cornwall, I think, and spent many childhood summers by the sea.”

        “Why did you stop going?”

        Eliza sighs, shrugs. “Father was always devoted to his work. When Mother was alive, she could drag him away sometimes: for beach holidays, family picnics, trips to the zoo. But when she died…well, we didn’t do those things much anymore.”

        She trails off, staring at the skyline, and William squeezes her hand, silently reassuring her. She knows neither of them enjoys talking about their pain, but he will be there to listen if she ever changes her mind. Despite her sad recollection, the thought does warm her somewhat. It is nice to know that he will always be here, for whatever she needs.

        The destination they chose for this holiday is not one of the more popular resort towns. It is quaint, sleepy, less than two hours from London by train, one of the main factors in their decision. Neither Eliza nor William had wanted to venture too far from home, being as devoted to their jobs as they are. But Eliza does not regret neglecting the attractions of Blackpool or Brighton. She likes how peaceful it is here, so different from their usual city life. Even though there are other people around, she still feels as if they are sort of alone.

        The water is blue-grey and churning, and when it laps over their bare feet, she swears William startles. “Christ,” he mutters. “That’s cold!”

        “I told you to bury your feet in the sand! You didn’t listen!”

        “Married for two days and you are already chastising me, is that it? Perhaps the other men were right when they warned me about wives.” But he says the words with a glimmering eye and repressed smile, betraying it for the joke that it is.

        Eliza bites on her lip to restrain her laugh. Her husband can solve murderers and chase criminals, yet it seems the water is enough to make him wince. “The English Channel never gets that warm,” she says. “I suppose that’s why the wealthy always go to the French Riviera or Italy. They say the Mediterranean is lovely all year round. And I’ve read that it’s so crystal-clear, you can look down and see your feet.”

        “Well,” William deadpans, “I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’ve never been there either. If you wanted some fancy husband to take you to Amalfi or Cannes, perhaps you should’ve accepted Rupert Parker.”

        The words are spoken in jest, but as Eliza looks up at him, she detects some undercurrent of insecurity. She gives William a soft smile and stands on her tiptoes to kiss his lips. “I don’t,” she says, “regret my choice in the slightest.” She can feel him smile back.

        No, Eliza does not dream of that sort of life: money and travel and jewels, all to disguise the emptiness underneath. She would rather work for her bread and share her life with an honest man, someone who loves her. Perhaps she won’t host parties, and he won’t buy her diamonds, and they won’t see the world, but they will have a world of their own. And that suits her very well.

        The sea goes out again, and she clasps William’s hand tighter. “I think,” she says, “I’m starting to get hungry. Tea, and perhaps a scone? Ooh”—her eyes brighten as an idea comes to her—“or a bun. A very nice fat one, with lots of raisins.”

        William’s mouth quirks. The sea breeze is messing with their hair, loosening his stray curl, while the tendrils framing Eliza’s face are now plastered against her cheeks. “Sounds perfect to me,” he says to her, in a tone that’s completely genuine.

        Beaming, Eliza holds her skirt with one hand and William with the other, leading him back up the beach. Perhaps after breakfast, they will find a place to sit and watch the waves, or go back to their room and fall into bed again. Who knows what the rest of the day will bring?

        And really, it doesn’t matter what they do. As long as they’re together, their time will be well spent.

Chapter Text

         He has a son now.

         As midnight passes and their son’s first full day on earth begins, William repeats that phrase over and over in his mind, still not quite believing it. He has a son. His own son. A son with Eliza. They are a family. It’s almost too good to be true.

         He’s always wanted a real family. Can he really be getting everything he’s wanted all his life?

         A glance at Eliza—currently sitting upright in bed, feeding their infant—confirms that yes, this is indeed real. She must sense him staring, because she looks up, catching William’s gaze from across the bedroom. Her hair is loose about her shoulders, and she shoots him the biggest, brightest smile before turning back to the baby. William is sorely tempted to go over there and kiss her, but doing so in front of the midwives would probably be inappropriate.

         “Are you sure they’re both well?” he asks Mrs. Byrd for the fourth or fifth time—he’s lost count, to be honest—his eyes not leaving his wife and son.

         If the midwife is bothered by his continual need for reassurance, it doesn’t show. “The birth went perfectly,” she tells him, “and Mrs. Wellington fought bravely. She’s a tough one, your wife.”

         He smiles. Eliza is the strongest person he knows.

         “She may bleed for several days,” Mrs. Byrd continues. “It can get quite heavy, but just keep her comfortable, and don’t worry. It’s all normal. She’s done extremely well, and the baby seems perfectly healthy—good color, good weight, breathing normally…everything looks right.”

         Her words take a weight off of him. His wife is okay. Their son is okay. In this moment, that’s all that matters to him.

         “You know,” Mrs. Byrd whispers, “if you don’t mind my saying so, I think it’s quite touching: the love you have for one another.”

         William smiles, too. “You think?”

         “Indeed. I’ve helped enough couples over the years to know true devotion when I see it. And I have to say, sir, I’m impressed with you, too—most fathers never even consider being in the room while their wife gives birth, and in my experience, the few that do stay? Most of them faint.”

         The mental image almost makes him laugh. “My wife and I solve crimes for a living, Mrs. Byrd. Takes more than blood to frighten us.”  

         The midwife cracks a smile. “Quite right. With that, I’ll be off. I’ll return to check on them both in the morning.”

         He thanks Mrs. Byrd once more, and she advises him to get some sleep, then packs up her equipment and bids them goodnight. William escorts Mrs. Byrd and her assistant to the door before returning to the master bedroom.

         He pauses in the open doorway, just watching his wife for a minute. The sight of Eliza with her face aglow and their child at her breast, their two-hour-old infant’s quiet suckles the only sound in the room, is too beautiful for words. God, he really loves them both so much.

         Eliza lifts her head, and when their eyes meet, she smiles at him. “How are you?” she asks.

         “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?” After all, he’s not the one who had to do all the hard work here. “You’re not in too much pain, are you?”

         “I assure you, William, I’m quite well.”

         He raises a brow at her, not sure if he entirely believes it. Though Eliza is remarkable, even she is human—and a human who just brought another into the world, at that.

         The baby finishes feeding, and she rubs his back with one hand while tucking her breast back into her nightgown with the other. Once the baby is settled, Eliza glances at William with sparkling eyes and a mischievous little smile. “You know,” she says, “if you want to make me feel better, you can come cuddle me and your little boy.”

         She doesn’t need to ask him twice.

         He joins her on the bed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as he sits by her side, and Eliza smiles up at him before looking back to the baby. William holds her close and leans his head lightly against hers, joining her in admiring the new addition to their lives. Now that he is well-fed, the baby’s eyes fluttered closed, and his head rests against Eliza’s breast as he succumbs to sleep.

         William smiles down at their son, then kisses Eliza on the temple. “How are you, my love?” he asks her. “Really.”

         Eliza inhales, considers. “Hmm, tired. Sore everywhere it’s possible to be sore. But happy. Very happy. And you?”

         When she smiles at him, he smiles back. “I’m very happy, too.” The happiest he’s ever been in his whole life, he thinks. He catches Eliza’s lips and kisses her softly. “You were so strong today. I couldn’t have done what you did.”

         She doesn’t take his compliment seriously at first, giving him an ‘oh, please’ look. “There’s no need to butter me up.”

         “Is it buttering you up if it’s the truth?”  

         Indeed, he is not giving Eliza false praise. She labored for almost thirteen hours, and William had secretly been terrified for every one. He hated to see her in pain, but he’d kept his fears to himself, knowing she needed his support, and that her suffering was so much greater than his. Eliza persevered through it all, and though the birth was scary, it was wonderful, too. He was in awe of her, how hard she fought. His wife really is amazing.

         William touches her face now, running his thumb across her cheek. “I love you. I think I love you now more than I ever have.”

         Eliza appears visibly touched by his words, her eyes glassy. “I love you, too. Very much.”

         In her arms, the baby mewls, as if loath to be excluded from this tender moment. They both laugh quietly, a sound of happiness and lingering disbelief, and watch their child in comfortable silence for a few moments. God, his hands are so small, and his fingers—they are so tiny, so delicate, but so perfectly formed. He is really here, and he is safe. All throughout Eliza’s pregnancy, William had hoped and prayed—not for a boy, or a girl, but just for a healthy child, and he is so thankful.

         “Can you believe he’s really ours?” Eliza asks in a soft, awestruck voice. “We made him.”

         He shakes his head. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

         “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”

         They share a glance, both smiling. “I believe,” William says, “that he’s our greatest collaboration yet.”

         Eliza laughs at that. “Undoubtedly.” Their son makes a soft noise, and she strokes the back of his hand with her thumb. “I love him so much,” she says, staring at their baby. “More than I even thought I could.”

         William knows what she means. They spent all these months talking about how excited they were for their child, how they already loved him or her. Yet, when their child was actually born, the strength of that love still managed to take him aback. It is the strongest, purest, most insistent love he has ever felt. There is nothing else like it.

         William looks at his wife. “I love the two of you more than anything,” he says, meaning it.   

         In response, Eliza turns to him with a watery smile and kisses him softly on the mouth.

         After the kiss, he keeps his forehead pressed against hers for a moment, just thinking about how much he appreciates her. It is Eliza who pulls back first, looking at William with sparkling eyes. “Do you want to hold him?” she asks.

         Hold him? It sounds silly, but William hasn’t thought about it until now. When their son was first born, everything was so hectic, and William’s mind had been too focused on the realization that they had a child to even think about anything else. His shock and awe had been too great. Then, the midwives put the baby in Eliza’s arms, and he’d been preoccupied in a different way: marveling at every inch of their little boy, and contemplating his deep love for his wife. Though William has touched their son’s hand, adjusted his blanket, stroked his hair, he hasn’t held him yet.  

         He suddenly really, really wants to.

         William nods, his throat feeling tight. “I would like that very much,” he says, and Eliza beams. She presses a quick kiss to the baby’s head before she offers him to William.

         The infant is carefully transitioned from her arms to his, and Eliza gives William an encouraging look as she pulls back, giving father and son their space to get acquainted. William is careful to support the baby’s head, holding it in the crook of his arm, and though the baby fusses at first, he settles once he’s had a moment to adjust to a new pair of arms. Looking down at him, William’s heart lurches into his throat, and he is rendered speechless.

         He is holding his son, his own flesh and blood, and words cannot describe how wonderful it feels. How did he play a part in creating such a perfect creature? From his wisps of dark hair, to his delicate nose, to his bow lips…he is really a little person, half William, half Eliza. William can scarcely comprehend that this perfect little boy is a part of him.

         He presses his lips lightly against the crown of his son’s head, kissing him for the very first time. “Hello, my dearest boy.” 

         The baby opens his eyes and looks right at him.

         The simple action steals William’s breath and threatens to make him tear up. It’s astounding how such a tiny person can already have such power over him. He has known this child for two hours and already he knows, without question, that he would live and die for him. There is nothing he would not do to keep his son safe. From the moment he entered this world, from his very first cry, William knew a part of his heart belonged to this child forever—the part, of course, that did not already belong to Eliza.

         Speaking of his wife, he reluctantly tears his eyes away from his son to look at her. She is observing them with glistening eyes and a soft smile, the sight of which fills William with a fresh wave of love for her.

         “How does it feel?” she asks quietly. “To finally be a father?”

         William shakes his head. He has wanted to be a father for a long time, long before he ever wanted to be a detective. In many ways, it was his first dream. “Unreal. It’s…” he trails off, takes a deep breath to fight the threat of tears. “It’s more than I hoped it would be.”

         He glances down at the baby, finds him drifting off again, then looks back up at Eliza, smiling at her. “How does it feel?” he asks her. “To finally be a mother?”

         The question gets a watery laugh out of her, and she wipes both her eyes with her pointer finger. “It’s so much all at once: strange, wonderful, overwhelming, frightening…” Her eyes land on their child, and she stops, a look William can only describe as ‘maternal’ glowing on her face. “It’s everything. And I…I just want to do a good job of it, you know?”

         “I know, and you will. You are going to be an amazing mother, Eliza.”

         She gives him a quivering smile, visibly affected by the words. “You’re going to be the best father.” Wordlessly, she offers a hand to him, and William adjusts his hold on their son so that he might accept it. “I know we’re probably going to make mistakes,” Eliza says, “but I just want him to know he’s loved, no matter what.”

         “He will,” William says. They have loved their son since the moment they found out about him, and they will love him until the day they die.

         William looks down at their son now, holds him close. He knows what it feels like to be alone in this world, but his son won’t. His and Eliza’s son will never wonder where he is going to sleep tonight or when his next meal will come. He will be cared for every single day, and he will never doubt that his parents love him, because they will tell him all the time. He is going to have a better life than William himself did. That is a promise.

         The baby stirs but does not awaken, and Eliza reaches over, tenderly adjusting his blanket. “Do we,” she asks William, “still agree on his name?”

         William doesn’t hesitate in his response. “As if there could be any other.” Girl names had required some thought, but there was only one name they considered for a boy.

         “Well, I thought I would ask, seeing how unusual it is for us both to agree on something for this long.”

         The little boy is fast asleep now, his hands rising into balled fists to cover his face, and William strokes that fuzzy head with his thumb. “Henry.” He can’t imagine calling him anything else.

         Henry Scarlet wasn’t his father, but he treated him better than his real father ever did. He loved William and Eliza, and he would’ve loved their son too, if they’d only been given the chance to meet.

         When he looks back at his wife, she’s teary-eyed, and it’s enough to make him get misty too, thinking about this man they both knew and loved. Even if it’s only in memories and stories, their child will know him too. They will make sure of that.

         Eliza moves closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder with a soft, contented sigh. “Henry,” she repeats, smiling. “He looks like a Henry, doesn’t he?”

        “He does.” Indeed, the name seems to suit this small child perfectly, and William can’t help but smile too as he and Eliza look upon their child’s sleeping face. His name is Henry. Henry Wellington. He can imagine saying it to people: This is my son, Henry. It sounds perfect. It sounds right.

         There was a time when William felt like he had no one in this world, that there was no one who loved him. Those days were dark, but they are over now. Now, he feels hopeful for the future in a way he didn’t many years ago. Because he has Eliza, and he has their Henry, and everything has fallen into place.

         He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this good fortune, but he’s not going to question it, only be thankful that it’s happened.

Chapter Text

        Her office has never looked so empty.

        Well, she supposes it’s not technically her office. Not anymore. In less than three days, all her things will be gone, and a milliner will move in, case files and charts and old photographs replaced with hats and fake flowers and silk ribbons. The milliner already has three other locations across Inner London. When he’d toured the place before buying it, he’d paced the length of the room with his hands behind his back, nodding at the ceiling. “A bit small,” he’d said, “but it’ll do. It’ll do nicely. It’s very”—a long pause—“cute.”

        At that, Eliza had taken a deep breath through her nose and resisted the urge to tell him the place was no longer for sale. The office is not cute. Cute is for kittens and babies and puppies. This is where she built her business. This is where her father built his business. Why can’t this man see that?

        But she needs his money, so she simply smiled and nodded when he inquired if it would be possible to knock down this wall, clenching her teeth as she counted her bills.

        She drags her eyes around the room, taking it all in. Someone will be coming for the desk later, but the rest of the furniture is gone. They’ve torn down the curtains and stripped diagrams and newspaper clippings from the walls, packing them all up in boxes until she can hang them up again in her new office. She does need the bigger space now, and she is excited about how her enterprise has grown, but looking around makes Eliza feel something like a stab of melancholy in her heart.

        She really did love this place.

        She still does.

        She loves how the floorboards shift underneath her feet and the creaky fifth step on the staircase and how sometimes the smell of fresh bread will waft inside in the mornings when she leaves the window open, courtesy of the baker who lives on the other side of the alley. All these little things she experienced day in and day out and she took them for granted, not realizing at the time how precious all these little moments were, how they all came together to form one immaculate whole.

        “Almost ready?”

        She turns her head, wrenched from her reverie by the sound of her husband’s voice. He is standing in the doorway, one arm leaning against the frame, his jacket dangling unbuttoned, a single lock of his dark hair popped out of place. A slight smile twists her mouth instinctively at the sight of William. Call it a lingering case of newlywed bliss, if you like. Or true love.

        “Almost.” Eliza nods at a large box on the floor, filled with a random assortment of items—the globe from her desk, old notebooks, a letter-opener, two decorative book ends she bought at some shop in Kensington. “Can you take that down?”

        William glances at it, then raises a brow. “I thought I was helping you clean out this office, and yet I’m the only one who’s carried anything.”

        “That’s not true,” Eliza responds, worrying the edge of a fingernail that looks like it’s about to break. “I took the lamps.”

        He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he approaches her with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Perhaps I should say I’m the only one who’s carried down anything heavy.”

        “Ah, but I thought men liked to show off their strength in front of the so-called fairer sex. Helps their egos and all that masculine nonsense. I was doing you a favor, really.”

        “How kind of you. Though I’m more concerned with my lungs than my ego at the moment.”

        All jests aside, William comes to stand beside her, his arm finding her waist. His gaze follows Eliza’s, joining her in her silent contemplation of the only thing left on the office walls.

        Her father’s photograph.

        Henry Scarlet and the young Eliza stare back at them, forever trapped in that fleeting moment, unaware of what twists and turns of fate will befall them, not knowing anything but those thirty seconds before the camera flash. Back then, she hadn’t realized how lucky she was. Children never do, do they? She spent her days imagining her future cases, bemoaning the fact that her father wouldn’t let her work with him, silently wishing she could grow up faster and finally be taken seriously. She thought her father would live forever, that someday she could show him how wrong he’d been about her, that someday he’d look her in the eye and say she was right, and he was wrong.

        And that he’d be proud of her.

        But she hadn’t known what little time they actually had left—a few years which seemed long at the time, but were merely a blink of an eye, in the grand scheme of things. If she had known, Eliza would’ve hugged her father a little longer, checked up on him more often, had dinner with him every night. She would’ve soaked up every fleeting moment and bit of wisdom and held it tightly, tried to make it last as long as she could.

        She doesn’t say anything out loud, silently studying the photograph, but William knows her very well. After all these years, he’s developed that ability good husbands often have: to read their wife’s mind. He knows how Eliza’s face scrunches when she’s concentrating, the glazed look in her eye when a conversation bores her, how she squirms when she secretly wants to leave a party but doesn’t want to say it.

        “What are you thinking about?” he asks now, gently probing. Eliza knows he is asking not to be intrusive, but out of a genuine interest. It is her choice to share or not, and he will listen, if that’s what she wants.

        She pauses, tilts her head to examine the photograph sideways. “It’s sort of funny,” she says.

        There’s a beat of silence, and William clears his throat, shifts his weight, his hands finding his pockets. “What is?” he asks when she does not elaborate.

        Eliza explains. “When you’re young, you think you know what you want. You make all these plans for your future and you wait—in a constant state of impatience—for them to happen. Then, you grow up, and they do happen, and you find yourself wishing for the things you had before.”

        She turns to look at William, addressing the next words to him. “When I was a girl, I wanted nothing more than my own office. I wanted to be important, to have a whole team of men under my command. I wanted to move to a nicer neighborhood and have an office with multiple rooms—Hell, maybe even two stories. I used to think about what wallpaper I’d put up or how I’d arrange the desks, the same way other girls thought about what dress they’d wear on their wedding days. Now, I’m actually going to have those things. I’m going to have a bigger office. I have three detectives working for me. I have a secretary, who does things like alphabetize my files and make my tea—”

        “Ah, yes, and Stevens does make a mean cup of tea,” William interjects, smiling, and Eliza shakes her head at him before continuing on.

        “People wait on a list for three months to get me to solve their case. It’s everything I ever wanted. But now that it’s actually here, I have to admit…” She trails off, sucks air through her teeth. “I’m going to miss this. This place.”

        She will miss the old floorboards, and the creaky fifth step, and the wafting smell of bread in the morning. Perhaps this office is small, and she knows realistically it is not big enough for her anymore, but it is still special to her. This is where she turned her life around. She wouldn’t have anything she has now without it.

        And this place was her father’s, too.

        An old memory rises to the forefront of Eliza’s mind, like a childhood toy you’ve pulled out of the drawer after not playing with it for a long time. She remembers that day when her father appeared in her bedroom doorway out of the blue, how her eyes rose to meet his and he extended his hand, beckoning. He’d said he had something to show her. Eliza had held his arm as they walked, struggling not to trip over her cumbersome, too-long dress that she hadn’t let Ivy hem yet. When they’d finally come to a stop in front of a random building, Eliza had looked at her father in confusion, and he’d smiled at her, the kind of smile that made his eyes twinkle.

        “My new office, Lizzie,” he’d said proudly, puffing his chest. “I know it’s not much, but it’ll look rather splendid once we have the new sign: Henry Scarlet, Private Detective. Don’t you like it?”

        Truthfully, the office hadn’t been much to look at. The sign still bore the faded names of the solicitors who once practiced there, until they’d been accused of fraud and gone out of business. The rubbish hadn’t been carried away yet, and the air was ripe with formaldehyde, courtesy of the nearby mortician. But the look on her father’s face did it for Eliza. He believed in it. And she wanted to see what he did.

        “I think,” she’d said, “it’s perfect.”

        She is so caught up in her memory that she’s almost forgotten William’s presence, and the sound of her husband’s voice reminds her he’s standing there. “I think it’s only natural,” he says. “I felt the same way whenever I was promoted at the Yard. It was all I’d wanted, for years and years, and yet whenever it happened, I found myself thinking about how much I’d miss the lads I patrolled with, or how the view out that one window was perfect for watching the sun rise over the Thames, but I’d never noticed before. That’s the thing about being ambitious: sometimes, you’re so caught up in what’s next, you forget about the right now.”

        Eliza suppresses an eye roll. “I suppose that’s your way of telling me to slow down.”

        William doesn’t hesitate. “Not at all. I’m just saying…I understand.”

        She relaxes her muscles, having instinctively tensed up for a fight that’s not going to come. Though they are much better at communicating with each other now, she still falls into old habits sometimes, expecting there to be an argument when none was intended. Instead, she brushes her hair behind her ear and gives William a tentative, sideways smile, to confirm she is not angry with him.

        Her eyes drift back toward the photograph, as if pulled there by an invisible force. She will have to take it down. The thought makes a knot form in her throat. “Do you think he’d be proud of me?” she asks William.

        The edges of her vision blur, and Eliza swallows, fighting her emotion. What is she even tearing up for? It’s just a picture. She’ll hang it up again as soon as she gets to her new office.

        But it’s not really just a picture, is it?

        William’s arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. “Of course, he would be.” There’s a brief pause, heavy with the weight of something unspoken, and then William adds: “I’m proud of you, too.”

        Eliza burrows deeper into him, her head resting where his arm meets the shoulder as she looks up at him through her lashes. “Really?”

        “Really.” One corner of William’s mouth rises. “I’d be a pretty lousy husband if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?”

        She reciprocates his expression. She supposes in her heart she already knew William was proud of her—when she had first floated the idea of finding a new office, examining the newspaper listings for real estate over Sunday breakfast, he had said it was a sensible idea. Encouraged it, even. Still, he has never come out and said it like this. She hadn’t realized until now how much she longed to hear it.

        “Thank you,” she says. “And you’re not a lousy husband. Far from it.” Sometimes, she reckons he’s the best husband known to man. Perhaps she’s biased, and every content woman thinks she is the luckiest, but Eliza knows how to build a case, and she thinks she has a good one.

        After several moments of content silence, he gives her one final, quick squeeze and pulls away. “I’ll take these downstairs,” he says, acknowledging the box she indicated earlier. She kisses him on the cheek as a silent thank you. Eliza’s eyes follow William out of the room, lingering on the door even after he’s closed it behind him. She hears the telltale squeak of the fifth step underneath his weight.

        Sighing, Eliza turns her attention back to the photograph, and she steps closer, hands reaching for the frame. “You are going to like my new office,” she tells the image of her father. “I shall find you a very nice spot on the wall. The best of them all.” Then, pressing her lips together, she adds, hesitatingly: “I’ll try to make you proud.”

        Her father’s unmoving face stares back at her, as if silently saying that to achieve said goal, she won’t have to try very hard at all.

        With one last smile, Eliza pulls the photograph from the wall and joins William downstairs.

Chapter Text

            It starts innocently enough.

            It is a crisp day, blue sky and sunny, and they are taking a Sunday afternoon stroll, Eliza with her arm slung through William’s, Henry lying happily in the baby buggy he’s currently pushing. He can’t help but glance lovingly at his son, Henry watching the world go by with wide, intent eyes, his thumb stuck in his mouth. These are the Sunday afternoons William has come to enjoy the most: no obligations, no worries, just him and the two people he loves most in all the world.

            Eliza adjusts Henry’s blanket, and the two of them laugh quietly when their eleven-month-old gives her an “ahhh.” The unintelligible string of sounds is nothing close to a proper “thank you,” but to an adoring mother and father, it seems positively remarkable.

            As they continue walking, Eliza tightens her grip on William’s arm, looking at him with a smile and raised brow. “You know, I think he is going to start talking soon.”

            A similar smile comes to his face. “I think so, too.”

            Henry is a bright boy. William would think so even if he weren’t his father. The child has been growing increasingly chatty over the last month or so, learning new vowels and consonants and stringing them together in a variety of ways, propelled by his curious nature to experiment with language. He could speak any time now. What will he say first?

            As William watches Henry wave his tiny fist in the air, he feels happiness fill his chest, thinking about how wonderful it would be to hear his beloved boy call him “Papa.” He thinks he would like that better than anything.

            But Eliza clears her throat. “He is going to say ‘mama’ first. Obviously.”

            William tears his eyes away from their son to look at her. “What do you mean by ‘obviously’?”

            She shrugs and laughs, as if it is some sort of universally known truth that children always say “mama” first and everyone knows it but him. “Because,” she says, “why wouldn’t he?”

            “He could say ‘papa’ first.”

            “Why should he say your name first?”

            They start heading back towards home, and Eliza gives William a look, which he brushes off with a sigh. “Because I helped create him as much as you.”

            This elicits a genuine chuckle. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I miss the part where you carried him inside you for forty-one weeks?” Eliza shakes her head and rolls her eyes playfully. “I think I’m more than deserving, don’t you?”

            He resists the urge to smirk. “Of course, Eliza. And you know, babies always take who’s the most deserving into account before deciding their first word.”

            They pause when Henry drops his rattle just out of reach, nose scrunching like he’s about to cry, and they both move in the same instant. William retrieves the rattle first and presses it back into Henry’s hand. Immediately, the baby is smiling again. Crisis averted.

            William doesn’t want to imply that Eliza is undeserving. She’s a good mother. However, is it really so preposterous that their son might want to say his name first? He thinks he’s been a pretty good father, and though his son lacks the proper vocabulary to say such a thing, William believes Henry loves him. Just looking at the smile Henry is giving him now, it’s impossible to think otherwise.

            They walk in silence for several minutes and William thinks the discussion is over, but then Eliza tilts her head to the side. When he turns towards her, she has that same look in her eye that she gets when she’s about to tell him she’s done something he won’t much like. “How about,” she says slowly, “we make a bet?” 

            His first instinct is to laugh, but she’s still staring at him, clearly waiting for an answer. Meanwhile, Henry has lost interest in the adults’ conversation, waving his rattle and smiling at a passing tree.

            William raises a brow at her. “You want to bet about Henry’s first word? You’re serious?”

            “Completely.”

            He stares at her for a moment before responding. Does she really want to bet on this? It’s so silly! But, well…there’s a part of him that thinks it would be satisfying to triumph over her. The smirk on her face right now is simultaneously adorable and maddening…

            “Fine,” he concedes. “What are the terms?”

            “Simple—you say Henry will say ‘Papa’ first, I claim it will be ‘Mama’ first. The winner is whoever is proven correct. But, to guarantee there will be no funny business, the winning word must be uttered in the presence of both of us or an impartial third party.”

            “And what if he says ‘Papa’ while you’re not home, then what? I’m supposed to force him to say it again?”

            “Yes,” she insists, “for how else am I supposed to know you didn’t make the whole thing up to claim victory?”

            William scoffs. “Do you think I’m such an awful cheat?”

            “I’m only being fair. The rules apply to me as well as you.”

            He considers arguing further, but Eliza appears resolute, and he must pick his battles. “Fine. But you must promise you and Ivy will not collude behind my back.”

            “Collude? Why would we?”

            “She’s known you since you were a child. You might concoct a scheme.”

            “Ivy is very trustworthy—”

            “I didn’t say Ivy was the untrustworthy one.” He gives her a sideways glance. “Wouldn’t be the first time you attempt to drag her into one of your plans.”

            Eliza frowns at him, but after a moment, the corner of her mouth pops up, and she sighs. “Fine. I swear.”

            “And,” William adds, “the word must be spoken clearly. A single ‘ma’ or ‘ah’ will not count in your favor. It must be the entire word. Deal?”

            “Deal.” Eliza smiles, looking pleased with herself, and she grips his arm tighter, placing her head on his shoulder. “So,” she says, “what do I get when I win?”

            He doesn’t hesitate. “Nothing, seeing as you won’t win.”

            Her eyes glint mischievously in response. “Well,” she says, grinning, “we’ll see about that.” William returns her smile.

            Oh, it is going to be so satisfying to beat her.

            Over the next few days, they are at war.

            A low-stakes war, perhaps, but a war nonetheless.

            Both sides are determined and they will stop at nothing to achieve victory for themselves. William begins reading Henry a book with the word “Papa” in it, making sure to pronounce it slowly and clearly, and one night as he puts Henry into his crib, he tries to coach the boy to say it, though all he gets in response is a feeble “puh.” Eliza walks in on this covert mission and is annoyed by it, but the next day he comes home from work to find her cajoling a disinterested Henry into saying “Mama,” so she cannot claim to be perfectly innocent.

            Finally, on Friday, the big moment arrives.

            They are sitting down to dinner, William on one side of the table, Eliza on the other, and Henry sitting upright in her lap. “You should accept defeat,” Eliza says, looking over at William while simultaneously feeding Henry. “He is going to say ‘Mama’ first. I’m his favorite.”

            A smile touches his mouth, and he glances at Henry, currently squirming in Eliza’s lap as she raises the spoon towards his mouth. “I don’t know. If you keep trying to feed him those peas, he might never say your name out of pure spite.”

            She looks down and, indeed, Henry is currently turning his head away with a small noise of protest, attempting to bat her arm away with his tiny hands. Eliza sighs. “Henry, my dearest one, you liked peas perfectly well last week. Won’t you have some?”

            But the baby shakes his head vigorously and pushes the spoon away with his chubby fist, accidentally spilling several peas onto Eliza’s lap, which she collects with a sigh. “Sometimes,” she says to William, “I think he’s trying to torment me.”

            “Hmm,” he responds with a wry smile, “a tendency towards obstinance. I wonder where he could’ve gotten that from.”

            “You.”

            He can’t help but chuckle at her quick reply, and the two of them exchange a glance, smiles tugging at both their mouths. Indeed, they both suspected they would produce a willful child, given neither of them is the type to do as told. 

            Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t occasionally frustrating, and Eliza’s shoulders sink when even her sweetest of smiles can’t induce Henry to eat the offered vegetable. “I don’t understand how he can like a food perfectly well one week and then abhor it the next. First it was parsnips, and now this.”

            “Perhaps he’s decided he has a distaste for foods beginning with the letter ‘p’?”

            “Ha, you’re funny,” she says in a voice dripping with sarcasm as she throws the baby spoon down onto the table. “And wrong, because he still likes potatoes.”  

            William could tease his wife further, but he can see the tiredness touch her eyes, and as much as he delights in sparring with her, he is a smart enough man and good enough husband to know when such a thing is welcome and when it is not. Wordlessly, he pushes out his chair and circumvents the table, kneeling down next to Eliza and Henry and retrieving the discarded spoon. “Dear boy,” he says in his softest, most appealing of voices, “won’t you take just one bite?”

            In response, Henry shakes his head and scrunches up his usually sweet face into a scowl, wriggling against Eliza’s grip, looking around like he’s currently considering what his options are for an escape.

            “Please? For your mama?”

            Henry pushes the spoon away, and this time the peas fall to the floor.

            William closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Reasoning with an infant is no easy feat. “Henry,” he says, looking his son in the face, “just one. Just one pea, huh? It would make your mama happy—”

            But before he can finish, Henry looks directly at him and says, quite clearly and distinctly, “No!”

            For a long moment, no one says anything, William staring as he tries to comprehend what he’s just heard, Eliza turning toward him with wide eyes, and Henry squirming and fidgeting at the thought of eating a vegetable.

            “Henry,” William repeats slowly, “what did you just—”

            “No!”

            The refusal is repeated with all the intensity an eleven-month-old boy can possess, and now that the initial surprise has worn off, neither of them can deny what they’ve heard. Their son has just said his first word, and rather than a “Mama” or “Papa” like any other child, he’s decided he finally wants to speak not out of love for them, but out of sheer stubbornness.

            At the same moment, William and Eliza both look at each other, and then, they both begin to laugh.

            “Well,” Eliza says, “I suppose we can’t doubt he’s ours.”

            “We really only have ourselves to blame.” Though they both try to stifle their laughter, the moment their eyes meet again, all their attempts fail.

            Perhaps their son’s first attempt at speech was not the loving moment they might’ve hoped, but they definitely won’t forget it. Henry might even prove to be the strongest-willed of all of them. The thought is both terrifying and hilarious.

            Henry settles back on Eliza’s lap, having no idea what he’s done to generate such amusement, and she drops a kiss into his hair with an affectionate sigh. William takes her hand and when their eyes meet over their son’s head, they can’t help but share a smile.  

            In the end, Henry doesn’t have to eat those peas.

            Unfortunately, for William and Eliza, once Henry finally says “no,” he discovers it to be his favorite word.

            Ask him to eat a pea? No. Take a bath? No. Go to sleep when he’s supposed to? No. That word becomes a constant chorus, so much so it could almost taunt them in their sleep.

            But their son’s talking is not all bad. Two weeks later, William is lowering Henry gently down into his crib when Henry looks up at him with big, tender eyes and says his second word, “Papa.” Three days after that, Eliza returns home from work only for Henry to greet her with a smile and his third word, “Mama.”

            Thus, “Papa” and “Mama” join “no” in Henry’s usual rotation—sometimes said lovingly, other times demandingly, but always met with enthusiasm.

            “You know,” William says to Eliza randomly one night, “I suppose that means I won the bet after all.”

            She arches an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Henry said ‘Papa’ before ‘Mama,’ as I predicted—so, what are you going to get me for my victory?”

            She scoffs. “You’re insufferable. We bet on what Henry’s first word would be, therefore we both lost.”

            “I don’t remember it that way.”

            “Well, you’ve always had a tendency towards selective memory when it’s convenient to your point—”

            They contest the exact phrasing for a few days after that. Secretly, though, it doesn’t matter to William whether he won the bet or not—hearing his son speak to him with such love, or to Eliza, is enough.

            (Not that he’ll ever tell his wife that. He has a reputation to uphold, you know.)

Chapter Text

        Lightning turns the darkened bedroom silvery grey, casting its light across the walls and floor before the dreary night descends again. Three seconds pass, and then there is a clap of thunder, the kind that feels like it could shake the world with its power, a tempest of Old Testament proportions.

        Not that Eliza is awake to notice. She shifts her head, grunting softly in her sleep, and covers her face with her arm. She did not make it to bed until after midnight and even an act of God could not wake her now. When she dragged herself upstairs, the fatigue had seeped down into her bones, the result of an extensive inquiry she has been working on for weeks. It’s taken up all her time and even started to infect her dreams, so that night as she squirms in bed, her mind flashes with murder and mystery and her client’s pleading face, instead of something pleasant.

        No, it’s not the storm that awakens Eliza that night.

        Little feet pitter-patter against the hardwood floor, making their way to Eliza and William’s master bedroom, and the door is pushed open a crack, allowing a shard of light to slip inside. The intruder approaches the bed cautiously, hesitating for a moment before reaching out his hand and poking two fingers into Eliza’s shoulder. “Mama.”

        She groans, half-awake and half-asleep, at first thinking the prodding is only part of some dream, and she burrows her face into her husband’s arm, William still fast asleep beside her. But then the fingers press harder, and the intruder repeats in a firmer voice: “Mama.”

        With a sigh, Eliza uncovers her face and rolls over. When her eyes open, she finds a little person is standing at the edge of the bed staring at her, and thunder cracks in the distance, causing her to gasp and cover her heart with her hand. “Henry! You scared me.”

        “Sorry, Mama.”

        Another thought comes to her, and she frowns. “How did you get out of your crib?”

        “Climb, Mama,” Henry responds, as if that’s an ordinary thing to do.

        Eliza opens her mouth, then shuts it. She made her own fair share of great escapes as a child, so if her toddler is climbing out of his crib, she probably has only herself to blame.

        The lightning illuminates Henry’s face, and he is staring at her with eyes the same color as her own, still wearing his nightclothes, his dark hair sticking up at the back. Eliza gives him a sleepy smile and smooths his hair down.

        “What are you doing awake, dearest?”

        They put him to bed hours ago, and she confirmed he was safely dreaming before she retired to bed herself, but now her two-year-old son is looking at her with wide eyes, hesitating before speaking, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

        Eliza props herself up on her elbow and places her hand on the side of Henry’s head, brushing back his hair and gingerly touching his cheek. “Are you scared of the storm, dear boy?”

        Before Henry answers, she feels her husband stir next to her, and William lifts his head, blinking as he readjusts to consciousness. “Henry?” he mumbles in a voice made thick from sleep. “What’s wrong, my dearest boy?”

        Henry tries to speak, but then there’s another bright burst of lightning, and his tiny mouth trembles, his eyes wide from fear.

        With a sigh, Eliza lifts herself into a sitting position, now wide awake. “It’s all right. It’s just a little rain. Nothing to be frightened of.”

        But Henry doesn’t look convinced, and a boom of thunder has him on the verge of tears, hands covering his ears. “Loud, Mama.” He shakes his head. “No like it.”

        Though Henry has lived through many rainstorms in his short life—they do, after all, live in England, a country predisposed to dreariness—this is a particularly violent one, and Eliza understands how it might sound frightening to two-year-old ears. Rain pounds on the windows, almost like it’s begging for entrance, the shutters starting to shake.

        “Do you want me to take you back to your room?” she asks. “I can tuck you in, all nice and snug.”

        Henry shakes his head ‘no.’

        “Do you want Papa to take you?”

        Another ‘no.’

        “What do you want then, dearest?”

        “Make noise stop, Mama.”

        Eliza knows that’s something she cannot do, and she’s about to tell Henry exactly that, but she sees how big his eyes are staring at her, and the water threatening to spill out of them. He’s really scared.

        Immediately, her heart softens. She hates seeing her son afraid, and all she wants to do is pull him into her arms and hug him tightly. She suddenly thinks about the early months of Henry’s life, how she used to bring him into bed with her and hold him until he fell asleep. When he was about one, they would even let him sleep in bed with them sometimes, his body wedged between theirs, the two of them smiling at each other as they watched his little chest rise and fall.

        She turns to William and nudges his shoulder. “Move over.”

        He yawns and doesn’t obey at first, but after she arches an eyebrow at him, he does as he is bid.

        Satisfied, she turns back to Henry and kisses him on the forehead. “Come here, dear boy. You’ll sleep with us.”

        Henry’s eyes dart towards the empty space in the center of the bed, then back towards her. “Big bed?”

        “Yes, dearest boy.” It’s William’s voice this time. “The big bed.” Though Eliza knows he worked a long day today too—or technically yesterday, she supposes, as it must be around two or three a.m. by now—and he’s probably exhausted, he raises himself up without complaint and moves to the far side of the bed, patting the space next to him for Henry. “Come here.”

        Eliza smiles, and Henry extends his little arms toward her. She scoops him up and kisses him on the side of the head before placing him down right in the center of the bed, firmly entrenched between her and William.

        Henry quickly maneuvers into his father’s awaiting arms, and William kisses him too, on the top of the head, while Eliza lays back down again, this time on her right side so she may look at her husband and son.

        When lightning fills the room, Henry’s thumb finds his mouth, and he clings to William. “Scary, Papa.”

        “It’s all right, dearest boy. You’re safe. I have you.”

        Henry buries his face into William’s chest, and William holds him with both arms, Eliza moving closer to press her body against theirs. She strokes Henry’s hair and kisses him on the back of the head. “You’re all right. Go back to sleep.”

        She tries to offer a comforting word to lull him back to sleep, but when a clap of thunder crashes over the house, Henry cowers against his father, letting out a small whimper. The two of them exchange a worried look. It’s time for another tactic.

        “You know,” Eliza says, leaning her head on her hand, and Henry turns to look at her with wide, watery eyes, “there is a way to tell how far away the storm is.”

        “How Mama?”

        Henry looks at her, detaching his thumb from his mouth, and Eliza resists the urge to smile, seeing how eagerly he’s awaiting her response. This is the first time since he’s come into this room that he’s seemed like his normal self. “After the lightning comes, you need to count until you hear the thunder. That’s how far away the storm is in miles. Do you want to try?” Henry nods vigorously.

        “I don’t know,” William says with feigned disbelief. “I don’t know if you can count high enough…”

        “No, Papa!” Henry holds up ten fingers to signify how high he can count.

        “You can count to ten? Really?” Though William already knows this, Henry seems to believe him, nodding again before breaking out into a smile. 

        “You are very smart, dear boy,” William says to Henry, smiling down at him and brushing his hair back from his forehead, and Henry smiles wider. William’s praise never ceases to please him.

        Eliza supposes that in every family, everyone has their role, and Henry loves them both, though in different ways. William, for instance, is his hero and always has been. He’s the one Henry wants to be like, and sometimes he’ll follow William around the house like a second shadow, anxious to be included in anything and everything he does. William is the one he runs to first every time he’s made a new drawing or stacked his blocks particularly high or put his shoes on by himself or learned to count to ten because he wants his papa to be proud of him.

        (Of course, Eliza knows William would be proud of him no matter what, but she finds Henry's efforts to earn his father's praise cute nonetheless.)

        Some may take this as a sign that Henry loves William more, but Eliza doesn’t see it that way. There is no jealousy on her side for multiple reasons, one being that she worshipped her father as a child, so she certainly cannot begrudge her son for doing the same thing. Two, she’s confident her son loves her too.  

        She is the one who can make him laugh the hardest, who earns his biggest, goofiest smiles when she tells him something funny or tickles his sides to make him giggle. She’s the one he rushes to when he falls and hurts himself, has a scraped knee or banged finger that needs to be kissed. And when he’s scared and needs comfort, it’s her lap he climbs into for cuddles. She’s happy with that: to be his protector, his safe place.

        Now, she leans closer until Henry is in her arms as well as William’s, bending her head closer to theirs. “Next time the lightning comes,” she whispers to her son, “can you count? Until you hear the boom.”

        Henry nods, and this time when lightning fills the room, he’s not afraid.

        “One, two, three, four, five—”

        Thunder interrupts him, and Henry bursts into laughter. “Five, Mama!”

        “Five miles,” she tells Henry, smiling. “See? That’s very far away, isn’t it?” Henry, of course, doesn’t know what a mile is, but five seems like a big number to someone who is only two, and he trusts his mama completely, so if she says the storm is far away and can’t hurt him, he believes her.

        “Yes, Mama.”

        Eliza catches William’s eyes over Henry’s head, and he gives her a slight smile, eyes made warm by love. He wraps his arms around her body, Henry squeezed between them. “You can sleep here tonight, dearest boy. But back to your room tomorrow, okay?” Henry nods in agreement.

        Eliza tucks her arm under her head with a soft sigh, enjoying the warmth of her husband’s embrace and the feeling of her little boy wiggling against her as he attempts to get comfortable. She looks down at Henry, his eyes fluttering closed, his lips parting in a small yawn, and kisses him on the forehead. “Goodnight, dearest.”

        Henry pries open one tired eye to look at them. “Stay?” he asks in a soft, pleading voice.

        “Mama and I will stay with you,” William reassures him, and Henry smiles at this. “The storm is far away, and you don’t think Mama and I would let anything bad happen to you, would we?” A head shake in response. “Good. Now, sleep.”

        This seems to assuage Henry’s lingering fears, and this time when sleep comes for him, he doesn’t fight it. “Night”—another yawn—“Mama. Night Papa.”

        “Goodnight, Henry.”

        Henry falls asleep in minutes, his chest rising and falling in the steady pattern indicative of sleep, one of his little hands reaching for William’s arm, the other flat against Eliza’s breast. When she looks up at William again, he’s also staring, and they share a knowing glance.

        Careful not to jostle Henry, she gives her husband his second goodnight kiss of the night when she brushes her lips lightly against his. “Goodnight again, William.”

        “Goodnight again, Eliza.”

        She lies back down, pulls her pillow closer, her son’s cheek pressed against her chest. Rain taps on the windows, but she focuses on the sounds of Henry’s quiet breathing, the reminder that he’s safe with her.

        When lightning fills the room again, she opens her eyes to find William smiling at her. She smiles back before giving way to slumber.

Chapter Text

        “Now,” Mr. Potts says, “we are not going to have any talk of murder tonight, are we?”

        He makes deliberate eye contact with each one of them as he says it—first Ivy, then William, and, finally, Eliza, his intense gaze lingering on her for several moments.

        “What are you looking at me like that for?” Eliza asks, standing straighter with indignation. William suppresses his amusement. Does she really not realize why, or is she just good at pretending?

        “Because,” Mr. Potts retorts, “you are the one I have to be worried about.”

        “I don’t know what you mean!”

        William and Ivy discreetly share a sideways glance, but say nothing. They know exactly what is happening here and are smart enough to know that interfering with their respective spouses will not get them very far.

        The four of them are currently in line at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane, where a large crowd has gathered for the theatre's famous Christmas pantomime. The show is extremely popular, and this year’s performance has been even more talked about than usual, seeing as Veronique Grimaldi is set to star in it. The so-called Swiss Songbird—though, she is actually from Shoreditch, not Switzerland—is one of Britain’s most popular singers, actresses, and comediennes. Coming to see Ms. Grimaldi perform had been Ivy’s idea, for she’s always been a bit of an admirer of the famous starlet and she wanted nothing more than an enjoyable, peaceful holiday season with her loved ones. Unfortunately, peaceful is perhaps not the word to describe their night so far, considering Mr. Potts is adamant that they leave all work at home and Eliza seems almost physically incapable of that.

        “I shall be on my best behavior,” she swears now, a hand finding her heart. “If this is what Ivy wants, I will of course oblige. I know I have faults, Mr. Potts, but after all these years, I hope you know how dearly I love Ivy.”

        Mr. Potts narrows his eyes, considering her words. “Very well,” he concedes.

        Ivy takes her husband’s arm, leaning against him. “Isn’t this so exciting, Barnabas? All of us here together. And it is such a splendid night.”

        “If you say so, my dear.”

        While the Pottses are distracted, Eliza takes William’s arm as well, except when she leans her head closer to his, it’s not to rest it on his shoulder, but to whisper to him. “So, how was work today? Do you have any updates on the Thames River murderer?”

        He shakes his head and suppresses a scoff. “You’re incorrigible.”

        “I’m just asking for an update, William. It’s all over the newspapers.”

        “Asking less than two minutes after you looked Mr. Potts in the eye and promised you wouldn’t.”

        “Well, he’s not paying us any attention at present, so now is our chance. Besides, I asked very quietly.”

        He lets out a slight laugh that he attempts to pass off as a cough. However, despite William’s attempts to ignore Eliza, she is still clutching him with both hands and looking up at him with slow-blinking, hopeful eyes. She’s not going to relinquish this, damn her. And it is hard to put up a fight when she’s looking at him like that… she’s so pretty tonight too, with her dark red dress and fur-trimmed coat…

        William glances at the back of Ivy and Mr. Potts’s heads. They are paying William and Eliza absolutely no attention at the moment, Ivy talking about how lovely another lady’s dress looks while her husband nods along and says, “Isn’t that nice, dear?”

        William leans closer to Eliza and lowers his voice. “They’re investigating the butcher.”

        Her eyes dilate with obvious surprise and intrigue, though she keeps her voice quiet as she replies: “Why? I thought you said he was dismissed as a suspect.”

        “Yes, but it turns out that upon further investigation, his alibi was completely fabricated. No one knows where he actually was during the time of the first two murders. Besides, we’ve finally been able to convince the superintendent that the nature of the victims’ cuts is consistent with a curved blade between seven and nine inches, like—”

        “A meat cleaver,” Eliza finishes. “God, I knew it. And I know that the superintendent was insistent on the killer having some degree of a medical background, but a butcher slaughters so many animals. Of course, he would have a basic understanding of the intestines—”

        “Are you talking about murder?” Mr. Potts asks, his head whipping around to fix an annoyed stare upon Eliza.

        “No!” she insists. “Why would you say that?”

        “I heard the word intestines.”

        “What, intestines? No, no, you must’ve misheard. I didn’t say intestines. I said it was interesting how…how Ms. Grimaldi’s husband is also her manager. Isn’t that right, William?”

        When he doesn’t respond fast enough, his wife nudges him in the ribs, and he suppresses a wince at the force of her elbow. “Indeed,” William confirms. “Very interesting how a husband and wife can work together like that. Inspiring, really. I told Eliza we should take notes.”

        Mr. Potts’s brow furrows, and he glances between the two Wellingtons, visibly suspicious. The line starts to move, and when Ivy pats his hand to get his attention, he lets it go. As soon as his back is turned, Eliza releases a breath.

        “The butcher,” she whispers to William, the excitement audible in her soft voice. “I told you that weeks ago, but did you listen to me? No, you never listen.”

        “I listened to you,” William replies. “My boss simply does not listen to me. Now, let’s quit the talk about meat cleavers and intestines.”

        “What was that?” Mr. Potts asks.

        “Nothing!” Eliza says, slightly too quickly. William presses his lips together to maintain his composure.

        Inside the theatre, the crowd hums with anticipation, men chatting over pre-show drinks while women get up to gossip with their friends and neighbors in other rows. The four of them find their seats, and Mr. Potts brings his hands together, smiling. “Well,” he says, “what a pleasant evening this is turning out to be. Now, Mrs. Wellington, don’t you admit it is nice to leave work behind for a change?”

        Besides William, Eliza fidgets in her seat. “Of course,” she says, holding a smile that strains her cheeks.

        Ivy gasps quietly and points in the direction of the theatre entrance. “Look! Is that Jules Blanchet?”

        Unlike his wife, Jules Blanchet is actually a foreigner, a Frenchman of approximately forty years. When he strides into the Theatre Royal, he is wearing a well-fitted black suit, white gloves, and tails. His attire, however, proves to be of little interest to William, seeing as Monsieur Blanchet currently has a twenty-something redhead on his arm, her bosom spilling out of a sapphire-colored dress that looks entirely impractical for December.

        Eliza notices it, too. “Mistress?” she whispers to William, her gaze fixed firmly on Blanchet and his mystery woman as they make their way down the aisle.

        “Looks like it,” William confirms. The woman holds Blanchet’s arm, her other hand slipping onto his breast pocket, her mouth agape as she throws her head back with uproarious laughter. She is most definitely stroking his ego. What could he have possibly said that was that funny?

        Eliza’s eyes gleam. “There are rumors about him, you know.”

        “I think it’s safe to say they’re more than rumors.”

        The two of them exchange a knowing look, just as the lights start to dim. Someone in the audience all but squeals, and a hush falls over the crowd. The musicians begin to play.

        When the curtains part, a lone woman takes center stage. There is a pregnant silence, everyone nearly breathless. Veronique Grimaldi is dressed in scarlet silk, like the women of the Far East, her dark hair piled atop her head. They are performing the story of Aladdin, from the Thousand and One Nights, and she is meant to be the princess.

        She opens her pink lips and sings the first note, her voice clear and beautiful. Everyone in the room seems to be focused on her—except for, William can’t help but notice, Jules Blanchet’s female companion. He can faintly make them out through the darkness and the crowd, and she is leaning towards Blanchet, saying something to him in the middle of the show. The people sitting next to them are probably shooting daggers at her.

        A male actor comes onto the stage, spying on the beautiful Princess Badroulbadour before joining her in her song. His voice, however, lacks the power and beauty of Veronique Grimaldi’s. She is the star of this production, shining bright. William glances at the faces around him. Ivy and Mr. Potts both stare at the stage, enrapt, her hands clasped. Even Eliza appears visibly moved by the performance.

        But then, something shifts. Veronique Grimaldi misses a note, and William sits straighter in his chair, his brows coming together. He is not the only one who has noticed the change in her, because, beside him, Eliza’s lips flicker into a frown. On the stage, the male actor keeps singing, while giving Veronique a sideways glare that seems to say, “What are you doing?”

        Now, Veronique is not singing at all. Indeed, she’s not moving. She stands perfectly still in the center of the stage, her face gone white under the theatre lights. Her shoulders cave, both her hands on her knees, as if she is about to double over at any moment. She almost looks like she is about to be sick in the middle of the performance. William half expects the curtains to close and an announcement to be made, another actress waiting in the wings to be ushered onto stage and sing the part.

        But Veronique Grimaldi does not get sick, and the curtains don’t close. Slowly, a trickle of blood runs from her nose and down her face. She stares at it in wide-eyed shock as it drips onto her costume.

        Then she hits the floor in a dead faint.

        The other actor stops singing.  The music screeches to a halt. People in the crowd grow restless, chattering amongst themselves in unintelligible whispers, several craning their necks to see better. The actor rushes over to Veronique’s recumbent form, kneeling beside her. William cannot see her face, and the actor’s body blocks it from his view, but he can see her arm. It lies limp across the stage.

        The actor leans over her for several moments, then rushes to his feet. “My God!” he screams, his back to the audience. “She’s dead!”

        For a moment, it’s like the world stops. Dead? The crowd seems unable to process this revelation. How could this woman—so beautiful, so talented so alive just moments before—be dead?

        Then, the room erupts into chaos.

        The theatre lights come back up.  The musicians in their pit all look at each other, none seeming to know what to do. Many of the people stand, talking animatedly as they process what has just happened. Blanchet and his companion stand as well, craning their necks to see better.

        “My God!” The male actor spins to face the audience, his expression panicked and disbelieving as he looks around the room. “She’s dead! My God, she’s dead! I think someone…I think someone poisoned her!”

        William turns his head, catching Eliza’s gaze. His wife clutches her seat's arms with both hands, and she turns to look back at him. He can almost see her mind working as she mentally processes what is happening, just as he does.

        “Someone,” the actor screams, “someone help!”

        William and Eliza do not have to consult each other with words. They both burst to their feet in an instant. “We’re detectives!” they proclaim, in unintentional unison.

        Mr. Potts buries his face in his hands. Ivy gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

        Despite his best efforts, he cannot keep William and Eliza Wellington from a murder. Murders, it seems, just happen to find them.

Chapter Text

            Rhys Wynn-Jones can’t stop his leg from bouncing. He’s been sitting here for ten minutes already and it hasn’t stopped, not even for a moment. He has been in London for nine months, endured an uncomfortable train ride from his little town in North Wales to pursue his dreams of being a journalist, and all that time, he hasn’t been given any good assignments. Only parades and wedding announcements or a new wing at the museum. Rhys came to London to be a serious reporter, writing about serious things, and he’s never even made it past the section at the very back of the paper, that no one ever reads.

            But this. This is going to be a front-page story.

            (Well, his boss told him they plan to put it on page two, but page two is practically page one. It’s the closest he’s gotten so far.)

            A profile on London’s famous husband and wife detective team.

            Rhys has heard about William and Eliza Wellington’s achievements. They were the ones who solved that major bank robbery in Westminster, that jewel heist in Mayfair, and that shocking murder case last autumn when some fiend cut off three women’s heads. God, Rhys would love to write about one decapitation, let alone three! That’s front-page news, the kind of stuff that has people handing you their money and clamoring for more. If it were up to Rhys, he would write about things like that all the time.

            The profile on the Wellingtons is a great start. He’s sure they’ve seen so many things: blood and guts and everything that makes an enticing story, the type that would make Rhys’s boss salivate. He just might get a promotion after this. The thought makes him sit a bit straighter in his chair.

            They’re in Mrs. Wellington’s office—a clean, well-lighted place in Inner London, with at least ten desks, not counting Mrs. Wellington’s own. She’s let him into her inner sanctum for this interview, the door locked behind them, and he is sitting across from the two of them, the man and woman he hopes will finally give him his big break in this city.

            Mrs. Wellington’s office is not as he expected. It’s a very nice office, indeed, with a desk that Rhys would kill to own, very expensive looking. But he thought it would be…more feminine, with lighter colors. Instead of photographs or art prints, newspaper clippings and scientific-looking diagrams line the walls. He expected the office to have her married name, too, but instead, when he arrived, he’d been greeted by the name SCARLET AND ASSOCIATES on the window. He’d assumed he somehow got the address wrong at first, and he’d glanced at his notes to check it again when Mrs. Wellington opened the door for him. He’d commented on it, chuckling good-naturedly as he inquired why her married name wasn’t on the sign.

            She’d looked over her shoulder at him when he said that, one of her eyebrows raising. “Why should my husband’s name be on the sign, Mr. Wynn-Jones, if I’m the one who’s done all the work?”

            Rhys examines his subjects, situated in parallel chairs across from him. They’re both in their late thirties or early forties, and Rhys can’t help but notice that they’re still both devastatingly attractive. Mrs. Wellington has intelligent eyes and good posture, with a pointedness to her stare that might frighten others, but which Rhys finds oddly fascinating. His mother and sisters are nothing like that. They are always blushing and ducking their heads, so modest and demure, but this woman is far from modest. She is exceptionally intelligent, and she knows it.

            As for her husband, he is perhaps a few years older than she, his hair now streaked with gray, but if anything, it only makes him look more distinguished, more seasoned. If you were ever the victim of a crime, he’s the sort of man you’d want to help you, the one you would trust when he shows up at the scene and says he’s in charge. He has a more relaxed position in his chair, leaning back, arms folded. He still looks strong, despite his middle age. He could probably have Rhys on the floor in a minute if he really wanted to.

            Rhys’s curious eyes drift over to Mrs. Wellington’s desk. There is a magnifying glass and an abandoned cup of tea, a file laid open with papers spilling out, but Rhys cannot read it from where he is. Disappointed, his eyes land on something else entirely, a framed photograph at the edge of her desk, turned outward so anyone might see. “You have children?” he asks, vaguely surprised.

            His boss hadn’t mentioned any children. Rhys had naturally assumed that there weren’t any, because surely any woman who has time to solve all these crimes and lead a team of a dozen other investigators doesn’t have time for nappy changing and bedtime stories. But, yes, those are definitely children—three of them, the eldest perhaps seven or so, though Rhys has always been terrible at guessing children’s ages. All he knows about those creatures is that they are very loud and very smelly and very sticky, and while he himself was a child once, that does not endear them to him in the slightest.

            Still, there is something about the three children in this photograph that prompts him to take a second look. Usually, people of all ages are very serious in their photographs, treating them like the special occasions they are, but these children are smiling at the camera. That little girl there has her mouth open, like she’s mid-laugh, and one of the children is half out of his seat, the edges of him blurry as he attempts to flee. Just looking at the photograph, Rhys feels like he can tell the sort of children they are: lively, mischievous, impish if you will. Like Rhys’s baby sister, Gwendolyn, the only child he ever much liked.

            Surprisingly, it is Mr. Wellington who answers his question. He glances at the photograph, a slight smile raising the corners of his lips. “We tried to get them to sit still, but they refused to do as we said. They never sit still at home either, though, so I suppose it is a good likeness.”

            He tells Rhys all the children’s names and how old they are, but Rhys only nods every once in a while, these domestic anecdotes instinctively going in one ear and out the other. When the inspector is finished, Rhys feels obligated to say something, offer some sort of compliment, like his mother would do. Then again, his mother was always better mannered than him. “They’re”—Rhys breathes through his nose, takes a long pause to think of a suitable word—“angels.”

            Mrs. Wellington gives a soft snort of a laugh. “If you spent one evening with them, you’d know that’s not the case.” From someone else, such a statement might’ve been seen as an insult, but from her, the jest is accompanied by an undercurrent of affection.

            She crosses her ankles, adjusting her skirt as her eyes seek Rhys’s. “So, do you have any questions? I’m sorry, but I have to be across town in two hours.”

            Rhys clears his throat. “Yes.” He places one hand over his knee to steady his fidgety leg, while the other uncaps his pen. It is his left hand, but Rhys has taught himself to be ambidextrous, so he may take notes whenever and wherever a potential story arises. “First question. When you saw those three women without their heads, did the sight trouble you, or are you used to it after all of these years working cases?”

            Mr. Wellington’s brow lifts. “That is your first question?” he asks. “Really?”

            “Well, it is a bit of old news, but many people are still talking about it—”

            “Do you,” Mrs. Wellington says, “expect me to say I fainted because I’m a woman? Mr. Wynn-Jones, that is simply preposterous. I have never fainted in my life. And you can put that in your article.”

            Rhys doesn’t move, and she gives him a look that could melt ice. Rhys writes it down.

            Once he’s done, he looks at the man. “Inspector—”

            “Chief Inspector.” Both Wellingtons correct him at the same time—he with a suppressed eye roll, she with righteous indignation. Rhys presses on.

            “I understand that you’ve had a rather storied career with Scotland Yard. Tell me, one: why do you think it is that the London Metropolitan Police has in the last seven years completely failed to catch Jack the Ripper, and two: should this failure concern the law-abiding citizens of London when they, too, might have their insides removed by a deranged lunatic?”

            Inspector—err, Chief Inspector Wellington stares at him for a moment that feels endless, his eyes narrowed. “Are you,” he asks slowly, “planning to ask us about any recent murders, or just the ones in which innocent women’s body parts were salaciously removed?”

            Rhys frowns. When he says it like that, it sounds so sensationalized, but Rhys can’t help it if this is what the people like. And he’s nothing if not a man of the people.

            Mrs. Wellington sits straighter with an audible huff, one hand reaching for her husband’s arm. “Don’t bother, William. It’s clear he’s already come here with his narrative predetermined. Now”—this part is addressed to Rhys—“if you don’t mind I am working on a case for the Duke of Westminster—”

            She starts to stand, and Rhys leans forward. No, he can’t let her leave. If she leaves, then his article is over, and Rhys can kiss all his front-page dreams goodbye. Her husband clearly feels similarly, muttering something annoyed-sounding to himself as he dusts off his sleeve, and Rhys has to act fast.

            “Why don’t,” he blurts out, “you tell me about your favorite case you ever worked on, then?”

            She freezes, half-sitting, half-standing, while the chief inspector pauses from examining his cuffs. Their eyes lock, doing that thing that couples often do, where they communicate without saying a word. Slowly, Mrs. Wellington retakes her seat.

            “Hmm,” she says, visibly contemplating the question for a moment. “I would have to say…Mrs. Heaton and the Frenchman.”

            Her husband’s eyes faintly twinkle. “I agree.”

            All right, now Rhys is getting somewhere. “What’s the story there, exactly?”

            The chief inspector explains. “Mr. and Mrs. Heaton used to live across from Mrs. Wellington and her father. They were an ordinary couple—middle-class, seeming to be happily married—but one summer, a man started leaving the Heaton house every Wednesday evening. He would come about three and leave around five, always gone before Mr. Heaton came home from his office. Eliza—being the inquisitive teenager she was—took it upon herself to determine the causes for these visits, and roped me into her investigation.”

            She scoffs good-naturedly. “I did not rope you in. You were as nosy as I.”

            The chief inspector continues, undeterred by her interruption. “We held a bit of a stakeout for several days, watching their house to see if we could find any evidence. Eliza was rather convinced they were having a rendezvous—”

            “I was convinced? You thought the same!”

            “—but we had no proof. Finally, one day we were walking together to the park when we ran into Mrs. Heaton and her mysterious guest. She introduced him as Mr. Delacroix, her French tutor. Apparently, they went to the same church, and since Mr. Heaton had always dreamed of going abroad to France, Mrs. Heaton had secretly booked them passage to Marseille. She’d asked Mr. Delacroix to tutor her in French before their trip, but didn’t want her husband to know and ruin the surprise. A perfectly innocent explanation for the entire affair. We thought she was an adulterer, and it turns out she was a devoted wife all along.”

            “It was the first case we ever worked on together.” A slight smile lifts Mrs. Wellington’s lips, and she gives Rhys a wry look. “Our mystery-solving abilities have greatly improved since then.”

            Rhys blinks. “Fascinating.”

            And he is not kidding. There is something about the innocent story that compels him despite its sheer lack of blood, guts, or sex. The thought of these two people before him twenty-odd years younger, playfully arguing as they spy on their neighbor, nestles into his heart. What a peculiar, endearing start to what would prove to be a lifelong partnership in more ways than one.

            “And you’ve solved so many cases together since then.” Rhys glances at his notes and ticks off a few, to which the husband-and-wife nod along. “It is truly an impressive list of achievements. Have you ever thought about going into business together?”

            “Oh, no,” Mrs. Wellington says. “We would kill each other in an hour. We are both dreadfully attached to being the boss—him, in particular.”

            Her husband chuckles under his breath. “Of course, Eliza, because no quarrel is ever your fault.”

            “I am so glad you’ve finally admitted it.”

            They glance at each other, exchanging little smiles. Rhys feels his lips turn up, too. “What is the secret, then?”

            A crease forms between her eyebrows. “To crime solving?”

            “No, I meant…to so many years of happy marriage.”

            The husband and wife look at each other sideways, their faces subtly softening. Their playful smiles falter into more reflective expressions, silently conveying decades of tenderness, which have not yet dissipated.

            “I suppose,” the chief inspector says, “we could tell your readers to be hopelessly stubborn and argue all the time. Worked for us.” She rolls her eyes at him, and he adds, no longer jesting: “The truth is, there will be times when you don’t see eye-to-eye. When you’ll quarrel, or say things you don’t mean. But if you really, truly love someone, and you want them in your life forever, you have to realize that being right isn’t always the most important thing. You have to make a commitment—to them, to yourself—to be better, and never give up on each other. Not even for a moment.” His wife’s eyes glimmer in silent agreement.   

            Rhys picks up his pen and scribbles down every word.

            Half an hour later, he pauses and smiles at the sun as he walks out of that private detective agency. Yes, this article just might be the making of him. He doesn’t need salacious details or grisly murders, because he has something better than that. After all, Rhys knows there is one thing the people love even more than a crime story.

            A love story.

Chapter Text

            Eliza can’t sleep.

            This is not an uncommon occurrence for her. Sometimes, her mind is so alive with thoughts that she can’t seem to calm it down, no matter how hard she tries. When she was a little girl, she sometimes would wake Ivy up sneaking into her room and tapping her on the shoulder in the middle of the night in the hopes that her beloved housekeeper might get up to play with her. Ivy would always cluck her tongue, give Eliza some warm milk, and send her back to bed.

            Now, Ivy has moved out to live as Mrs. Potts, and Eliza is a grown, married woman herself, though she still can’t sleep sometimes. If she tried to warm her own milk, she would probably make a mess of it. Instead, she stares at the ceiling, clutching the blanket with one hand, and thinking about crime.

            That’s usually what preoccupies her mind at night these days—well, during the daytime too. She can’t seem to shut the thoughts off, and sometimes she’ll be up half the night, thinking about this or that case she’s working on.

            A slight snore interrupts her contemplation, and she glances at William, shaking her head and suppressing an eye roll. Tonight, he’s fallen asleep with his head on her belly, one arm slung over her waist. The warm weight has long since made her lower limbs tingle. Still, she doesn’t move. Every once in a while, she lifts her hand to run her fingers through his hair, or to brush against the familiar roughness of his beard.

            Eliza looks away from her passed-out husband to once again stare at the ceiling. Though the ceiling is merely her canvas, so to speak. She is imagining the details from her case file on it. She wishes she hadn’t left that file at the office today, when she ran out in a hurry to make it to dinner on time. Even if she had brought the file home, though, she wouldn’t be able to read it now, seeing as the sleeping William currently has her pinned down.

            He snores again, a little louder. He would deny it if confronted in the morning, but he snores. It scarcely fazes Eliza at this point.

            She knows that it is late. Based on how the shadows fall across the walls, she estimates it to be somewhere between one and three in the morning. She should be asleep, because she has a meeting at eleven o’clock tomorrow—or, well, today—but her mind won’t shut off. There is no way she is going to fall asleep anytime soon.

            Eliza glances down at William’s arm, considering her options. He hasn’t moved in at least an hour and a half. If she couldn’t hear him snoring, she might mistake him for dead.

            Gingerly, she lifts a single finger of his, testing the waters. For the count of three heartbeats, she examines his face in the darkness for any sign that he might wake up. He snores again. Eliza pries a second finger from where it’s made itself at home on her hipbone, then a third. William briefly wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t stir. False alarm.

            Confident that he won’t wake up—she doesn’t want him to give her some lecture about healthy bedtime habits, and besides, he does look sort of cute this way—Eliza raises his arm and gently transfers it to the mattress. Step one, complete.

            Maneuvering out from underneath him proves a bit trickier. Luckily, she gets a bright idea and picks up her pillow, taking a deep breath. On the count of three, Eliza quickly shimmies to the side, at the same moment slipping the pillow into the spot her body has just vacated. William’s head falls limply against it, as if he doesn’t notice her absence at all.

            Eliza smiles slightly at her handiwork, but when she gets to her feet, she almost collapses. God, her legs really had started to go numb. She’ll have to have a talk with William about their sleeping positions.

            She walks downstairs a bit slower than usual, but she makes it and barely makes a sound to boot. It’s dark, so she has to feel along the wall to find her way to the study that once belonged to her father, but is now predominantly used by Eliza. Once she’s safely inside, she opens the curtains to get a bit of illumination from the street lamps, then lights some candles. There. Now she can see perfectly.

            She pushes out the desk chair, and her bottom sinks comfortably into the worn leather material. Her feet are a bit cold. Perhaps she should’ve put on some socks before she left the bedroom, but well, cold toes will not kill her. Eliza reaches for her notebook as well as the first pen within reach, rapidly scribbling down her swirling thoughts.

            Her latest case is a robbery, which sounds like it should be simple enough, and an open-and-shut case for an experienced investigator like herself. The problem is, the man who by all accounts should be guilty was in Ealing a mere thirty minutes before the robbery occurred, in front of a dozen witnesses. The robbery was in Islington. How could this man have traveled ten miles in under half an hour?

            It’s not completely impossible for a carriage to have made the trip if the driver were particularly motivated and the horses particularly fast, but that doesn’t count for the time it would take to find a cab in the first place. The man did not have his own vehicle, and no one at the party would admit to giving him a ride in theirs.

            Eliza has considered that perhaps he was never in Ealing at all, but that doesn’t make sense either. A man’s wife would lie for him, or his family, but there were plenty of people there who scarcely knew Mr. Twyford. Herr Huffman, the local schoolteacher. Miss Coburn, the children’s governess. And the owner of the estate, Señor Bello, who had only immigrated to the country from Spain three years ago after a falling out with the royal family lost him his job at the Yeguada Militar.

            Eliza twirls her pen between her fingers, staring at the wall. It has to be Twyford. It has to be. But how?

            Her eyes dart in another direction, landing on a particular object. Stanford's Map of the British Metropolis and Suburbs, 1860. A bit outdated, but it will do.

            Twenty minutes later, one of Eliza’s hatpins—retrieved from the hall closet—has the map pinned to the wall. Two other hatpins mark the spots of Señor Bello’s estate in Ealing and the robbery ten miles away in Islington, a scarlet string connecting them. Eliza is so caught up in her task that she doesn’t hear the study door push open, nor the bare feet treading across the floorboards.

            “What are you doing?”

            She nearly jumps out of her skin. Jesus. Eliza turns around, giving William a look. “What are you sneaking up on me for?”

            “I’m not sneaking. You simply didn’t hear me.” He tilts his head, cocks a brow as he examines the map and the makeshift pins in it. “Where’d you get the string?”

            “Ivy’s sewing kit. She left it here. She used this thread to stitch up one of my hems this past autumn.”

            William makes a small noise that could either be from annoyance or vague approval of her ingenuity.  

            Eliza gestures, explaining her creation. “I know Twyford is behind all this. I just need to prove how he got from here”—she points to the pin in Ealing—“to here”—she points to the pin in Islington—“in so short a time.”

            “He flew?” William offers sarcastically.

            Eliza raises her eyebrow, silently telling him that his joke is not appreciated.

            “Look”—he raises his palms in surrender—“this is all very interesting, Eliza, but it is the middle of the night. Come back to bed.”

            “In a minute.”

            “Eliza, we both have to be up in four hours.”

            “It’ll only take a minute. I’m telling you, I feel like I’m on the verge of a breakthrough.”

            She turns back to her map, but her husband approaches her from behind, his arms wrapping around her waist. “Come back to bed,” he says again, the words this time accompanied by a kiss on the side of her head. His lips linger for an extra beat against her temple. “The case will still be here tomorrow.”

            “And I can take a nap tomorrow after I solve this,” Eliza retorts.

            His arms move upward, wrapping around her chest, and he pulls her into him, his chin finding the top of her head. His arms around her are very strong, and she can feel all the muscles of his chest through his nightshirt…

            No, focus. Detectives are not distracted by their baser instincts.

            “Come back to bed with me,” William says, his voice husky as it whispers in her ear. “I’m lonely up there without you.”

            “Don’t plead. It’s not becoming on you.”

            “You’ll make yourself ill tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.”

            “And ordering me around is most definitely not becoming.”

            His lips on her jawline almost overcome her resolve, but Eliza looks back at her map and pushes his hands off her chest, freeing herself. She really does feel like she’s almost reached that final conclusion she needs to prove her case. She can feel it, itching the back of her brain, just slightly out of reach. “Five minutes,” she insists, “and I’ll be done. Go upstairs. I’ll be right behind you.” She waves him off like one might do to a persistent insect.

            Though she’s not looking at William, she hears him heave an audible sigh. “I don’t see what playing with hatpins in the middle of the night is going to accomplish. Won’t you get some sleep? It’ll…renew your perspective, and whatnot. Then, when you rise tomorrow, you’ll be off to the races.”

            That’s it.

            Eliza stands straighter, her hands covering her mouth at the sudden insight. “Races. Oh, dear God. William”—she flies at him so suddenly that he instinctively recoils, like she’s about to slap him, but instead, she grabs him by the chin and plants a kiss on him—“you’ve just done it, you brilliant, brilliant man. I knew I married you for a reason.”

            He frowns at her last comment, but refrains from arguing. “What have I done?”

            “Solved it. Don’t you see? Señor Bello worked at the Spanish military stables before he came to England, and he still breeds horses at his estate to this day. Not just any horses. Racing horses. They can run forty miles in an hour.”

            “But not for long distances.”

            “Señor Bello breeds Arabians, William. They have incredible endurance, and Mr. Twyford didn’t have the horse’s health in mind, surely. The poor thing was probably half dead when he reached Islington. I will go see Señor Bello and ask him if any of his Arabians are missing.” One will be. Eliza is sure of it.

            “Tomorrow,” William says, grabbing her hand and directing her towards the study door before she can object. “You’ll go see him tomorrow.”

            “It’s what…three o’clock? The stables open at five. By the time I dress and get to Ealing—”

            “Eliza.”

            She frowns. “I was only jesting,” she says, as if moments before she hadn’t been mentally calculating her odds of getting a carriage so early.

            Her husband pulls her into his side, and his body is pleasantly warm. Their bodies do fit together quite nicely. When he offers her another kiss, she accepts it, and it goes just a little bit longer, a little bit deeper. “Sleep,” he repeats. 

            “All right,” Eliza relents, but when he leans in again, she adds quickly: “But I’m getting up at six. I want to see Señor Bello first thing.”

            William closes his eyes and emits a small, frustrated groan from the back of his throat. “Fine. Let’s go.”

            Eliza bites down on her lower lip and suppresses a laugh as they make their way back up the stairs.

Chapter Text

            Though his investigative abilities may sometimes seem to pale in comparison to his wife’s brilliance, it should be known that William Wellington is far from stupid. Despite the strain of his heavy caseload and unsympathetic superiors, he is intelligent and observant, and he achieved his rank not due to any family connections or bribery, but his own skills and dedication. Perhaps he lacks Eliza’s flair, but he is a capable investigator in his own right, and there’s little that gets past him.

            Especially where his wife is concerned.

            They’ve been married for six and a half years, and they were friends for many years before that. Her habits and mannerisms are as familiar to him as his own. So, when Eliza begins acting differently around the beginning of February, he notices almost immediately.  

            One random Wednesday afternoon, he comes home around five o’clock to find her fast asleep on the sofa, an also-sleeping Henry curled up in her arms. It’s not unusual to find their two-year-old taking a nap, but not her. When he gently shakes her awake, Eliza waves off any concern, explaining with a laugh that the case she’s been working on for the past few weeks has tired her out, and he is not concerned at first, accepting her explanation. After all, he knows this case has been difficult, and the body can have a variety of responses to stress.

            But that same evening, when they sit down to dinner together, he notices she is mostly pushing her food around her plate, her face possessing a vacant stare as he talks to her about his day.

            “Are you all right?” he asks, and at the sound of his voice, her head jerks upward, and she looks at him as if she’s just been summoned out of a trance. “Have you heard anything I’ve just said to you?”

            She shakes her head and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her tired eyes. “I’m sorry. I suppose I was someplace else. What were you saying?”

            She reaches over to brush a crumb from Henry’s chin, clearly expecting that to be the end of the discussion, but William stares at her, scrutinizing her face. She is a tad pale, her cheeks lacking a healthy blush, and her eyes do not sparkle with their usual animation. He reaches for her hand. “Are you ill?”

            The question seems to startle her, and Eliza turns back towards him with a confused look. “No. Why do you ask?”

            “You haven’t touched anything on that plate in ten minutes.”

            “Oh. It’s nothing. Just not very hungry, I suppose.” She lifts a potato to her mouth and chews it slowly, as if to appease him, but though she makes conversation with him for the rest of dinner, William cannot shake the feeling that there’s something she’s not telling him.

            He doesn’t pester her further—Eliza would surely dismiss his concern anyway, call him ridiculous, or say he worries too much—but he does keep a close eye on her over the next few days. She is quieter than usual, and quiet is one thing his wife usually isn’t. Eliza is usually so active, but she seems distracted, subdued. It’s not like her at all.

            He starts making mental notes, keeping track of her unusual behavior. Suddenly, she is in bed by nine-thirty every night, and while they would usually use this time to sit up together and talk, she can barely make it five minutes before she is fast asleep. One day, she cradles her head at the dinner table, complaining of a headache. Another, he wakes up to find her missing from bed next to him, and he swears he hears the sounds of her being sick. When she returns, he asks if he should send for a physician, tries to feel her forehead for a fever, but Eliza waves him off with a strained laugh. She says she’s perfectly well, just worried about her case, and she’ll be normal again as soon as it's resolved.

            She can tell him she’s fine all she wants, but it doesn’t alleviate his concerns. Something is wrong with her. He knows it.

            The final clue comes that Saturday.

            They’ve already put Henry to bed, and the house is quiet. She almost seems like her usual self tonight: a bit more color in her cheeks, a little smile touching her mouth as he climbs into bed beside her. Perhaps he is overreacting, after all?

            “You seem happy tonight,” he says to her, and her smile widens as she shifts closer to him under the covers.

            “I feel happy. I think I’m close to solving this case at last.”

            “Good, I’m glad.”

            He cups her cheek, brushing her loosed hair behind her ear. She has this radiance about her tonight, skin almost seeming to glow, and her nightgown slips down her left shoulder, exposing a tantalizing strip of chest. The sight stirs up indecent thoughts. “You look particularly lovely tonight as well.”

            Her eyes glimmer, and she smirks, moving her face closer to his. “Do I?”

            “Mmhm.” He brushes his thumb across her cheek, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head. “So lovely, in fact, I intend to do something about it…”

            He catches her mouth, and she kisses back eagerly, smiling against his skin. After a few moments, he deepens the kiss, and she welcomes his advances, grabbing him by the front of his nightshirt. Slowly, he leans into her, gently pushing her back against the pillows, his body on top of hers…

            Then, without warning, she detaches their lips and pulls back, emitting a small noise, almost like a gasp. He opens his eyes and raises his body off hers, looking at her with a frown and furrowed brow. “Something wrong?”

            She schools her face back into a normal expression, but he noticed that look in her eyes, even if it only lasted a second. It looked almost like pain. Concern ignites once again. Has he hurt her somehow? He wants their intimacy to only give her pleasure.

            Eliza shakes her head, smiles, touches his face. “I’m fine.”

            “You don’t seem fine.”

            She bites her lower lip, hesitating before she responds. “Well, my…my chest is a little sore.”

            “Really?” That’s not usual.

            “It’s nothing. I think perhaps my courses are about to come.”

            He nods, accepting this answer, though something about it still doesn’t sit right with him. “Well…we don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

             She gives him an apologetic smile, accompanied by a soft kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. This case has been difficult for me, but it will be over soon. I promise.”

            “Of course. And no apology is necessary.” The intimacy—or lack thereof—isn’t what’s bothering him. He’s only worried about her. She is clearly sick, and there must be something deeper going on. When has she ever complained about her breasts being sore? God, the last time was when she was—

            Suddenly, it all clicks into place, and he sits up, looking at her as if with fresh eyes.

            “What is it?” Eliza asks. 

            William shakes his head, reminds himself to breathe. “Nothing,” he says, but inside, he’s secretly trying to remember the last time she mentioned having her courses. She hasn’t bled…God, it must’ve been around the new year! Six weeks ago. It all makes sense, and he feels stupid for not putting it together sooner. Now that he thinks about it, it all seems obvious. He glances away, a smile threatening to appear.

            She is with child again.

            While his mind runs wild with his newfound deduction, Eliza props herself up on her elbows, looking at him as if he’s gone mad. “You’re being strange.”

            “No, I’m not.”

            His wife raises her eyebrow at him, clearly not believing it. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”

            “Wrong? No, not at all.” Indeed, it is the opposite of wrong. After worrying about her for days, he suddenly feels so happy that he might burst. He steals a glance at her stomach, hardly able to contain his smile.

            Eliza lies down, cuddling her pillow and turning away from him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” she says with a sigh, “but I am tired, so I’ll let it go for now.”

            “I assure you, Eliza, nothing is wrong.”  

            He stares at her back, thinking. Surely, she must know. She must’ve realized her courses are late. Perhaps she is waiting to tell him?

            Yes, that would make sense. She is only six weeks along at most—perhaps she wants to be certain? After all, it was not easy for them to conceive Henry, taking nearly three years of marriage and many months of dashed hopes. She is probably being cautious, doesn’t want to get his hopes up only to crush them later. He can’t blame her for that.

            He extinguishes the light and lies down beside her, careful to steer clear of her sensitive chest as he wraps his arms around her. One of his hands dares to rest over her lower belly, and he smiles, kissing her on the cheek. “Goodnight. I love you.”

            He can hear the smile in her voice. “I love you, too.”

            He won’t let on that he knows. He’ll wait for her to tell him.

            Except she doesn’t tell him.

            He pretends not to notice when she’s suddenly taking naps every day after work, and when he hears her getting sick one morning, he doesn’t say anything, but secretly asks Ivy to bake some plain biscuits, knowing how much they helped with her morning sickness the first time around. He bides his time, waiting for her to share her news, except then a week goes by with nothing from Eliza. Then two. Then three.

            He is trying to be patient, but it’s getting increasingly hard. 

            On a Thursday at the end of the month, he is sitting in the drawing room playing with Henry when Eliza glides in with a big smile on her face, telling him she has wonderful news. He perks up, thinking this is it, but when she speaks again, she says: “I’ve finally solved the Mulroney case, after all these weeks of trying!”

            Ordinarily, this would be good news, but he feels his shoulders sink, and the smile he gives her is weak at best. “I’m…very happy for you,” he says, before turning back to their son.

            He wanted to give her space, but it’s been three weeks now. Why hasn’t she said anything? He doesn’t know how much longer he can bite his tongue.

            Is it possible that she isn’t happy about it? No, that doesn’t make sense. She must be mad at him for something, and now she’s keeping her news a secret to spite him. He wracks his brain, trying to think of what he might’ve done or said, but comes up empty. He doesn’t understand why she hasn’t told him. Does she not want him to know? Is he being punished for something? Doesn’t he have a right to know about his own child?

            They would never argue in front of Henry, but throughout dinner that night, she gives him the cold shoulder, replying to his questions with one-word answers and scarcely meeting his eyes. He can feel his frustration rising. After they’ve finished, Eliza scoops Henry up and tells William she’s going to give their son his bath tonight—alone. Yes, she’s definitely angry at him.

            He goes upstairs and waits, sitting on the edge of their bed, continually glancing towards the door. Well, they’re going to have it out now.

             Once Henry is asleep, she walks into their bedroom and shuts the door behind her, her arms crossed over her chest, indignation all over her face. She raises an eyebrow at him. “What was that?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Don’t play the fool with me, William.” 

            He meets her eyes, and he can almost feel the anger radiating off her. “I told you that I settled my case after all these weeks of trying, and you couldn’t even pretend to be happy for me? What has gotten into you?”

            He takes a deep breath, curls and uncurls his fists. He’s frustrated, but he doesn’t want to yell at her, especially not with Henry in the next room. “I,” he says calmly, “don’t understand why you’re keeping secrets from me.”

            Eliza blinks slowly at him, her lips turning downward in a frown. “Excuse me?”

            “You know what I’m talking about.”

            “No, I do not.”

            With a sigh, he stands up from the bed, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Eliza, whatever I have done, I am sorry. But was my sin really so egregious that I didn’t deserve to know you are with child again?”

            Silence.

            He looks at her face and finds she’s gone white, eyes wide. She looks almost like she’s seen a ghost, and she stands there staring at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. It’s a long time before she responds. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            Really? William scoffs. He doesn’t believe that. “Eliza, please.” He starts ticking off the evidence on his fingers. “You are queasy every evening, your head hurts, you do not want me to touch your chest, and when you come home from work, you can barely keep your eyes open.”

            She stutters, wets her lips. “William, I…I don’t…”

            “I thought at first that you were waiting to tell me, that you didn’t want to get my hopes up, so I pretended that I didn’t notice, but it’s been three weeks. Why haven’t you said anything to me? Are you not happy? Do you not trust me? Did you think that I would be upset? Because, Eliza, I assure you that I am very glad—”

            “William, stop.”

            He is effectively interrupted when she crosses the room to hug him tight, and the unexpected nature of the gesture silences him. It takes him a moment to hug back, not quite understanding what’s going on, and Eliza buries her face into his neck, sniffling.

            “William.” Her speech is low and muffled, and he can tell she’s about to cry.  

            He pulls back just as she looks up at him, tears in her eyes, and he suddenly realizes what is going on. “You didn’t know?”

            Eliza shakes her head, laughing and crying all at once. “No! Now that you say it all, it seems so obvious, but I was so busy…so focused…I never thought…” Her grin is now impossible to contain. “If I had known, I would’ve told you immediately.”

            Remorse washes over him. She didn’t know.

            Tears run down her cheeks—pregnancy makes her more emotional—and he pulls her further into him, kissing her lightly atop the head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should’ve said something earlier. Are you upset with me?” And Christ, she is in a delicate condition—what if he’s distressed her—

            But Eliza lets out a small, choked laugh through her tears, and when she looks up at him, her glistening eyes are full of tenderness. “Don’t apologize to me, William. I’m not upset. Indeed, I am very, very happy. I didn’t know”—the way her watery voice breaks, like she might begin sobbing, is enough to make tears threaten William’s eyes, too—“I didn’t know if this would happen for us again.”

            Damn it. He is not going to cry. But the genuine, tearful joy in her voice goes straight to his heart, and—not able to think of the proper words—he pulls her in for a long kiss, the gesture conveying the sentiment he cannot.

            When they finally pull apart, she is beaming at him. “I’m happy, too,” he says, and he runs his thumb over her wet cheek, smiling in return. “Henry will be a good brother, don’t you think?”

            “The best.” She laughs and wipes her eyes, looking effortlessly, radiantly beautiful. “I love you.”

            His smile grows, and he stares at her momentarily, thinking about how much she means to him. “I love you, too.”

            He pulls her close, and her arms go around his neck, hugging him back. They stay there for several minutes, not saying anything, because they don’t need to. The tenderness of their embrace speaks volumes, and they both know that right now, they are feeling the same thing.

            They’re having a baby. It’s the best news ever.

            The next day after work, he accompanies her to the midwife, who confirms what they already suspected. On the walk home, William congratulates himself on having figured something out before her for once, earning him a playful eye roll from Eliza.

            (The joke’s on him, because she ends up being the one to deliver the most surprising piece of news a few months later, when she informs him they are having twins.) 

Chapter Text

            They depart Verrey’s around ten, bidding the maître d farewell after a pleasant meal. When they stop in the front hall for their coats, Eliza is fixing her hat when William approaches her from behind. “Here,” he says, holding her coat, “let me.”

            She suppresses a smirk as he puts it on her, and she can feel his body warmth emanating as she slips her arms into the sleeves. “I am capable of putting my own coat on, you know,” she says teasingly.

            “It’s called chivalry, Eliza. Haven’t you heard of it?”

            “Yes, but I was afraid you hadn’t.”

            William scoffs good-naturedly, and this time, Eliza does smirk. Now that they are both properly attired for the weather, he offers her his hand with a soft “Shall we?” Eliza accepts, and they step out of the restaurant and back onto the street.

            The night air is refreshingly cool, and she takes a deep breath, allowing it to fill her lungs. Soho is still active, even at night, but right now, there is no one around except them two, the people in the restaurant behind them, and the few hackney drivers idling down the street. The sky is inky black, illuminated by the haphazard dusting of stars.

            As they start hand down the pavement, he asks her if she enjoyed her dinner, and she responds in the affirmative. Indeed, the meal had been very pleasant, and the restaurant was very nice, with a lively atmosphere, fine white tablecloths, and most agreeable servers. After three glasses of French wine—a red from Bordeaux, recommended by the server, with delicious notes of plum—Eliza is not drunk, but she is in that half-state between sobriety and drunkenness, when all the world seems brighter, more agreeable. Her vision is fuzzy at the edges, all the streetlamps burning golden, and her senses seem heightened. Every sound, every sensation, every smell, seems captivating, and she can scarcely decide where to look.

            They took a hackney here, but before William can move to summon one, Eliza tugs on his hand, holding him back. “Might we walk for a bit longer?” she asks, biting her lip, like someone making an embarrassing request. “I know it’s a trifle far, but the night is so lovely. I should hate to part with it.”

            For once, he acquiesces to her request without argument. “Of course. We can go down Great Marlborough Street.”

            They head past the hackney drivers and walk through the beating heart of Soho. Great Marlborough is a major shopping thoroughfare in the daytime, and now, late-night dinner-goers linger behind the Tudor facades, chatting over candlelight and bottles of wine. Fractured conversations slip out of a door as a server heads to deposit his rubbish in the alley. Down the street, the cigarette factory—owned by the Morrises, who named their brand after the street itself—lays dormant for the evening. Faint tendrils of smoke rise from its stacks and dance towards the heavens. Piano music drifts from somewhere far away.

            Eliza looks over at William, and when he catches her gaze, he smiles slightly and squeezes her hand. “A pleasant evening,” she says, “is it not?” She nearly winces at her own words. Yes, she’s already brought up the conditions outside. What a silly thing to say.

            “Indeed,” he replies, and then they fall into silence again. The piano music—wherever it’s from—has stopped, and the street is hushed.

            Eliza tries to think of something interesting to say, but for once, she is struggling to find words. Their situation is not entirely new, for they have dined together and he has escorted her home too many times to count. However, they have never dined or walked together under these circumstances. They are no longer merely friends, but something greater, and though Eliza knows many things, she is not quite sure how to be a lover.

            She and William spent most of their meal talking about their days, the progression of the case they recently worked on together, and then, whenever the silence went on a little too long, they laughed over their shared awkwardness, discussed their meal, or commented on how nice it was to be together. Now, though, as they walk home, they are completely, entirely alone. There is nothing else to fall back on. What should she say? What do people in love talk about all their lives? Don’t they ever run out of things to say to one another?

            William’s voice pulls her from her internal contemplation. “Something troubling you?” he asks.

            She shakes her head, recovering herself. “Oh, no. Not really. It’s…well, it’s silly. I just—”

            “Help!”

            The scream cuts through the air like a knife, and they both stop in their tracks, instinctively dropping hands. Neither of them says anything, both poised, waiting, to see if they’ll hear it again.

            “Help! Please, he’s going to kill me!”

            It’s a woman’s voice, shrill and panicked. There’s absolutely no mistaking it now. Immediately, their minds are no longer on the night’s events, but the fact that there is someone out there in need of assistance. “Where is that voice coming from?” he asks, looking around. They’ve passed the restaurants on the street and it is abundantly clear that no one else is coming to the mystery woman’s aid. William feels for his waist but mutters an expletive when he remembers that he does not have his gun.

            Eliza hesitates before responding, her ears pricked up. The woman’s cries are carried on the wind: clear, but muffled. There is something about her voice—in the way she speaks—

            An accent.

            Eliza stands straighter. “Poland Street,” she pronounces decisively. “It’s just around the corner.”

            William takes off in that direction. She hitches her skirt and follows him.

            Poland Street was so named both due to the King of Poland pub on the street and the large immigrant population that lived there. Even in her frantic state, the woman pronounces the English word going not with the hard consonant, but with a softer sound, a sign she is not a native speaker of the language.

            When they round the corner, there is a blur of motion, the two people so locked up in each other, that it is hard to see. Eliza suddenly wishes she hadn’t had that last glass of wine. The man is grabbing the woman by her dress, shaking her up against the brick wall, and the woman squirms, cries out, fights, her arms held protectively over her head. William yells out, announcing himself as police and telling their mystery attacker to get off the woman this instant.

            The attacker lets go. He looks over at them, and though it is dark, Eliza can see the whites of his eyes. He is holding something in his right hand—a bag of some kind, small, with a drawstring. He stares at William and Eliza for a moment, like a skittish deer that has just spotted a predator.

            Then, he takes off running in the opposite direction.

            William goes after him, and Eliza hurries over to the Polish woman, who is currently on her knees, breathing heavily. “Are you all right?” Eliza asks, kneeling before her. She takes the woman’s arms and gives them a cursory inspection, to confirm she hasn’t been injured. “My name is Eliza Scarlet. I am a private detective. What’s your name? Are you hurt?”

            The woman blinks, visibly stunned. “Agnieszka. I was walking home and he—jumped out at me. He—he took my purse. I told him I didn’t have any more money—he…he hit me—”

            Eliza glances down the street, hoping for a glimpse of William, but she can’t see him, or their attacker. Dear God, she really hopes he knows what he is doing. “Did he have a gun, or a knife? Any weapon at all?”

            “No, no, but he hit me. He kicked me in the stomach. I could hardly stand. Oh, God, what if he comes back?”

            “He’s not going to hurt you, Agnieszka. We are detectives. You are safe now.” Gently, she tilts Agnieszka’s head back. The nearest streetlamp is several feet away, and a small shaft of light illuminates Agnieszka’s face. There is blood underneath her nose, and her eyes are wide with fright, the pupils dilated. “You may have a broken nose,” Eliza advises her, “but you will be all right. You are not in too much pain?”

            Agnieszka shakes her head. “No, no.” Eliza is considering her next move, wishing she had more supplies on her person and thinking of her limited options, when the Polish woman says: “My apologies. I have not been in England very long. I must have misunderstood. You say you are…?”

            “A detective. I stop bad people for a living. The man I was with is my”—she pauses, debating the right word to use, and finding all of them lacking—“my partner.”

            Agnieszka nods. “Ahh, detektyw. It is the same in Polish. They let women be detectives in this country?”

            Despite the circumstances, a slight smile plays with Eliza’s lips. “Not usually,” she says, “but I don’t like to follow the rules.” Reluctantly, this elicits a similar expression from Agnieszka.

            From further down the street, there are the sounds of a struggle, voices speaking indecipherable words, and then a slightly raised cry of: “Release me, damn you!” Eliza helps Agnieszka to her feet and they are both standing when William returns, now dragging his reluctant companion by the shirt.

            Agnieszka steps behind Eliza, her whole body quaking. “That’s him! That’s the diabeł!”

            Clearly, this diabeł made William work hard to chase him down, for Eliza’s lover is now breathing belabouredly. He gives the man a shove, the attacker falling cheek first onto the ground. “I believe,” William says, extending a small drawstring bag in Agnieszka’s direction, “this is yours.”

            She reaches out a trembling hand and takes it from William, counting her precious coin. “Dziękuję. Thank you.”

            Eliza kneels beside the man, who is currently writhing, mumbling about being manhandled. “What’s your name?”

            He looks up at her. He has very beady eyes, currently bright with fury. “Bitch!”

            “That’s a strange name,” Eliza replies.

            The man spits at her. William moves forward, as if to punch him, and the man settles back against the ground, though still maintaining his indignant expression. Eliza calmly uses a single finger to wipe the saliva off her cheek. She suddenly feels perfectly sober. At least she shall have all her faculties.

            Examining their man, she notices something, and she seizes one of his hands, lifting it so she might take a closer look. He mumbles something about how she ought to get her hands off him, but Eliza ignores him, of course. “You have very dirty fingernails,” she observes. “Not uncommon in this city, to be certain, but most working men stink of dirt or soot, not tobacco.”

            “The cigarette factory,” William chimes in, nodding at the quiet building back on Great Marlborough Street. “You think he works there?” Eliza nods. Yes, that is exactly what she’s saying. And based on the man’s disgruntled look, she is fairly confident in her theory.

            Agnieszka is still cowering away from them, her lip trembling and her hands clutching her newly returned purse. William kneels beside her, looking at their attacker. “You,” he says, taking the time to enunciate each word clearly, “are going to Scotland Yard—for taking this lady’s purse, and ruining my night.”

            Two hours later, Eliza is perched on the edge of William’s desk, a cup of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Her eyes scan a recent article on the Great Marlborough Street cigarette factory. She’s reading it when a tired William pushes open the door and steps inside. “The man,” he proclaims, “says that he is innocent, he will not speak a word to me, and claims that if anyone assaulted anyone, I assaulted him.”

            “That’s all you were able to get out of him in two hours?” Eliza asks.

            William ignores her. He crosses the room and picks up one of the teacups, but—instead of pouring the tea Eliza forced one of the constables to brew—he fills it with whisky.

            Once he’s taken a sip, she says, quite seriously: “His name is Carruthers.”

            William slowly turns his head, raising a single eyebrow. Eliza holds up the newspaper in explanation. “The cigarette factory fired a man named Carruthers three days ago after they discovered he had an undisclosed criminal history. He’s been to prison twice. This will be lucky number three.”

            William opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, then closes it. With a sigh, he pours more whisky into the cup and joins Eliza.

            They sit along the edge of the desk in silence for several moments with their respective beverages. She stares blankly at the wall. It is late, and Eliza is starting to feel the tiredness in her bones, how it’s seeped down to them and made them heavy. “I’m sorry,” William says at last.

            The statement takes her by surprise, and Eliza turns her head, blinking as she tries to make sense of his words. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

            He takes another drink of his whisky, shrugs. “I wanted to give you a nice night. Not chase a criminal and get you spit on.”

            “Technically,” Eliza says, “I got myself spit on.” William stifles a laugh at that and nearly chokes on his whisky.

            He is not looking at her, and she observes his profile, the corners of her lips cautiously rising. Depositing her tea and newspaper on the desk, Eliza leans over to wrap both arms around his shoulders. She drops a quick kiss on his cheek. “You do not have to apologize, William. That was the best evening out I’ve ever had.”

Chapter Text

            Detective Inspector Wellington. It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

            William can’t help but smile ever so slightly as he takes in his recently acquired office—the same one that was once Henry’s office, it turns out, and though William doesn’t believe in fate, it is fortuitous. He pauses momentarily from unpacking his personal items to scan the room again, taking in the familiar walls, large desk, the windows looking out onto Whitehall Place. He’d visited this place many times during Henry’s tenure here, but now it is his office, and the thought inspires a surreal feeling. There are very few things in life that William can say are totally and completely his. He’s tempted to pinch himself, but decides against it.

            Soon, this desk will be piled with his notes and case files, his hats will hang on the hook, and his jacket will be slung over the back of the chair. He stares at the bare walls and wonders what he might put there. William is not like the other inspectors, who have family photographs to hang up, pictures of blushing brides in lace dresses or fat babes in swaddling clothes to display on their desks. The thought makes him vaguely sad, but he suppresses the feeling. No, he is going to be proud of himself today, and not give way to those negative emotions. Besides, he can easily purchase some things to hang on the walls if he wants—sketches, photographs, maps. It will all be fine. 

            William sighs, examining the boxes he still has to unpack. He will finish later. Right now, he has a rare moment to himself, and so he rummages through the boxes for the whisky bottle—a genuine Scottish whisky, more expensive than the brand he usually buys. Almost every senior officer in this department has their drink of choice on their desk or hidden in their drawers, and well, it had seemed appropriate to make a rare indulgence. Uisge beatha, the Scots call whisky—water of life. He pops off the cap, pulls out a glass, and pours about two fingers worth. The first sip nearly makes him sigh again, but this time, from pleasure. It is rich, layered with flavor, bright on the nose but with a hint of oaky spice to finish. Perfect.

            Drink in hand, he settles himself into that desk chair, testing it out. Yes, it feels good. Very good indeed. He kicks his feet up onto the desk—his desk—and leans back, intending to enjoy his newfound good fortune for a moment when—

            “William.”

            She has barged into the office without knocking, opening the door so forcefully that it thwacks against the wall. William mutters a curse. “Jesus Christ, Eliza,” he says. “I’ve only been here for an hour, and you’re already going to scratch my wall?”

            Eliza frowns, looking slightly sheepish, then checks the wall, confirms that the paint is still unblemished. “I have to talk to you about something very important.”

            A constable gives William an apologetic look from his place behind Eliza’s shoulder. “Sorry, skipper. I told her you weren’t to be disturbed, but she was insistent.” The lad has a pale, wide-eyed look, and William can only imagine what Eliza said to him when he tried to tell her she couldn’t come in. Eliza has never in her life reacted well to being told she can’t do something.

            William pinches the bridge of his nose and waves the constable off. “It’s fine, constable. Back to work.” The constable wordlessly shuts the door behind Eliza and disappears, leaving them alone.

            The silence stretches out for several seconds, and William makes no effort to fill it, shutting his eyes and holding his whisky glass against his now aching temple. Eliza has a unique talent for giving him headaches. It’s impressive, truly.

            She starts again. “William—”

            “Inspector Wellington,” he corrects. “If you’re going to barge into my office uninvited, the least you can do is address me by my title in front of my men.”

            He hears Eliza scoff. “You’ve had this position for what—two days? I see it’s already gone to your head.”

            When he opens his eyes again, Eliza has her hands on her hips, but she drops her arms, sighs, and pulls out the chair across from him. He opens his mouth, intending to remind her that he hasn’t invited her to sit down, but she doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. “I need to speak to you. It’s about my father.”

            William resists the urge to groan. She is staring at him from across the desk, an intent expression on her face, hands folded in her lap, literally on the edge of her seat. He knows he is not getting out of this conversation. “What about him? And, please, Eliza, make this quick, as I still have a lot of work to do.”

            Her eyebrow lifts, and she examines him with a swoop of the eyes, making no effort to hide her scrutiny. He raises his chin, keeps his cool, determined to hold his own in this battle of wills. “You look very busy,” Eliza says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me, how does drinking whisky help you in your cases?”

            “Helps with the focus,” he replies, in the same tone. “You should try it sometime.”

            “All right. Give me some.”

            William chokes out a laugh, and it takes him a moment to realize she is being serious. Now, it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow. “You won’t like it.”

            “Try me.”

            They stare at each other for several moments, neither willing to concede, and William is the one who looks away first, with a muffled exclamation. Though he isn’t looking at Eliza’s face, he can imagine the triumphant smirk on it. “Glasses are in that box on top. But when you don’t like it, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

            She fetches one of the glasses and he pours a splash for her, but when he stops, Eliza gives him a look. More, really? He holds her gaze, trying to fight her on it, and when Eliza doesn’t waver, he pours another finger’s worth inside her glass. This seems to please her as she sinks back into her seat with a smile, holding the whisky glass between both her palms. William thinks to himself that she better drink every last drop.

            “So,” he says, trying to speed up this conversation and bring it back to the main point, “what is it about your father?”

            Eliza contemplates the whisky, swirling the amber liquid around in her glass, holding it up to the light as if it is evidence in a case, not a simple glass of spirits. “It’s about the Eltham murder. He won’t let me help.”

            William doesn’t say anything, expecting there to be more to the story, but nothing else comes. “Eliza,” he says slowly, “what do you expect me to do about that?”

            She looks at him like he’s an idiot for not understanding her point. “Tell him to let me consult on the case.”

            William tries—and fails—not to laugh, the sound coming out more like a snort. He shakes his head and helps himself to a long sip of whisky. “That’s funny.”

            “I’m being serious, William.”

            “Inspector Wellington.”

            “Oh, shut up.”

            “Is that any way to get me to help you?”

            Eliza pauses from cautiously sniffing the whisky in her glass to look at him with the tiniest spark of hope in her eyes. “If I call you Inspector Wellington and ask very nicely,” she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that he knows is intended to manipulate him, “will you help me?”

            William doesn’t hesitate in his reply. “No.”

            Her face falls, and she looks at him without attempting to conceal her obvious frustration and disgust. William cracks a smile and Eliza flops back into her seat with a loud sigh, crossing her legs at the knees, in an unladylike way that hitches her skirt above her ankles. She tilts her head back and takes a long sip of the whisky—probably too long, but William knows Eliza pretty well after all these years, and he suspects she wants to keep up with him. She can turn anything into a competition.

            William watches her, waiting for her reaction. She holds the whisky in her mouth before swallowing, and when she does swallow, it is with a vaguely pained look on her face—she suppresses it quickly, but he’s already noticed. That was a mistake. This Scotch has a bit more of a bite to it, and though William likes the deeper, richer taste, it is not the best choice for a first-timer. Seeing as she is not a whisky drinker, she really ought to take tinier sips, let the liquid touch the tip of her tongue and slowly roll back to her throat. Of course, that is not what she has done, because Eliza is never tentative about anything. She dives headfirst into everything she does, even the things she shouldn’t, and drinking whisky seems no exception.

            “Well?” he asks when Eliza shifts the whisky glass from one hand to the other, eyeing it with suspicion.

            “It’s…good. Smooth.”

            He bites on his lip to prevent himself from laughing. He can tell from Eliza’s unenthusiastic delivery and puckered expression that it is a complete and total lie.

            She ignores the offensive drink for a moment and looks up at him, her eyes silently entreating. “William, please. You know my father respects your opinion and—if you vouched for me—just this once—”

            She trails off, and William pauses, his glass half-raised to his lips. All joking aside, there is something in her voice that makes guilt pull at his throat. Still, he takes another sip and forces himself to answer in the negative. “Eliza,” he says softly, so as not to break her heart, “I cannot.”

            “But William—”

            “Eliza, you know I can’t. This is between you and your father, not me. Besides, Eliza, even if I did intercede…he is never going to let you work with him. I am sorry, but it is the truth.”

            “But—”

            “Eliza, enough.”

            His firm voice stops her, and she looks down, cutting herself off. He swears the corners of her eyes glisten, and William stares into the depths of his whisky. Contrary to what Eliza might think, he does not enjoy crushing her dreams. Indeed, it makes him feel rather bad, but what can he do?

            “I know you are very determined,” William tells Eliza, his voice hardly above a whisper, “but even you cannot change the world. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

            She does not speak for several moments, does not lift her head or meet his gaze. When she finally responds, she looks off to the side, away from him, and he can see her swallow hard, as if suppressing emotion. “Fine,” she says in a flat voice. “I’ll have to convince him myself then. Good day, William.”

            She stands from her chair, runs her hand down her skirt, and then—as if simply to show him that she can—she drains the rest of that whisky in one large gulp. Though she still winces slightly, she takes it fairly well, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. William can’t help but be slightly impressed by her stubbornness.

            She starts for the door, and impulsively, William leans forward in his seat, calls her name to stop her. Eliza turns around, her face brightening with something akin to hope, and William clasps his hands together, clears his throat. “Next time you try to drink whisky,” he suggests, “put some water or ice in it.”

            “You never put water or ice in yours.”

            “Well, yes, because it is sacrilege, but it’ll help your delicate palate.”

            “Delicate?”

            “Yes. That is how it is with you English. In Scotland, they’d put this stuff in your baby bottle.”

            Eliza stares at him for a moment, then releases a soft snort of a laugh, one of the corners of her mouth popping up. “By the way, Ivy wanted me to invite you to dine this evening—to celebrate your promotion. That is…if you don’t already have plans?”

            The invitation warms his chest just as the whisky warmed his throat. “I’ll be there,” he promises. “The usual time?”

            Eliza smiles, nods. “Yes. Until tonight, then.”

            “Until tonight.”

            He watches her go, follows her figure as she slips out the door and closes it softly behind her. Once she is gone and he is alone again, William sinks back into his chair with a soft sigh, sipping on the last of his drink. He’s not thinking about the taste now, though. No, it is something else on his mind.

            He places down the empty glass, sighs, stands. He has other things to be doing, doesn’t he? Best get to it.

            William returns to his task, unloads his boxes, and begins to organize his files in his desk drawers. Still, as he randomly shifts through his folders, an image of Eliza and how stubbornly she downed that whisky pops into his mind. He smiles to himself.

Chapter Text

        The party is in full swing around her, the townhouse packed with bodies, the eclectic mixture of voices making Eliza’s ears buzz. Champagne is flowing so much that the waiters hired for the party are scrambling to find more bottles, as they are already down to their last, precious few, with an hour left to go until midnight. Everyone seems to be in a celebratory mood, and why shouldn’t they be? It is New Year’s Eve, and they are celebrating this final night of 1899 and the new century that lies before them.  It is a time of new beginnings and new possibilities, when it feels like anything may happen.

        These last couple of decades have seen so much change. No one would’ve expected the pandemonium that gripped London after the Ripper killings in ‘88—and Scotland Yard surely expected to have caught the man by now—but there have been positive developments, too. Mr. Edison introduced his moving pictures. The Chicago World’s Fair in 1893 had no shortage of newfangled spectacles, like a moving walkway and an electric kitchen—Ivy had more than once commented on how one of those automatic dishwasher things would make her life easier. The Summer Olympics took place in Athens in 1896, and there will be another next year, this time in Paris. The Queen is now in the sixty-second year of her reign, and Marconi shocked the world with the introduction of his wireless telegraph system.

        It is, all things considered, quite a time to be alive.

        Around the Fitzroys' Brunswick Square townhouse, the fifty-plus guests continue to laugh, chatter, and clink glasses, dancing the night away as they herald in the new year. Eliza drains the last of her drink, eyes scanning the crowd, a smile on her face.

        Her eyes find William across the room, and her smile widens. While many great things have happened in the world as of late, she thinks what excites her most is everything they’ve achieved together. Two thriving careers. Fifteen years of marriage. Three little ones—though they aren’t so little anymore. And somehow, she loves him just as much as ever. Maybe even more.

        She admires him from afar, her chest feeling warm, but not from the champagne. Though William is closer to fifty than forty now, silver streaks throughout his once-dark hair, she still thinks he’s the most handsome man she knows. Eliza is not so young anymore, either—at forty-three, some might say she is past her prime, and she is starting to sprout some grey hairs herself, but she has never been particularly vain and doesn’t fear growing old.

        Besides, while she has aged, clearly, William doesn’t care. Her husband’s words and actions make it clear that he still desires her…

        Eliza clutches her empty champagne flute, thinking. It seems so silly now, thinking about the woman she was twenty years ago. She was afraid, back then, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Afraid that she couldn’t have everything she wanted. But she does now, doesn’t she? Indeed, life has turned out better than she ever could’ve hoped…

        They’ve had their fair share of bad times, of course, and they still bicker sometimes, but there have been so many good times, too. Time and effort have only made their love stronger. It took some effort to get here, but it was worth it in the end.

        If Eliza had to do the last fifteen years again, she would do it exactly the same.

        William turns his head, catching her eyes, and immediately he excuses himself from his conversation, making his way towards her. He gives her a smirk, which she returns, before he drops his glass on a passing tray and wraps his arm around her shoulders to kiss her deeply.

        His mouth tastes like champagne, and she sighs contently. Eliza has seen many once happy marriages fade over the years, spouses becoming like strangers, but not them. She and William have decades of shared history, and they are both too stubborn to give up on each other, no matter what. Perhaps they do not spend entire days in bed together like they did when they were newlyweds, but theirs is a quiet passion, the kind that comes when two people are assured of their eternal love and devotion.

        William pulls back, touching her cheek. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

        “William,” she says with a playful smile, “how often must I tell you? You never have to apologize for kissing me.”

        “Good, because I intend to do it many more times before the night is through. It’s hard not to, when you look like that.”

        Her dress is a deep ruby—a perfect complement to the necklace she’s wearing, an old gift from him—with the cap sleeves and slimmer silhouette that have come into fashion. When she came downstairs earlier that evening, the desire in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Even the children all complimented her, Henry and the twins fawning over her, stars in their eyes, telling her that she looked like a princess.

        “Children,” William had said calmly, not tearing his gaze away from Eliza as he addressed their brood, “your mother is prettier than any princess I've ever seen.”

        Eliza glances around the room with a small sigh, discarding her empty champagne glass. It is a lovely party, but she suddenly aches for home.

        William must recognize the longing on her face, for he raises an eyebrow at her. “Want to get out of here?”

        “You don’t mind?” They haven’t had a night out alone in months.

        “Not at all.” He smiles at her then, and she can tell, truly, that he feels the same way as her. “I would much rather be home alone with you anyway. Come—if we go now, the children might still be awake.”

        They say goodbye to Oliver and his wife, both couples wishing each other a happy New Year, then step out into the cold December evening, arm-in-arm as they wait for a cab. The sky is a rich black-blue, and the air thrums with excitement, filled with the sounds of merrymaking. People spill out of pubs or walk briskly towards their own parties, carriages rattling by with men and women leaning out the windows to shout, “Happy New Year!”

        “You know,” Eliza says, her mind drifting back to a memory, seventeen years old, one she doesn’t often visit, “this is all making me think about Hattie’s engagement party.”

        “Oh?” William looks intrigued, the randomness of her statement visibly piquing his interest. “And how is Hattie these days? What ridiculous number of children does she have now—eight? Nine?”

        “Seven, but that’s beside the point.” She looks at William, a quasi-smile toying with her mouth. “I never told you what I was thinking that night.”

        “And what were you thinking?”

        It feels so long ago, almost like another life. “I was standing in that room, and I remember…it was full of people, but I’d never felt so alone. Everyone around me was happy. Holding hands. Kissing. Looking at each other with so much love, and…I realized that, more than anything, I wished you were there with me.” She wets her lips, hesitating. “I wanted you in my life—for every party, and everything else. I think, that night, I knew I loved you, but I tried to deny it to myself, at first.”

        “Well,” he replies, “you’ve always been notoriously headstrong.” But then his eyes gleam, and he lifts her hand to his lips. “I love you.”

        They’ve been married for fifteen years and had three children together, yet somehow, those words still give her skin a pleasant tingle. “I love you, too.”

        Their ride arrives, and within minutes, they are rumbling down the street towards home, the sounds of buzzed laughter and high-pitched, gleeful shouts passing by outside their carriage. Eliza stares out the window, thinking of the future. 1900—it is thrilling to think about.

        “I think,” she says to William at one point, “that the twentieth century will finally see women receive the right to vote.”

        “You think so? There have been campaigns for years with no results.”

        She nods. “I do. Progress happens sooner or later, whether people like it or not.” Eliza’s mind drifts to their daughter, only eight years old and already so obstinate, so determined. Hopefully, she will not have to fight as hard as her mother did. Hopefully, she will grow up and be whatever she wants.

        “And,” Eliza adds, giving William a teasing glance, “I think Scotland Yard is finally going to get with the times and employ women.”

        He chuckles. “Oh, and you’ll be first in line, I bet.”

        She glances down at her lap and sighs. When she was thirteen years old, that was all she wanted—to work at the Yard, to be just like William and her father, but she hasn’t been thirteen in a long time. She has different dreams now.

        “Maybe once I would’ve been, but not now.” This time, there’s no teasing in her gaze, and she squeezes his hand. “I’m quite happy with where I am at present.”

        They exchange a smile, and he squeezes back. “Me too.”

        When they arrive home, the house is quiet, and Ivy and Mr. Potts—their babysitters for the evening—have both fallen asleep on the sofa. Eliza wakes them with a gentle nudge to their shoulders.

        Ivy wakes with a start, Mr. Potts blinking as he raises himself to a sitting position. “Oh!” she says, eyes landing on Eliza and William. “We weren’t expecting to see you two back so soon.”

        “Well,” William says with a shrug and sideways glance at Eliza, “the party was a bit boring.”

        “Yes,” she agrees with a repressed smile. “Dreadfully dull.”

        Ivy and Mr. Potts gather up their things, informing William and Eliza that all three children are down for the night, and the foursome exchange goodnights and well wishes on the front step as the Pottses head back to their own home. Once they are gone, William and Eliza tiptoe up the stairs to check on the children, peering into their rooms one by one and finding them all dead to the world.

        “To think,” Eliza says with a small laugh, “they are about to experience history, and they’re sleeping through it.”

        “I don’t know if the new century seems like such a big deal to an eleven-year-old boy and a pair of eight-year-olds,” William replies. “They can barely stomach learning about history in school, let alone being part of it.” He beckons her away from the bedroom doorway, hand outstretched. “Come, let’s have another drink.”

        Twenty minutes later, they are settled on the settee, he with a whisky and she with a sherry, his arm around her shoulders, she kicking off her uncomfortable heeled shoes. She almost sighs in pleasure as she leans into his embrace, finally able to feel her toes for the first time in an hour.

        “So,” he says to her, “we’ve talked about what the new century may have in store for the world, but what about you and me?”

        She sips her sherry, thinking. “Well, we’ll certainly have more years of getting into each other’s business and my meddling causing you to sprout grey hairs. Many more cases to solve, surely—I may still see you made superintendent yet.”

        He laughs. “Keep on dreaming, Eliza.”

        She smiles and shakes her head. He may not see it for himself, but she knows her husband is the best detective at the Yard, and while he may have neither fortune nor title, he is capable of inspiring loyalty like no one else she knows. She really believes he could do it.

        “Then,” she continues, “Henry is only a year and a half away from being a teenager, so he’ll certainly cause us some headaches.”

        William groans softly. “And when the twins are there too? God help us.”

        They exchange a smile. Their children are some of the strongest-willed out there, but they are also keenly intelligent, fiercely loyal, and remarkably brave. They both know they wouldn’t change a thing about them.

        “And,” she says finally, “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that you and me? There’s nothing we can’t handle.”

        “I’ll drink to that.”

        They clink glasses, and the grandfather clock in the hallway begins to chime, the sound of cheers filtering in from the street as midnight strikes and the new year begins.

        “Well,” William says, “it’s officially the 1900s.”

        Eliza tilts her head, inches closer to him on the sofa. “And you know how you’re supposed to celebrate the new year, don’t you?”

        He smirks, feigning ignorance. “Perhaps I need a reminder.”

        They meet in the middle, lips coming together for a forceful, passionate, time-stopping kiss. When they finally pull apart, they are both smiling, and a soft laugh slips from Eliza’s lips.

        She can’t see the future, but she’s certain she’s going to love him forever.

        “Happy New Year, William.”

        The love in his eyes is as strong as ever, and he leans in to kiss her again. “Happy New Year, Eliza.”

Chapter Text

            The house is quiet.

            Too quiet.

            William steps cautiously inside, closing the door behind him. He pauses for a moment in the front hallway, listening for something—anything—but is met by silence. Perhaps other people after a long day of work would find this quiet relieving, peaceful, but William recognizes it as the disconcerting sign that it is. Usually, this house is verifiable chaos, filled with Eliza’s happy chatter, tiny feet storming down the stairs, Ivy’s voice as she chastises one child or another not to ruin their appetite for dinner. Today, there is none of that.

            William has gotten used to being ambushed the second he comes through the door, met by his wife eager to talk about her day or his daughter clamoring for his attention. If they are missing, that can only mean one thing: they’re up to something.

            “Hello?” he calls out, removing his jacket and hat, placing them on his usual hook. “Anyone home?”

            There is no answer, and William walks further down the front hall, looking right, then left, searching for any sign of anyone. There are no children’s toys left in the hallway—he and Eliza have almost tripped over them more times than they care to admit—and no Eliza rounding the corner to greet him with a kiss. It was her turn to pick up the children today, so she should be here.

            But where is she?

            He peeks his head into the kitchen and finds Ivy, starting on supper. “Oh, hello,” she says to him, clearly not as unsettled as he is by the strange silence. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

            “Where are Eliza and the children?”

            “Oh.” Ivy smiles, and it is a small, mischievous sort of smile. “They’re in the drawing room. They’re—well, you’ll see.”

            The vagueness of that statement does not make William feel better.

            He heads in that direction, and as he gets closer, he hears the faint sound of children’s high-pitched giggles, then a light shushing, followed by Eliza’s voice. He can’t decipher her words, but he can hear her usual cadence, and there is a burst of stifled laughter in response to whatever she’s said.

            William pushes open the drawing room door. “Hello?”

            The place seems orderly enough. They haven’t burnt it down, at least. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, surveying the scenes for signs of damage.

            The sofa and coffee table have been moved, and they are surrounded by—quite literally—what might be every pillow in their house. William recognizes the fluffy pillows from their beds, the throw pillows from the sofa, even the cushions, piled up on top of each other like a makeshift barrier wall. The bedsheets are thrown on top, stretched taut from the sofa to the table, and there is a small, child-sized break in the pillow wall to grant entrance. William suppresses a laugh. Well, as far as pillow forts go, this one is probably the most impressive he’s seen.

            As he approaches, a dark-haired head pops out from underneath the sheets. “Papa!” Seven-year-old Henry greets William with a big smile, exposing the front tooth he recently lost. “You’re home!”

            “I am. What are you doing, my dear boy?”

            “We built a fort, Papa. You can come in, but you have to know the password first.”

            William feigns offense. “A password? Really, Henry, surely papas don’t need to know the password. We should be allowed in right away.”

            Henry grins wider, and from within the fort, there is the sound of a giggle William can immediately recognize as his daughter’s. It’s followed by Eliza’s voice, whispering something along the lines of: “Anne, darling, calm down.”

            “Sorry, Papa,” Henry says. “That’s the rule, and everyone has to follow the rules, even papas.” He says it with a remarkable amount of stubbornness, but then again, Henry is William and Eliza’s son through and through. He’s always been willful, and when he chooses his course, he sticks with it. Never before has William known a child who is so confident in his own mind. Though he respects Henry’s sheer determination, it can also—at times—be a vexation when it is used against him.

            “Hmm, well, then.” William pauses, pretends to deliberate. “What about please?”

            “No, Papa!”

            “What? Please isn’t the password? But that’s what you’re supposed to say when you want something, isn’t it?”

            “Yes, Papa, but it’s too easy for a password.”

            “What about, I’m your father, Henry Wellington, and if I say I want to come into your fort, you should let me?”

            Henry laughs, and the pillow fort almost quivers with the poorly suppressed mirth of its other inhabitants. “That’s not it either, Papa.”

            “It’s chocolate biscuits!” comes a little voice from inside the fort, which William recognizes as Thomas’s soft-spoken tone.

            “Tom!” Anne, this time. “You can’t tell Papa the password! He has to guess!”

            William presses his lips together to maintain a straight face and raises an eyebrow at Henry. “Chocolate biscuits. Now, may I come in?”

            Henry sighs and moves aside. “Well, I suppose,” he says, before his head disappears back into the depths of his fort.

            Now, William can’t help but smile. He removes his suit jacket and drops it haphazardly onto the floor. It will be a tight squeeze, and really, any other self-respecting forty-one-year-old man would probably think twice about indulging this. But, well, no one can say that William is not devoted to his children.

            As soon as he has lowered himself inside, he is set upon by Anne, who throws her arms about his neck with enough force to nearly knock him back. “Papa!”

            “Annie,” Eliza lightly chastises, “let your Papa breathe.”

            Anne pulls back with a big smile, and William greets her with a kiss on the brow. Her dark curls are fluttering about her face, and she has the skirt of her dark blue dress hitched in a rather unladylike manner, exposing her stockinged legs. Though she has only recently turned four years old, Anne is very forceful in all that she does, and too precocious by half. For a few months there, William swears “Why?” was the only word that ever came out of her mouth.

            (And William is totally and completely twisted around Anne’s little finger, though he would deny it if confronted.)

            He leans over to give his wife and his other son a quick kiss as well, and Eliza beams at him when he does so. Though she is not as casual as Anne, she—like the children—has removed her shoes and is lounging in only her socks, her knees pulled up to her chest. “Well,” she says to William, “what do you think of our creation? It was Anne’s idea.”

            Of course. This entire thing seems in character for one of Anne’s little schemes. “It is very impressive,” William says. “I don’t think our drawing room has ever looked better.”

            “It was my idea to push the sofa and table apart, Papa,” Henry offers up. “I wanted to make it big enough for all of us. Do you like it?”

            “I love it, Henry. It’s very…roomy.” Truthfully, William’s legs are already growing stiff, and he adjusts his position as best he can. It’s a bit tight, to say the least, to fit his adult-sized frame in here, but he won’t let his children suspect him of being anything other than content. He settles beside Eliza and Anne, his back pressed against the sofa, and Eliza gives him a sideways look when he subtly scoots down to avoid hitting the sheet with his head.

            “And Thomas decorated,” Eliza says, gesturing around their makeshift abode. The quilt from Thomas’s bed has been laid out underneath them, to cushion the ground, and the few throw pillows that weren’t necessary for building their fort have been thrown about with reckless abandon. Henry and Thomas are currently sitting atop two of them, like little seats.

            “It looks very nice, Thomas,” William tells his son. “Really brings the whole place together.”

            Thomas smiles slightly, his mouth just hesitantly turning up at the corners. His blond hair is falling into his face, half-covering one of his shy eyes. In a family of opinionated people, Thomas is the quietest, the most subdued. He is often quite content to sit back and watch what is going on around him, or to let his twin drag him into one of her silly plots. But despite his shyness, he is smart, too. Though he does not share Henry’s ambitious personality or love attention like Anne, he is extremely observant, and when he chooses to share his reflections out loud, it shows there is little that gets past him.

            “So,” William asks with a sigh, his eyes roving their cramped surroundings, “how long were you all planning to stay in here?”

            Anne shrugs a single shoulder. “Forever, perhaps,” she says, with complete seriousness, as if her four-year-old brain cannot conceive that there might be a flaw to such a plan.

            Beside him, William hears Eliza snicker softly, despite her attempts to disguise it with a hand over her mouth. “That’s a fine idea, Annie,” William says to his daughter, “except there’s one problem. How do you expect to eat in here?”

            Anne pauses and tilts her head to the side, giving this question what looks like some serious thought. Her pink lips scrunch up into a contemplative expression. “Perhaps,” Thomas suggests, “we could have chocolate biscuits in here. I know Ivy has a tin in the kitchen.” Immediately, Anne breaks out into a grin and says that’s a great idea.

            “You cannot,” William says to them, careful not to completely crush Thomas and Anne’s dream, “possibly subsist on chocolate biscuits forever. Surely even you two would get sick of them after a while, if that’s all you ate?”

            “Never,” Henry insists, shaking his head. “It’s our fort, so we make the rules, and we can have biscuits for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if that’s what we want.” Thomas and Anne both eagerly latch onto their older brother’s idea, and William glances over at Eliza, in need of reinforcements.

            But his wife betrays him by smiling and shrugging, a playful glint in her eye. “Well, William,” she says, “I don’t think we can argue with their points.” The look on his face must be priceless, because Eliza can’t finish the sentence with a straight face. Anne buries her head in her mother’s lap and hugs her legs in silent thanks.

            “Must I,” William asks, “always be the disciplinarian?”

            Eliza’s face glows brighter. “Well, we all have our roles to play, William.”

            “If only we had our biscuits,” Henry says, “then we would have everything we need, Papa. You’re here and Mama’s here and Tom and Annie and me, so where else would we ever need to go? We don’t need anybody else, do we?”

            William could object, but he refrains, leaning back against the sofa with a slight smile. Eliza glances over at him and when she quietly offers him her hand, he takes it in his, squeezing gently. There is something so earnest and innocent about Henry’s statement that warms his heart. William has tried his best to be a good father, and Eliza is a good mother. “You’re right, Henry,” he says, looking at his wife, “we have everything we need right here.”

            They sit there for a while longer, Henry talking to his father about the arithmetic he’s practiced at school, Anne recounting how her and Thomas’s babysitter took them to Regent’s Park for the afternoon. Thomas’s detailed story about each and every one of the ducks they saw in the lake is interrupted when their bedsheet is carefully pushed aside.

            “Very sorry to interrupt,” Ivy says, half-leaning down to peer into their fort, “but dinner is almost ready. Have you children been good and washed up?”

            “Sorry, Ivy,” Anne says, “but we’ve decided we’re staying in here forever.”

            William and Eliza exchange a chuckle, and a smile twitches at the corners of Ivy’s mouth, but she nods, pretending to take Anne’s words at face value. “Ah, well,” she says, “that’s a shame, Anne. I did prepare a nice meal tonight—oh, well, suppose I’ll have to eat it all myself. And I guess that means you and your brothers won’t be wanting any pudding…I thought you might have a taste before dinner, if you were really good…”

            She backs up, as if she is going to leave, but the children all look at each other, Thomas’s eyes as wide as they could possibly go. “Wait, Ivy,” Henry calls after her, and there is a long pause, before he asks: “What kind of pudding is it?”

            “Chocolate.”

            Immediately, all three children rush to their feet. They whiz past Ivy’s skirts in a burst of excitement, Thomas shouting “Thank you, Ivy!” over his shoulder as they all race each to the kitchen. It is impossible not to laugh.

            Ivy raises her brow at William and Eliza. “Works every time,” she says with a wink, before extracting herself from the scene and leaving the two of them alone.

            Now, William can give his wife a proper kiss, and he feels her smile against his face. “How was your day?” he asks her.

            “Very good. Thomas asked me if I stopped any bad people today.”

            William feels himself smile at his son’s innocent interpretation of detection. “And did you?”

            “Oh, loads. You should’ve seen me. I daresay there’s not a single criminal left in London thanks to me.”

            “Perhaps I shall have to turn to a life of crime, just to give you something to do.”

            “Would you really? That would be most appreciated. Perhaps you can start by vandalizing this pillow fort. I would like to have some blankets to sleep with tonight.”

            They exchange amused expressions, and William kisses her again, once softly, then twice, his thumb running across Eliza’s cheek. “William?” she murmurs against his mouth as he goes in for the third kiss. When he looks at Eliza, she is staring up at him with an almost bashful expression, batting her lashes at him. “I think I would also like some pudding.”

            Her words make him chuckle, and he smiles, kisses her one more time. “All right. I suppose we’ll have to say goodbye to our fort.” Holding each other’s hands, they arise and follow the sounds of Anne’s voice and Henry’s laugh to the kitchen, rejoining the rest of their household. It has only been five minutes, and Thomas has already managed to get pudding on both his cheeks, bless him.

            William pauses, looks around. Once, when he was much younger, and much lonelier, he promised himself if he was ever lucky enough to have a real family, he would love them with everything in him.

            And he has. He really, really has.  

Chapter Text

         There’s no way around it this time: William is going to kill her.

         Eliza has gotten herself into quite a few scrapes over the years, and she’s always managed to get herself out of them. She has stepped on William’s toes, lied to his face, stolen his case files, and gone behind his back, but this time, she knows she’s created a mess that will be very difficult to get out of. At least all those times, she could say she was doing it for the greater good, that perhaps she’d acted wrongly but they’d found justice for some poor unfortunate soul, and William would—sometimes reluctantly, sometimes after a few days of the silent treatment—accept her back into his good graces. This time, she has no excuse.

         What kind of person loses their engagement ring?

         With a slight huff, Eliza raises herself into a sitting position, the hardwood of the floor causing her bones to ache. Now, she has dust on her skirt, and the ring’s not even underneath the bed. Christ, where else could it be?

         She stands up, surveying the bedroom. She’s checked everywhere, and her ring is absolutely, positively, not here. Where else should she look?

         She takes the stairs two at a time on the way down, calling out an entreating “Ivy.” Eliza walks into the kitchen, where her housekeeper is currently preparing dinner, her new potatoes just ready to go in the oven. “Have you seen my ring?” Eliza asks.

         “Your engagement ring? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it again.”

         “No, it’s on my hand. I simply thought it would be fun to ask.”

         “Now, there’s no reason to be sarcastic with me, Lizzie.” Ivy looks away from her task to raise a single eyebrow at Eliza. “You’ve lost it? Truly?”

         There is the faintest hint of judgment in her voice, and it colors Eliza’s cheeks, making them grow hot. “I know I had it yesterday. I took it to the jeweler’s to be cleaned, and after I fetched it, I had some errands to run. I know I had it at the office…” She glances at her left hand, fourth finger. Perhaps she’s simply imagining it, but it’s feels lighter now, emptier. Over the past three months, she’s grown accustomed to wearing it. “I don’t know where I left it.”

         “Have you checked under the bed? That’s where it was last time.”

         “Yes, and all the bedside tables, and all the drawers.”

         “Between the cushions on the settee?”

         “I found two shillings and a hair clip I’ve spent the last six months looking for, but no ring.”

         Ivy sighs, closing the oven. “You’ll have to tell William.”

         “No!” Eliza draws the word out, all but stomping her foot, like a child afraid of getting into trouble with its father. “He will be so upset with me.”

         “Yes, he probably will be. But what other choice do you have?”

          Eliza bites her lip, hard enough to faintly taste metal. She has to find this ring. But where else can she look?

         Truthfully, though it hurts to admit it, she’s not merely afraid of telling William. She’s also upset with herself.

         She loves that ring, and she loves William. He gave it to her as a promise of the commitment they were making to each other, and it probably took him a paycheck or two to pay for it. Every time she looked at it, she thought about his love for her, a reminder that as flawed as she was, the person she cared about most wanted to spend his life with her.

         Except now she’s gone and lost her engagement ring.

         “What if he calls it off?” she blurts out to Ivy, aware of how silly it sounds.

         “The wedding? Absolutely not.” Ivy puts the potatoes in the oven and walks over to Eliza, arms crossed. “Inspector Wellington loves you very much. More than I’ve ever seen any man love anyone. He’s waited all these years to marry you and something as small as a ring isn’t going to change his mind, but he will find out. You can’t start a marriage with lies. Tell him, and soon.”

         Eliza releases a long-held breath from her lungs, giving a reluctant nod. “All right.” She knows William is devoted to her, and they are getting married in two months, come Hell or high water. Ring or no ring.

         “But,” she says to Ivy, “do I really have to tell him?”

         Ivy gives a long sigh in response.

         Over the next few days, Eliza retraces her steps. She turns her office inside out, but the ring is nowhere in sight. She goes to the morgue again, asking Mr. Potts if she happened to leave the ring behind when she visited him, and though the older man is annoyed with her unexpected interruption, he eventually agrees to look for the ring. Unfortunately, his search turns up no results.

         “Have you told the inspector yet?” Ivy asks when three nights have passed with still no ring.

         Eliza bites her lip. “Not yet, but I will.”

         “Well, best prepare yourself. He’ll be here in ten minutes. Now, stir this pea soup for me, please, Lizzie.”

         “What?”

         “I said stir this soup for me, please.”

         Eliza closes her jaw, which had been hanging open ever since Ivy announced their unexpected dinner guest, so that she may give her housekeeper an annoyed look. “William is coming here? Tonight? And you didn’t tell me?”

         “I did tell you yesterday, but you weren’t listening, were you? Besides, I didn’t think I needed to ask for permission to invite your fiancé over for a meal.” Now it’s Ivy’s turn to give her an annoyed look. “Now, the soup?”

         Reluctantly, Eliza does as she is bid, knowing this is the only way she’s going to continue the conversation. “He’ll kill me.”

         “I thought he was supposed to stop crime, not commit it.”

         Eliza drops the spoon back into the soup with such alacrity that it’s surprising she doesn’t splatter any onto the front of her dress. “Ivy,” she says, completely serious, “William gave me that ring as a promise, a commitment, one that he takes very seriously. Now, I’ve gone and lost it. He’ll be so upset with me—more upset with me than he’s possibly been in his entire life, and that’s saying something.”

         “True,” Ivy mumbles, nodding to herself.

         Something in that oven must be overcooking. Otherwise, why would Eliza’s eyes be watering? Yes, there must be some invisible smoke in here. She fans her face, trying to regain her composure, and Ivy tilts her head to the side, making a pitying noise with her tongue. “Oh, Lizzie. He loves you. There’s nothing you could do that he wouldn’t forgive.”

         When Eliza doesn’t respond, Ivy disregards her cooking and steps forward to place her hands on Eliza’s shoulders. “How many times have you and William fought in your lives?”

         Eliza gives a reluctant hiccup of a laugh. “Too many to count.”

         “Precisely my point. I’m not saying he won’t be angry—he probably will be. But he will get over it, and love you still. Husbands and wives always fight sometimes, but they have to learn to forgive. This will be good practice, hmm?”

         Eliza looks down. “I think,” she whispers, “he’s already had many years of practicing.”

         The statement gets a slight smile out of both of them.

         Eliza discreetly wipes the corners of her eyes with her thumb, and Ivy opens her mouth to say something more, but their tender moment is interrupted by a knocking at the door. Ivy stands straighter, dropping her hands from Eliza’s shoulders. “Oh, good, he’s punctual.” When Eliza doesn’t move, Ivy gives her a look. “Go on. It’ll be all right.”

         Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Eliza goes to answer the door.

         She walks with her hands clasped behind her back, her left hand missing the familiar coldness of her ring. She uses her right to open the door, plastering her best fake smile on her face as she greets her fiancé. “William.”

         He removes his hat, observing her from head to toe with a dramatic swoop of the eyes, not attempting to hide his scrutiny. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

         “Nothing.”

         “Then why did you greet me so queerly?”

         This is off to a great start. Eliza lets out a short laugh, feigning confusion. “All I did was say your name.”

         “Yes, but there was something in the way you said it.” William narrows his eyes, glancing over her shoulder, as to confirm that she’s not hiding something in the house. Little does he know that what she’s actually hiding is much closer, and she’s hiding its absence, rather than its presence. “Might I come in?” he asks.

         She gulps. “Certainly.”

         She stands aside to grant him entrance, pressing her back against the wall, and he hangs his hat up on its usual hook. Why does every movement of his seem achingly slow, like it’s taking a million years?

         “So,” Eliza asks through gritted teeth, “how was your day?”

         “Terrible.” He’s not looking at her, examining one of the buttons on his waistcoat, which looks like it is dangerously close to falling off. He mutters an expletive so quietly she almost doesn’t hear. Another man’s fiancée would offer to mend that button for him, but Eliza has no such skills and no interest in learning either. “My boss was on a tirade,” William continues, still looking at his pesky button, “one of the constables quit, and another one went to his first crime scene today and promptly threw up all over my shoes when he saw the dead body—not these shoes, luckily for you. I had to throw them out because even if I could get the vomit off of them, I don’t think I’d ever be able to look at them the same way again.”

         “That’s unfortunate,” Eliza says, internally worried that he’ll never be able to look at her the same way again after this.

         William lifts his head. He hasn’t kissed her. As Eliza resists the urge to fidget, he observes her, not with the loving glance of a future husband, but with the narrow-eyed examination of a detective. “What do you have behind your back?”

         Drat. “Nothing,” Eliza blurts out, pressing her body further against the wall, even though there’s nowhere else to go.

         He takes one step closer to her, then two, then three, until he is standing before her, leaving scarcely an inch of space between them. “Might I see?” he asks, with a raised eyebrow.

         “No.”

         “Fine. Eliza, I demand to see what you have behind your back.”

         She wets her lips, glancing at the carpet, then back up at his intent face. His eyes appear darker than usual, focused on their purpose, and she lets out a long sigh, releasing all the air from her lungs. She can’t make eye contact with him as she does it. Slowly, Eliza pulls her hands out from behind her back, holding them up so he may see.

         She counts to ten in her head, and William doesn’t say anything, but she hears him make a small noise, considering her empty hands, or perhaps debating what he’s going to say. “What happened to your ring?”

         Her face grows hot with something akin to shame. Though William’s voice is perfectly even and cool, she fears it is only a matter of time until he lets her have it. “I’m afraid I…might have lost it.”

         “Might have?”

         She lifts her head, biting her lower lip as she reluctantly meets her fiancé’s eyes. At least, he is still her fiancé as of now, but who knows what he will be in the next few minutes. Those eyes of his are currently fixed firmly on her face, unmoving, unblinking. “All right,” Eliza sighs, “I did lose it.” He opens his mouth, but she continues in a breathless burst before he can speak: “I know, I know, you’re probably going to yell at me, but before you do, let me just say that I have tried to look for it, and I can’t find it anywhere, so perhaps it ended up in some murder victim’s chest cavity, and is being lowered six feet underground as we speak. I’m sorry. I really, really am sorry. I love”—she winces—“loved that ring, and I know you took a great deal of care to pick it out for me, and no matter how angry you are at me, I know you can’t be any angrier than I am at myself.”

         She’s winded by the time she’s done speaking, and she braces herself, waiting for the inevitable argument to come. Except, William doesn’t yell at her. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t chastise her for her carelessness or express his outrage. Indeed, he is not saying anything at all.

         Eliza’s muscles loosen. “Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

         “No.”

         “Tell me how disappointed you are?”

         “No.”

         “Then what are you going to do?” This time, she doesn’t have to feign confusion, because she is genuinely mesmerized by his reaction—or, more accurately, lack of one. For several moments, there is no sound, save for a carriage, rattling by outside, and the faint clatter of Ivy in the kitchen.

         William stares at her, not saying anything. And then, slowly, the corners of his lips turn up into a smile.

         Eliza can almost feel her face fall, and then he laughs. “What is so funny?” she demands, irritation rising. What is so amusing to him about this? She’s lost her engagement ring, poured her heart out in an apology, which is certainly not the easiest thing for her, and he’s laughing?

         William shakes his head, still grinning. “This,” he says, sticking his hand into his pocket.

         When he pulls it back out, he’s holding the ring.

         No. It can’t be the ring. She lost it days ago and looked everywhere for it. Eliza closes the distance between the two of them to snatch it out of his hand, holding it up to the light. As impossible as it seems, she knows this ring, how the red stone flickers when it catches the light, the smooth surface of the band on her skin. This is her ring.

         But it doesn’t make any sense. “Where did you find it?” she asks William, not tearing her gaze away from the stone.

         “You left it on my desk. Remember the other day when you came to see me? You overturned a glass of whisky, and you took the ring off your hand to dry it on your skirt, while I was trying to rescue all my papers. I couldn’t, by the way. Half a week’s worth of work had to be hung up via makeshift clothesline in my office window.”

         Eliza whips her head in his direction, finally looking him in the face, and the smirk he’s currently wearing makes her bosom fill with indignation. William shrugs. “You hurried back to your office and left the ring on my desk. I wanted to see how long it would take you to fess up.”

         He’s enjoying this, damn him. “So, you let me lose my mind for days thinking I would never get it back?”

         “You would’ve let me go for days thinking you still had it.”

         Well, he has her there, but rather than admit his point, she tosses her head and gives a small humph. “That was very cruel of you.”

         “Sorry.”

         There’s a beat of awkward silence, and she realizes that she’s been clutching her returned ring so hard, it’s left an indentation in the pad of her thumb. Eliza places the ring in the palm of her hand, her frustration giving way to relief. She truly loves this ring. And it is nice to have it back.

         She nods. “Thank you,” she says to William, scarcely above a whisper, “for bringing it back.”

         “You’re welcome.” He cocks his head, looking at her sideways. “Still want to marry me? Even after how—to use your words—very cruel I’ve been?”

         A weak smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Of course. I… I was worried you wouldn’t want to marry me. After my carelessness.”

         When he addresses her this time, his voice and face are completely devoid of any jest. “Of course, I still want to marry you. I don’t think there’s ever been anything I wanted more.”

         The words pull at her heart, and she says nothing, not trusting herself to speak.

         William extends his hand. “May I?” he asks, nodding at her returned engagement ring, and she wordlessly gives her assent. He picks it up, the weight lifting off her palm, and Eliza turns her hand, so her ring finger is in the proper position. He looks at her face, not her finger, as he slides the ring back into its proper spot. The garnet catches the hall light, sparkling like the gold of a flame.

         Eliza flexes her finger, quickly getting readjusted to the ring’s presence. Her heart is gladdened by its return.

         She did feel guilty when she thought she lost it. She swears she’ll be more careful with it from now on, and she means it. She has spent so many years of her life being careless about so many things. But her life is no longer simply hers. 

        Surprisingly, she's okay with that.

         Her contemplation is interrupted by the sound of William’s voice. “Just try not to lose it this time, huh?”

         Eliza lets out an annoyed sigh. “Don’t start.”

         He laughs again in response.

Chapter Text

        Though William has lectured Eliza on more than one occasion for being late to their dinner engagements, it was actually he who was late on this March day in 1884.

        It is not entirely his fault. He’d been ready to leave, just turning around to lock his office door behind him, when the superintendent had shouted his name down the hall and demanded that William come to talk to him about a recent murder case. William had thought for a second to pretend that he hadn’t heard, but the superintendent had bellowed rather loudly. Thus, his departure was delayed for another twenty minutes as he answered all of the superintendent's questions and attempted to extract himself three times without success.

        Luckily, the carriage is waiting, and the traffic is not too bad. William leans back against the seat with an audible sigh as they ramble down the bumpy roads, headed toward the Scarlet residence on Farringdon Lane. They do not have many plans for the evening—just a simple dinner at the house—but after his busy day, Ivy’s delicious cooking and some pleasant company sound like exactly what he needs.

        A hesitant smile lifts his mouth as his mind drifts towards Eliza. They have been courting each other for approximately five months. Indeed, they have been a very pleasant five months, in Williams’s opinion. More than pleasant. Wonderful, even.  

        So wonderful, that William has contemplated taking their relationship to the next level.

        He’s long suspected Eliza was the woman for him. Even when he was a child standing outside her front door for the very first time, he knew there was something different about her, something special. Years in her acquaintance had strengthened that initial intrigue into a deep friendship, and the months and days slowly but surely turned that deep friendship into an unmistakable love. When William imagines his future life, there is no scenario in his mind that does not have Eliza in it.

        Ever since Eliza first told him that she loved him back, he’d always secretly hoped that someday she might consent to be his wife. He took things slow, not wanting to scare her off. After all, she has always been fiercely independent, and he wasn’t sure what her ideal timeline was regarding matrimony. But lately, things have been going so well between them, and William must admit to himself that he doesn’t know how much longer he can wait. It was only a few days ago that he was passing by a jeweler on the way to work, and without meaning to he found himself stopping in front of the window, his eyes instinctively drifting to the rings on display.

        There was one in the center of the window that he couldn’t take his eyes off of. It was far from the flashiest ring, with the stone being about a carat at most, but Eliza has never been the flashy sort of person—at least, not in regards to her apparel. The stone was a beautiful, shimmering blood red. When he looked at it, he thought of her, that Scarlet woman he loves. And he knew that he wanted to give that ring to her.

        Would she accept it, however, was another question.

        William came back to the jewelry store later that day and put the ring on hold. The store owner said they could hold it until the end of the week, which was now quickly approaching. If he was seriously going to do this, he needed to make up his mind in the next 24 hours. But was he being too fanciful, getting ahead of himself? These last five months had been wonderful, and he knew that Eliza enjoyed his company—and the kisses that his company entailed. But she hadn’t said anything to him about marriage. Did she want it, like he did?

        He remembers when they were younger, the first time one of her old schoolmates got married. Eliza was probably eighteen. The girl had a truly gaudy wedding, with a dozen bridesmaids and a dress so big it could scarcely fit through the church door. Her mother had to give her a good shove to get her skirts through, and everyone had to stifle their laughter in the quiet sanctuary. William remembers that he asked Eliza if she’d ever given it any thought—the type of dress she’d wear, what flowers she’d want. After all, didn’t every young lady dream of those things?

        Eliza had laughed in his face. “I don’t want to get married.”

        The statement had thrown him. He’d always known that she was unconventional, and yet, he never considered that she might shun this sacred rite. “What if you fall in love?”

        “Unlikely,” she’d retorted. “Besides, even if I did love a man, I wouldn’t desire matrimony, and a man who truly loved me wouldn’t ask that of me. Marriage is wonderful for men, William. They get someone to run their household, and make their dinner, and birth their children. What do women get out of the deal? A cage, nothing more. I don’t desire to be caged.”

        That had obviously been ten years ago now, but had her feelings changed? William had never asked directly, though he made vague comments a few times, testing the waters. Eliza’s responses had always been vaguely noncommittal, disinterested. Perhaps she would not marry him. Even though she did love him. Perhaps she would be upset with him if he asked, viewing it as some sort of betrayal, proof that he hadn’t changed from his old ways and still didn’t accept her. But that was the furthest thing from the truth. He loved Eliza. Exactly as she was. And that was the woman he wanted to marry.

        The carriage turned onto Farringdon Lane, just as another memory floated across William’s consciousness. It was not nearly as old as the other—from a month or two ago, perhaps. The two of them have been sitting in the drawing room, drinks in their hands, reclined lazily after a hard day's work. They hadn’t been saying much, worn out after busy days at their respective jobs, but suddenly, out of nowhere, Eliza had broken the silence.

        “You know,” she’d said, staring at the fireplace, not William’s face, “this is nice.”

        “Hmm,” he’d replied, so tired he was scarcely thinking about what she was saying.

        “I think,” she’d said, “I could do this every night and never get tired of it. Don’t you?”

        It was only when she turned to address him, the question clearly not theoretical, that he thought about what she said. He knew she loved him, but to hear this—this concept of a forever, laid out so clearly—still threw him somewhat. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

        And that had been the end of the conversation.

        The carriage arrives at the Scarlet house, and William steps out, wringing the brim of his hat between his hands. He is still not sure of her feelings, but he is sure of his own. He wants to live in this house with her, to see her every evening and kiss her on the face. He wants to marry her not to put her in the cage, but because she is the best thing in his life.

        Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the front door and waits for someone to answer. A minute goes by, then two. William stands a bit straighter. They can hear the door, surely? He’s only a few minutes late. He knocks again.

        No answer.

        He knocks the third time, this time calling out: “Eliza! Ivy!” Nothing. He reaches for the handle on the door—

        And it turns easily in his grasp.

        William takes the first step inside, his policeman’s instincts raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He looks one way down the hall, then the other, worried about what he might find, but there is nothing amiss. Indeed, the place is positively peaceful. Could it be that they forgot to lock the door? Ivy is not the type to forget something like that, but well, Eliza can be somewhat scatterbrained when she is preoccupied with something or other. He will have to remind her later about the importance of safety, especially for women living alone. He won’t make it a lecture, just a friendly warning.

        He is about to call out for them again when he hears the familiar voices. They sound like they are coming from the kitchen. He walks closer, soft light emanating from underneath the kitchen door. They must be preparing dinner—well, Ivy must be preparing dinner. Eliza still has trouble boiling eggs. He hopes that if they do marry, the housekeeper will stay on with them, because he’s not sure how they will eat otherwise.

        “Honestly”—Eliza’s voice, from the other side of the door—“I don’t know why you’re asking me this.”

        “Lizzie”—Ivy, this time, with a maternal tone—“I have known you almost all your life. I am only asking out of your interest for your happiness.”

        “By meddling?”

        “Sometimes, young lady, you need a little meddling.”

        Their argument, if you can even call it that, doesn’t seem to be a serious one, as they are both talking in their normal voices. He reaches for the door handle, intending to announce himself, until the next words out of Ivy’s mouth make him stop.

        “What are your intentions? It’s been months. You cannot lead the inspector on.”

        They are speaking of him.

        William backs up, his hand retracting. He’s not meant to hear this conversation. Should he go? Perhaps he could walk back to the door and announce himself again, louder, so that they’re sure to hear him, even over dinner preparations. But before he can decide on his next move, Eliza releases a soft, dreamy sigh.

        “I love William,” she says, so quietly that he almost can’t hear it from the other side of the door. A slight smile rises to his face instinctively. Though he knows that she loves him, and she has told him many times before, there is something lovely about hearing her say it now, how wonderful his name is on her tongue. She is saying this not because he said it to her first, but with no expectation, for no reason other than it is the truth.

        “And,” Ivy says, “do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?” William can imagine how she looks, likely with her back to the stove, her arms crossed over her chest.

        “Of course, I do.” Eliza sounds slightly annoyed, but only slightly.

        “And would you marry him, if he asked you?”

        That's the question he wants to know the answer to. He should probably leave, for he is not meant to hear this, but yet, his feet feel anchored to the floor. There is a long pause, and William all but holds his breath, waiting. Footfalls sound against the hardwood floor, their sounds repetitive and even. William knows that Eliza is pacing. He wishes he could see her face. Is she nervous, unsure? Is she currently contemplating it, nibbling the edge of her thumbnail?

        “Yes.” Despite the delay, the word is decisive. “Yes, if he asked, I think I would.”

        The air whooshes out of his lungs, and he temporarily wonders if he’s given himself away. But evidently, his breathing is not so loud as to distract women from their conversation.

        “Well!” The smile is audible in Ivy’s voice. “There you have it, then!”

        But then there are Eliza’s boots again. She is still pacing. Something is the matter with her. Though doing so would blow his cover, for half a heartbeat, he considers throwing open the door and marching across the room to ask her what is wrong, not liking the idea that she might be upset.

        “It scares me,” Eliza says. Her voice is small, like a child’s.

        “Oh, dear, but why?”

        “Because…all my life I told myself that I would be independent. I would do things my own way, on my own terms, and I wasn’t ever going to need anyone.”

        The statement confuses him a bit. What does she mean by that? She is very successful, more than so many of them ever gave her credit for.

        But Eliza isn’t finished. “But I do. I do need him. Without him…I feel like I could be happy, perhaps, but there would be a part missing. It’s scary—to know how much is out of your control, in regards to the one you love. To feel powerless.”

        The words pull at the strings of his heart. He knows her meaning, because he, too, has thought on occasion about how his life would be changed if she were gone. It’s not a pleasant thought, and one he tries to keep at bay, but being in love means that sometimes one’s mind will stray to thoughts of being without it. And he knows his fair share of loss, of the helplessness that comes with it, knowing someone so dear to you is gone and you can never get them back. His mother. Henry.

        “Lizzie.” Ivy’s softer footfalls sound as if she is walking closer to close the distance between herself and Eliza. He can almost imagine the soft-eyed look she will give her, how she will put her hands on Eliza’s shoulders. “It’s normal to be afraid. When you have something you don’t want to lose.”

        William presses his lips together, surprised to find that he too is emotionally affected by the words. He is afraid sometimes, even if he doesn’t always admit it to others, or himself. That’s why he’s always told Eliza to be careful, to be safe. Years ago, he told himself he was just concerned with propriety, but that wasn’t it, at least not entirely. Deep down, the idea of a world without her in it had just felt too unbearable to imagine.

        “But,” Ivy continues, annunciating that word, "that’s how you know that it’s worth it. We can try to armor ourselves against pain, but to do so is to close ourselves off from the best life has to offer. Love and pain go together more often than not. But someday, when you’re old, you’ll look back and be glad you had the love, even if it caused the loss. You can’t deny yourself the things you truly want just because you’re afraid of what might happen.”

        There’s something in his throat—a lump, rising. He turns his head and coughs quietly into his fist to suppress it.

        “You’re right,” Eliza says at last.

        “Excuse me? Do my ears deceive me? What did you just say?”

        “Oh, you heard me.” They exchange a slight laugh that makes a slight smile rise to William's lips, too.

        “I really do love him,” Eliza says.

        “I know,” Ivy replies. “I know you do.”

        “And I…imagine him in my life. For the rest of my life. If that answers your question.”

        And oh, William thinks, it does.

        He wonders how late the jewelry store is open. Could he go by there after he leaves here? No, probably not, because he doesn’t intend to leave his lover’s house for quite some time, not until she kicks him out. He will go first thing tomorrow. And he will bring home that ring with the red stone.

        He walks a few feet back down the hallway, quietly, then retraces his steps, making sure to announce his presence with heavy footfalls. When he opens the door, Eliza and Ivy are standing by each other, and they turn their faces towards him, waiting.

        He smiles. “Hello. Sorry I’m late.”

Chapter Text

            Scraps of lace. Spools of ribbon. Gold and silver foiling. Silk flowers. Illustrations cut out of magazines. Verses of Shakespeare and Byron. When Eliza steps into the kitchen, these items and more are scattered across the table, a mess of pink and red, shiny and bright, and she raises her brow at her children and housekeeper, who are too engrossed in their arts-and-crafts project to notice her entrance. “What are you doing?”

            Four heads lift at the sound of her voice. Four-year-old Thomas is sitting on Ivy’s lap, she helping him use the scissors to cut heart shapes out of a magazine, while Anne is sorting through their collection of fake flowers, a camellia made of white silk tucked behind her ear. As for Henry, her seven-year-old’s hands are sticky with glue, and he pulls a sheet of paper close to his chest, his eyes dancing with mischief.

            “We’re,” Henry tells her, “making you a Valentine’s Day card, Mama!”

            Eliza’s eyes flick between their faces, her family giving her sheepish looks. “You are?”

            Thomas nods, excitement making a grin break out across his young face. “Ivy told us Valentine’s Day is about the people you love, and since we love you and Papa, we wanted to make cards for you!”

            The words make her heart melt. “That is so sweet, Tom. Thank you. I can’t wait to see it.”

            Eliza tries to move further into the kitchen—she’s had a long day at the office, and she’s famished—but Anne bursts from her chair, stepping in front of her mother’s path, blocking her way with her tiny body. “You can’t come in, Mama!”

            She resists the urge to smile at her daughter’s command. “Oh, I can’t? Why not?”

            “Because the card isn’t done. You can’t see it yet. You have to wait in the drawing room with Papa, and Ivy will get you when we’re done.”

            The thought of William—arriving home after a long day at the Yard, only to be shuffled off into the drawing room by a very bossy little girl—makes it impossible not to smile, and Eliza bites back her laugh. Perhaps her husband is an authoritative presence in his professional life, commanding the respect of the men serving under him, but at home, she suspects he’s not really in charge, regardless of any claims he makes to the contrary.

            When Eliza makes no move to leave, Ivy maneuvers Thomas off her lap and stands up, taking Eliza by the elbow and dragging her in the direction of the door. “Ivy!” she objects. “Not you too! This is my house!”

            Her housekeeper gives her best attempt at an apologetic look. “Just a few more minutes.”

            “Ivy, I have been hard at work all day, and now you’re kicking me out of my own kitchen without so much as a snack? Really?”

            In response, she fetches the biscuit tin left out on the counter and shoves it against Eliza’s chest, before lightly shoving her out into the hallway. The children giggle audibly. “Two minutes,” Ivy insists before turning back towards the table, and Eliza rolls her eyes with a laugh, before accepting defeat and making her way to the drawing room.

            When she pushes open the door, William is sitting on the sofa, flipping through today’s newspaper and drinking a whisky, and when he hears her come in, he looks up and smiles at her. “You too?”

            She nods. “Banished to the drawing room by a four-year-old.”

            “Welcome to the club.”

            She sits on the sofa beside him and steals his whisky—Ivy and the children weren’t considerate enough to send her out of the kitchen with a drink—responding to William’s annoyed look with a mischievous smirk. After she’s helped herself to a sip, she gives the glass back to him along with a light kiss of apology, which he accepts without further protest. “How was your day?” she asks.

            William smiles at her, the whisky and the newspaper discarded on the table as he inches closer to her on the sofa, one of his arms going about her waist. “All right until my own daughter told me where I was allowed to go in my own home. What would my detectives think of me if they knew a girl of four was telling me what to do?”

            “Oh, your reputation would be ruined for sure.” They share a little smile, then kiss again.

            William inquires after her day, and Eliza recounts the latest twists and turns in a case she’s been investigating for the Bishop of London, and they settle back on the sofa, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. She pops open the biscuit tin and offers it to him, and while whisky and chocolate cookies are not a typical combination, it’s the best they have since they’re currently being denied access to the rest of their pantry.

            As they pass the whisky glass back and forth, Eliza lifts her head to look up at her husband: “You know, when was the last time you got me a Valentine’s Day card?”

            Valentine’s Day has been rather popular in Britain for decades, perhaps only eclipsed by Christmas in terms of its ability to drive customers to stores. Eliza’s heard stories of men spending an entire month’s wages on the perfect gift and card for the object of their affection, and while she certainly doesn’t expect William to spend that much money on her, she can’t resist the urge to tease him.

            He sips the last of the whisky and looks down at her with a raised brow. “What—you want a grand romantic gesture?”

            “Indeed! Perhaps two dozen roses…diamond earrings…a coordinated dove release?”

            He laughs at that. “What is it with you and the doves?”

            “They are the most romantic of birds, William.”

            He shakes his head at her jest, but then looks down at her, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day very much,” he says with a shrug. “All the overpriced flowers…the shiny cards with the fat little cupids and tired maxims like ‘be mine’ or ‘with fondest love’…it’s all silly. Real love isn’t like that.”

            “And what,” she asks William, “do you think real love is then?”

            He smirks, and she swears his eyes twinkle. “I think we both know,” he says. Eliza smiles back at him.

            They’re interrupted when the drawing room door opens and three pairs of little feet trod across the carpet, the children racing towards them with smiles on their faces. “Here Mama, here Papa!” Anne proclaims. “Your card is done. We made it for you.”

            Anne makes herself at home on William’s lap, and Thomas climbs next to Eliza, resting his chin on her shoulder, while Henry wedges himself in between his mother and father on the sofa, handing a glittery mess of a card to William. The paper is bigger than Henry’s head. “Here, Papa!” he tells William. “Read it.”

            Eliza pulls Thomas onto her lap and leans over so she might get a look. The card’s design is…eclectic. The paper has been trimmed with lace, cut in uneven strips, and plastered with pictures from magazines: pink hearts shot by Cupid’s arrows, red roses in full bloom, loving words like ‘dearest’ and ‘beloved’ typed in an elegant looping font. It’s also decorated with a lace doily that Eliza thinks might’ve been stolen from one of their dinner sets, but she’ll ignore that for now.

            When the children glance towards her in hopes of her approval, Eliza smiles at them and ruffles Thomas’s hair. “I love it,” she insists. “You’ve all done such a wonderful job.”

            “Do you like the flowers, Mama?” Anne asks. “I picked them out.”

            “They’re perfect, Annie.”

            With an exaggerated flourish, William opens the card and begins to read. “Dear Mama and Papa—Happy Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being the best mama and papa in the whole entire world. We love you more than chocolate, books, and puppies, so that’s a whole lot. Love, Henry, Thomas, and Anne.”

            The sweetness of the words makes Eliza smile genuinely, and when William passes the card to her so she might see, he’s smiling too. When she rereads the message, she can tell from Henry’s neat and careful handwriting that he took a long time to get it exactly right, and the message is followed by each of the children’s signatures. Henry’s written his name clear and large, Thomas’s penmanship has resulted in a near-indecipherable squiggle, and Anne’s is curly and flowing, with a hand-drawn heart after the ‘e.’

            William kisses each of the children on the tops of their heads in thanks. “Mama and I love it. Isn’t that right, Eliza?”

            Three pairs of eyes point in her direction, and she smiles, love bubbling inside her chest. “Absolutely,” she tells the children, and this time, she’s being completely honest. “This is the best Valentine’s Day card Papa and I have ever received.”

            That night after dinner, the children all fall asleep quickly, exhausted from their card-making efforts, and while William finishes tucking the twins into bed, Eliza begins to clear off the kitchen table, returning the old lace and knitting scissors to Ivy’s sewing kit. She can’t help but smile again at the thought of how much time the children put into this Valentine’s Day card.

            She’s definitely never throwing it out.

            The sounds of William’s footsteps cause her to lift her head, and she smiles at him as he appears in the doorway. “You know,” he says to her, his hands in his pockets. “I do have one Valentine’s Day surprise for you.”

            “For me?” Eliza’s eyes brighten. “Is it a present? You know I love presents.”

            “Sort of.” He crosses the room towards her, appearing almost bashful, and when he pulls his hands out of his pockets, she laughs. He hands her a folded piece of white paper, the front of which is decorated by several misshapen hearts in bright pink, dark red, and light purple.

            “I enlisted the artistic styles of one Miss Anne Elizabeth Wellington,” William says. 

            Eliza accepts the card with a chuckle and a shake of the head. “It’s beautiful. It should be hung up in the National Gallery.” This earns a slight laugh from him as well. She looks up at her husband with a coy gaze. “Are you asking me to be your valentine?”

            “Indeed. I’m hoping you’ll say yes, seeing as you’re the mother of my children and all.”

            “Hmm,” she replies, making an exaggerated thinking face. “You make a good point. Yes, I suppose.” William rolls his eyes in response.

            But she is not joking when she reaches into her pocket to retrieve a card of her own, which she hands over to him with a bashful smile. She sees the surprise in William’s eyes as he accepts it. “You made me one, too?”

            “Mmhm. I borrowed some of the children’s supplies.” Then, she adds teasingly: “I was hoping you would feel bad about not getting me anything and I could milk that guilt for a while, but alas, you are hopelessly devoted.”

            He chuckles, and his smile only widens when he looks at the front of the card. She’s glued to it an illustration from one of Ivy’s housekeeping magazines, depicting a beautiful, pink-cheeked wife setting out an elaborate dinner for her husband. “Is this,” William asks with a raised brow, “supposed to be you?”

            “I thought you would appreciate the irony.”

            “Indeed.” He flips open the card to read aloud what she’s written inside. “Dearest husband – Though I cannot make any promises about my cooking or housekeeping skills, I promise to love you this Valentine’s Day and every day after. Thank you for being a wonderful husband and father, and only lecturing me a little when I disobey you or spend too much money at the bookstore or dress shop. Love always, your Eliza.”

            She blushes a bit at hearing her own words repeated back to her, and William looks up at her, a smile pulling at his lips. “I love it. Thank you.” He nods towards her own card. “Now, you.”

            She opens it slowly, and based on how William shifts from one foot to the other, she suspects he is equally nervous at having his romantic declarations read aloud. Inside, there is a pasted verse she recognizes as coming from Sonnet 116.

Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

            Beside it, she finds a short message written in her husband’s handwriting.

            My dearest wife —

            I do not claim to have the poetic capabilities of Shakespeare, so I shall leave the romantic declarations to him. All I can say is despite all his pretty words, I don’t believe he could’ve ever loved any woman as much as I love you.

            Happy Valentine’s Day.

            When she finishes reading, she has a lump in her throat, and she looks up at William, at a rare loss for words. “Oh, my love…”

            They move at the same moment, their lips meeting in the middle, and she leans against him while he cups the back of her head with one hand, the other resting on her lower back. When they break apart, she touches his cheek, and he fixes a soft smile upon her.

            “I mean it, Eliza,” he tells her. “I don’t know how any man could love any woman as much as I love you. You and the children are everything to me—everything.”

            She gives him another quick kiss, her hands on his cheeks. “I love you so much, too. I always will.”

            If love is—as Shakespeare said—ever-fixed, then theirs qualifies. She has loved him since she was a child, and even after years of marriage, it’s as strong as ever. She thinks time has only deepened their bond. No tempest or doom could ever make her give him up.  

            William presses his forehead against hers, his thumb running over her lower back. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Eliza.”

            She smiles back at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day, William.”

Chapter Text

         It seems that twenty years of marriage have not taught Eliza how to be on time.

         William checks his watch, sighs, then taps lightly against the bedroom door. “Are you almost ready?” he asks, trying—and failing—to conceal his impatience.

         “Just a few more minutes!” his wife calls from the other side of the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs!”

         “But—”

         “Don’t start with me, William Wellington,” she interrupts, and though the words could’ve been spoken with annoyance, he hears the smile in her voice. Her tone makes him smile slightly, too, against his will, and with one last sigh, he leaves her to finish dressing, descending the stairs.

         He peers into the drawing room, glowing warm and golden, and what he sees there makes him smile to himself. When Anne feels his eyes on her, she looks up from her copy of The Strand magazine and beams at him. “Father.”

         William walks into the room, leaving the door open behind him, and when he approaches Anne, she leans over instinctively, already expecting his kiss before it comes. He drops it onto her forehead, his fingers running through her dark hair. Their only daughter has recently stopped calling him “Papa,” switching to the more adult “Father,” but she is still a little girl to him.

         “Is Mother late again?” Henry asks with a little smirk. While Anne is on the sofa, Henry and Thomas are sitting crisscross on the floor, at opposite sides of the coffee table. They are currently playing a game of draughts, Thomas’s eyes fixed on the board as he contemplates his next move.

         William smiles at Henry. “Do not tell your mother I said this, but I think she will be late to her own funeral.”

         Henry suppresses a laugh and mimes sewing his lips shut.

         Thomas makes his move and captures one of Henry’s pieces. “Ha,” he says, grinning. “Your turn.”

         Henry makes an exasperated face at his father, then turns back to his game. “Bloody hell, Tom. You’re going to beat me again.”

         “Language,” William gently admonishes.

         “Father, I’ve heard you say worse!”

         “And when you are a fifty-year-old, hard-working father of three, you may say what you like, young man.”

         Henry laughs, and they exchange a grin. “Yes, sir,” he says, with a cheeky salute.

         Though Henry and Thomas turn back to their game, William watches them for a moment, a reflective smile on his face, his hand still in Anne’s curls. His children are so grown up, now—Henry is sixteen, half a man. Where does the time go?

         William supposes it is the curse of every parent to feel so much at once. On one hand, he longs for the days when his children were little. William fondly remembers the moments he first held each of them, the quiet time they shared when he tucked them in, the lazy Sunday mornings when all three children would climb into bed with him and Eliza for a family snuggle session. He wishes those days were a place he could revisit, that he could go back and make sure to soak up every perfect moment. 

         On the other hand, he loves watching his children grow up. They have their own hopes, dreams, ambitions, and it is amazing to see the kinds of people they might become. Anne is the cleverest girl he knows—perhaps second only to her mother—and she is always full of ideas. One day, she’ll tell William that she is going to be an actress, then the next she wants to write crime stories, then the day after that she wants to be a suffragette. No matter what she chooses to do, William is sure she’ll be a force of nature.

         Though he is only thirteen, William swears Thomas is smarter than him. His son knows so much about history, literature, geography, and it’s nearly impossible to beat him at any strategic game. Sometimes, he’ll spurt out a random fact on anything from Shakespeare to politics, and William can only blink in response, wondering where a young boy learned something like that.

         And Henry…it was only a few days ago that William had found himself alone with his firstborn. Eliza had still been at the office, the twins working on their schoolwork, and William and Henry had been sitting at opposite sides of the sofa. “Father?” Henry had said, out of the blue, and when William looked up, his teenage son had been staring at him with a serious expression. “I’ve decided,” he said, “what I want to do with my life. I want to be a detective at the Yard. Like my grandfather. Like you.”

         The words—and how they were spoken with such reverence—had immediately brought tears to William’s eyes. All he’d been able to do was close the distance between them and give his son a big hug.

         He is so, so proud to be Henry, Thomas, and Anne’s father—and Eliza’s husband.

         Speaking of his wife, her heels on the floor announce her presence, and Anne lurches upright in her seat. “Mother,” she says eagerly, “you need to read this story when I’m done! Holmes and Watson are solving a case at Abbey Grange, and you’ll never guess how it ends!”

         “Oh,” Eliza says, a smile in her voice, “I bet I can.”

         William turns around, and the sight of her steals his breath. Her dress is sapphire blue, expertly tailored to her figure—her waist and hips are a bit fuller now due to the children she’s birthed and the natural passage of time, but William is certainly not complaining about his wife’s womanly physique. Her greying blonde hair is pulled up in a timeless fashion, adorned by an elegant clip, and a strand of pearls hangs gracefully about her neck. Her engagement and wedding rings sparkle on her left hand, as they have for the past twenty years. Eliza catches his eye, and she smiles at him, the expression brightening her face.

         In his mind, William curses. Eliza is as lovely to him at forty-eight as she was at eighteen. Sometimes, he still can’t believe that she is his, and he is hers.

         “Mama!” Thomas cries. He is the only one who still calls Eliza “Mama” and William “Papa,” still clinging to his childhood innocence. “You look beautiful!”

         Eliza beams at their son, and William feels himself smile, too. “He’s right, you know,” he tells Eliza. “You look stunning.” You are always stunning, he adds silently.

         Wordlessly, his wife glides across the room to greet him with a soft kiss. When she pulls back, William is still too spellbound to speak, and Eliza addresses their children, making eye contact with each of them. “Thomas and Anne,” she says, “you must be in bed by nine-thirty, and Henry, you better not be far behind them.” Anne opens her mouth, but Eliza doesn’t let her get a word in, saying: “No buts, Annie.” Anne quiets and slinks back into her seat.  

         “There is dinner for you three in the icebox,” Eliza continues, “and Henry, please try not to set the house on fire while we’re gone.”

         Henry snickers. “Like you’re one to talk, Mother.” Thomas and Anne giggle, and though Eliza gives their children a censuring look, she smiles as well.

         William takes his wife’s hand. “Shall we?” he asks. Even after all this time, he still hasn’t gotten tired of holding her hand. He loves how her palm feels, how her fingers weave through his, like they just seem to belong.

         Now, Eliza’s smile is fixed on him. “Let’s.” The way she is looking at him—with bright eyes and a rosy countenance—makes his heart skip a beat. Even after all these years, she still has that effect on him.

         “And children?” William says, his eyes still focused on Eliza’s face. “Don’t wait up. Your mother and I will be home late.”

         They dine at a new restaurant in Holborn, a grand place with white tablecloths, a live orchestra, and what Eliza estimates to be at least two hundred tables. Throughout their meal, she and William find themselves exchanging little looks, amused by the grandeur around them. The elderly couple at the table diagonal from theirs—the man possessing a stiff upper lip, the woman a ridiculous feather in her hair—scarcely acknowledge each other throughout the entire meal. Eliza and William make a bet about how many words the couple will have exchanged before leaving. Eliza guesses less than ten and is proven the winner.

         Meanwhile, young men and women come to and fro, talking and laughing, and a group of people get up to dance. Champagne is flowing, the air is buzzing, and the night is young. “I think,” William says to Eliza during dessert, “that save for our unhappily married friends over there, we are the oldest people in this place.”

         Eliza half-snorts, half-laughs into her genoise. “Speak for yourself, William. You may be old, but I am surely not.”

         “I said oldest, not old.”

         “Ah, yes, because there is such a great difference.” They look at each other and smile.

         After they’ve finished eating, the cloakroom attendant brings them their coats and they step back out onto the busy street, arm-in-arm. It is still only nine o’clock, and it is a crisp September night, the stars shining brightly overhead. “Do you mind staying out a little longer?” Eliza asks William, and he smiles slightly. It seems she will not have to twist his arm.

         “Should we go for a ride?”

         “I was thinking I’d rather walk.”

         “To the park, then?”

         They walk together as they have many times over the decades, and hopefully will for many decades more. They go slow, being in no particular haste to hurry up this evening. Having talked extensively at dinner, they don’t say anything at the moment, both content with the companionable silence. Music and laughter spill out from London’s nightlife establishments, while horse-drawn hansoms and occasional motorcars ramble down the street. At one point, a young man and woman—perhaps in their twenties or so, turned red from drink and laughter—pass Eliza and William on the pavement, the lovers leaning against each other, no chaperone in sight. Eliza looks at them over her shoulder as they pass, watches as they turn the corner, and disappear.

         She looks at William. “I take it back,” she says with a wry expression. “I think we are getting old.”

         When they reach the park, it is quiet, and the two of them amble along the path, Eliza resting her head on William’s shoulder. They can still faintly hear the sounds of street traffic, voices calling to one another from far away, young people yelling out to their friends to wait up. Mostly, though, Eliza focuses on the faint wind whistling through the leaves, how the moon hangs white and plump in the sky.

         “I love you, William,” she says randomly, her voice soft and dreamy. She says it not for any particular reason, other than the romantic impulse of the moment urging the sentiment out of her.

         Her husband doesn’t say anything to her for several moments, but then she feels his lips in her hair, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. “I love you, Eliza,” he says back, hardly above a husky whisper. “And I am so glad you are my wife.”

         After a while, they come to stand under a plane tree, concealed by its shade. Eliza leans up against the trunk, turning to face William, and he holds one of her hands lightly in his. “Do you ever stop and think,” she says, “that we have spent the majority of our lives together?”

         William looks down at their joined hands, toying with the fingers of her glove. “And we’ll spend the rest of them together, I hope.” He catches her eyes, staring into them as a slow smile spreads across his face. Eliza feels herself begin to smile back, and it is the big, genuine kind that starts to make your cheeks hurt.

         Time is a strange thing. Sometimes, Eliza feels like she has known William forever, their first meeting seeming like another lifetime ago. Other times, the years seem to go by like days. How has it been sixteen years since they held Henry for the first time, and thirteen since they welcomed the twins into their lives? Twenty years since they exchanged vows and rings, swearing to love one another forever, twenty years since he got down on one knee and asked her a question? Was it really thirty-two years ago that he pressed his lips to hers for the first time in the drawing room?

         She has kissed him more times than she can count. They have laughed and cried together, stopped criminals, shared secrets, and brought children into the world. They were young together, and now they’ve started to grow old. They have been together longer than they have been alone, and Eliza hopes they will still have many years more.  

         “Twenty years,” William muses, more to himself than anything, and the sound of his voice tugs at something in Eliza’s throat. “I have been lucky enough to call you my wife for twenty years. I still pinch myself sometimes.”

         Tears threaten Eliza’s eyes, and so, instead of speaking, she takes the hand William is not holding and pinches the skin on his left arm.

         He lets out a small noise of surprise and recoils from her, but doesn’t drop her hand. “See?” Eliza says, grinning. “You’re not dreaming.” William shakes his head at her, but he is smiling, too.

         He steps closer to her, his body mere inches from hers. Eliza can feel the heat of him, and he fills her vision. Her husband is all she can see, and for a moment, it is like no one else exists.

         William reaches up, places his hand on her cheek. He is so delightfully warm, and Eliza burrows further into his palm, enjoying his familiar touch. “You,” he whispers to her, so close she can feel his breath on her face, “are the love of my life, Eliza Scarlet Wellington. I would not be who I am today without you. You made me a husband, a father…a better person. And I know I don’t say it nearly enough, but I will go to my grave thankful that I met you.”

         Now, it is almost impossible not to cry. Eliza’s eyes glaze over, and she blinks so she can see clearly, swallowing to regain her composure. “And I am very grateful that you showed up at our house that day. I think about it all the time.” 

         They stare at each other, love glowing on both their faces. William leans in, and Eliza tilts her head back, allowing him to crush his lips against hers. The kiss is searing, tender, and still capable of making her heart beat faster, even after all these years. For a moment, Eliza can almost imagine that she is sixteen again, and he is kissing her for the very first time.

         When they pull apart, she presses her forehead against his. “Happy anniversary, William,” she whispers, and her husband smiles, kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose.

         “Happy anniversary, Eliza.”

         They remain standing there like that for several moments, the park quiet except for a cricket chirping somewhere. Eliza takes a deep breath, inhaling William’s familiar scent, her hands gripping both his biceps.

         Giving him one last kiss, she pulls back to meet his eyes, and her lips curve upward into a small smile. “Come,” she says, taking his hand, “let’s keep going.” He doesn’t answer her with words, instead accepting her offered hand, holding it tightly in his and squeezing.

         With that, they step out from under the plane tree and resume their walk, silently continuing to enjoy this tranquil evening, just one small, perfect slice of eternity.