Chapter Seventeen

in which sam avows

You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“You have to try at least once,” Marigold prodded. “You cannot call yourself a resident of Bath without Taking The Waters? at least once.”

Fun fact! Humans are persistence hunters. That means we catch our prey by wearing them down.

“Fine!” I finally said, throwing my hands up over breakfast the next day. “You win. I’ll sit in the plague water.”

“Oh excellent!” Iris said. “We shall go as soon as you finish lessons today, before the time slot for the gentlemen bathers opens. I shall need to have Miss Brown put my hair up, for I shouldn’t like to wet it before supper, which of course we will order up in the Pump Room—”

“You’ve made Mother happier than she’s been in some time,” Daisy whispered to me. “She’s had an urge to gossip.”

“She’s got an urge to spend money, you mean,” I replied, while Iris listed off the luxuries she intended to indulge in at the bathhouse: at least three cups of the fizzy mineral water (gag), the rental of a floating tea tray on which, of course, we were to take our afternoon repast, a bottle of liquor, a new lemon-scented soap shaped like a seashell, and perhaps even the rental of a fine Turkish towel.

Daisy offered up that wry smile instead of an answer.

“Will we be naked?”

“Of course not.” Marigold cut across her mother’s shopping list, and I sat back from Daisy, doing my best to not look mortified that she’d been paying such close attention to our whispers. “We will wear bathing costumes.”

“Don’t have one,” I said. “I’ll have to skinny-dip.”

“They are rented ,” Marigold huffed, flushing and storming upstairs.

“Samantha,” Daisy scolded me. “Cease tormenting my sister.”

“But it’s so easy ,” I said.

“Mark my words,” Daisy said, taking to her own feet, “you’ll make a proper enemy of her one day if you’re not careful, and I shan’t forgive you for it.”

Right, yes, the golden rule of being a good girlfriend: don’t piss off the bestie.

I spent the school day trying to find time to make peace with Marigold, but she avoided me like the opposite end of a magnet after classes were finished. She seized Daisy’s arm the moment we were out of the house, walking along the river to the historic Roman Baths and the sumptuous Palladian palace that contemporary architects had constructed around its ruins, leaving me to trudge with voluble Iris.

She really was a sweet woman, with a deep pride in and affection for her children, even if her topics of conversation were repetitive and depthless. While nodding along to her shocked whispers about this affair, or that hairstyle, or Miss This-and-That’s new gown, I’d gleaned a treasure trove of information about the morals and fashions of the time. Iris had helped me to blend in even more than Daisy, just by virtue of being herself.

Marigold ignored me to the point of awkwardness. We shuffled through the process of disrobing and putting on our rented yellow canvas shifts and bloomers, which would nonetheless leave exactly nothing to the imagination once they were wet.

The bathing chamber was made of Bath’s famous honey-colored limestone, and open to the elements. Wide steps led down to a narrow trough of water, separated from the pool at large by a row of columns in the pool itself, and a grandiose set of double doors made of rust-stained wood. The columns supported an open-air gallery with geometric stone balustrades, from which people coming to dine in the Pump Room could peer down on us.

Dark tiles hugged the narrow rim of the rectangular pool, filled shoulder-deep with water that was such a vivid toxic-teal color that it looked like it should give you superpowers if it splashed you. Heavy, faintly sulfurous mist fogged the air, making it hard to see the people just on the other side of the pool. Frizzilla immediately made an appearance as the humidity grabbed hold of my hair under my muslin cap.

Iris was the first to walk down the shallow steps and push open the door, with Marigold and the copper floating tray not far behind, and Daisy in tow. I froze on the edge, twisting my hands in my stupid bathing costume as the married Goodenoughs bobbed over to a flotilla of chatty ladies. They all had their hair piled up under cloth caps and bonnets, and some were even wearing their stays .

The water threw back and amplified every whisper, every splash, every sharp bark of laughter at a wince-inducing volume.

Daisy turned back to regard me where I stood at the top of the stairs, dithering.

The ancient Romans were acknowledged geniuses when it came to plumbing and water transportation. They singlehandedly revolutionized bathing habits in the Europe of their time, laying the foundation for pretty much every modern Western hygiene custom, even in the twenty-first century.

What they were not so clever about was the use of lead in their piping.

Which isn’t entirely fair of me. It’s not as if they knew that lead was poisonous, only that the alloy was easy to manipulate for plumbing. Water poured over a plain fountain and into the pool, still steaming, flowing without end from a pipe hidden under the floor, and I swear my paranoia meant I could see the microbeads of the stuff in it.

“Miss Franklin, do get in,” Daisy teased, grinning up at me with sparkling mirth. “I have yet to take sick from taking waters that are legendary for healing .”

I didn’t move.

Daisy came back to the side, her breasts floating to the surface, enticing and so not the point right now. “Miss Franklin, you do know how to swim, do you not?” she asked worriedly.

“Of course I do! I don’t know if I . . . I can .”

Okay, fine, I’ll admit it. The water scared the shit out of me. I hadn’t been fully submerged since the accident, and while nobody was putting their heads under, the idea that I would be surrounded by water made my heart try to crawl out of my mouth and run away screaming.

This was just like immersion therapy, right? That kind where you faced your fears and did the thing to help you get over the terror of the thing. And Daisy was here. Daisy wouldn’t let me drown.

“If I die, I’m blaming you,” I quipped shakily, hiding my nerves behind my bravado.

The water closed over my feet. I forced myself to stop, take a few deep egg-farty breaths, and keep going. My hands balled up reflexively, knuckles white, as the water rose to my hips, closed over my back, soaking the flimsy cloth of my costume.

Pause . Keep breathing . Go .

My lungs seized and stuttered as I reached the bottom of the pool. I was short enough that the steaming water touched the bottom of my chin. It curled around my throat like a pair of hands, squeezing, crushing with wet, closed in on all sides, infiltrating, getting inside me , no escape—

The bottom of the pool was slipperier than I expected.

My feet went out from under me.

I screamed as the water closed over my head.

I pushed up, flailing, splashing, choking on air and the fumes of the natural spring.

Around me, the bathers screeched and gasped.

“Sam!” Daisy yelled, forgetting to use my full name in public.

I flailed blindly for the steps, hauled myself out as fast as I could.

“I—” I said, standing beside the pool, shaking, and feeling like I was about three seconds away from vomiting. Dozens of faces turned to me, delighted and horrified in turns at my outburst.

“Samantha . . .”

“I can’t ,” I sobbed, and fled for the change room.

Daisy found me there a few minutes later, sitting on a bench alone, shivering from both evaporation and the memory of the crushing cold of the mid-Atlantic.

She retrieved one of the big, thin towels and draped it over my shoulders, scrubbing my hair with one corner. She sat behind me, pulled me against her chest, grounding me in an embrace. Her costume was still wet but her body was hot, so I didn’t care. I crumbled into her, pressed my face against her shoulder, inhaled the scent of minerals and ink and Daisy.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Something inside caught and tore, and I was sobbing, ripping and hot, and I couldn’t stop , I couldn’t stop. I clutched at her shift, wrapped the wet fabric in my fists, holding on for dearness and life.

“All is well,” she said softly. “Shhh. I should have considered the accident. I am foolish for hectoring you. My deepest apologies.”

“I can’t,” I repeated, over and over. “I thought I could, I thought I was over it, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Daisy kissed the side of my head, the only place she could reach with my limpet-like grasp on her thighs. She kissed the shell of my ear, the tender spot where the jaw met the neck, my favorite place for a hickey, and I shivered, delicious frisson climbing up my back.

This.

I wanted this , this heat, this proof of life .

I pulled away, offering up my face. She kissed my nose, each eyelid, my cheeks, and my forehead, and I made a frustrated sound, waiting, impatient for her lips to touch mine. But we were in public.

Shaking, miserable, and damp, we dressed and made our way back to the house in silence.

Miss Brown took one look at us and sent Mr. Stewart out to fetch a fresh bottle of brandy. She hastened us upstairs with as much hot water as we could carry before taking herself to the back garden to gather chamomile for a soothing drink. Daisy hounded me through a warm rinse to rid my hair of the old-iron reek, and into my nightdress and dressing gown. She pushed me onto the bed so she could straddle my hips and wash the tear tracks from my face.

Feeling a thousand times more settled from the warmth of her touch and the lovely animal weight of her body, I reached up and tugged the ties out of her hair. It fell down her back, golden, curling slightly, and glossy.

Daisy moaned.

I sat and scooted up to the headboard. “Turn around. Lean back on my knees.”

I tucked my feet under her bum and she leaned back, hair spreading across the intimate triangle of my thighs and into my lap. I ran my fingers through her locks, combing down any knots I found, setting aside the pins, finding my center again. Daisy hummed contentedly, let her head fall back, and closed her eyes. I gave in to the temptation to dig my fingers in, scratch the nails lightly across her scalp, rub at the tension lingering by her temples, across her eyebrows.

She started panting, cheeks flushing red, and I grinned, leaning down to lick and nibble on the shell of her ear.

“Really?” I whispered. “Just from this? Kinky.”

She chuckled, reached back with one hand to curl her fingers around the nape of my neck, redirected my head so she could arch, thrusting her very pretty breasts into the air, tilting so our noses wouldn’t bump. Her mouth was hungry.

Slowly, sensually, I pulled her dress up her calves, fingers brushing her stockings, teasing. She wriggled and made a high sweet sound that made me want to bite her shoulder, so I did. She squeaked, then pressed her own hands to her mouth to stifle any louder sounds.

“That’s it, shhh.” I tongued the bite mark. She’d need to wear a fichu tonight to cover it, perhaps a full shawl. I liked the thought of watching her over the dinner table, knowing that she was wearing my mark in a room full of people and being forced to keep it secret. Keep it safe.

“Do that again,” I said. “I liked the view. I’ll—”

The door opened.

The unlocked door.

“Daisy? Mother is humiliated, how could you think it proper to just leave without—”

“I’m coming back!” Daisy shouted, springing across the room, catching the door before it could open all the way.

Fuck, that was too close.

“You must,” Marigold said, craning her head to peer at me over Daisy’s arm. “Are you already abed, Miss Franklin? Your queer turn was quite alarming.”

I spread my hands, mea culpa. “And now you know why I didn’t want to go.”

“You could have just said that you could not swim,” Marigold said, pushing Daisy aside to stand at the foot of the bed in all her disappointed, dramatic glory. “There was no need to cause a scene .”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I apologize. I really thought I might be able to deal with it—”

“I do not forgive you!” Marigold hissed.

“Mary—”

“Hush, Margaret,” Marigold snapped. “Already there is talk! Mr. Gibson’s aunt was in the pool and quite unimpressed.” Mr. Gibson was Marigold’s matrimony target of the week. “Now she’ll never recommend me to him. Once again, Miss Franklin ruins everything .”

The accusation thudded between my ribs like a well-aimed arrow.

“Samantha,” Daisy said, turning wide guilty eyes to me. I was hoping that her next words would be to defend me and my very-justified PTSD triggered freak-out to Marigold, but instead she just folded her hands in front of her and shook her head sadly.

I understood, all at once, that Daisy wouldn’t dispute her sister’s accusation.

“Go back,” I croaked. “Both of you. I’m fine. Thank you for walking me back, Miss Goodenough. Please, Mrs. Kempel has gone to the trouble of arranging supper for you—you shouldn’t miss it.”

“Oh, Sam ,” Daisy started, taking a step toward me. But Marigold cut her off.

“Come, sister. Leave Miss Franklin to her nerves , and let us see if we cannot salvage what little standing I still have with Mrs. Gibson.”

She flounced out of the room and Daisy followed, as docile as a lamb.

And the worst part was I couldn’t blame her for it.

~

The next morning was Saturday. I’d passed a bad night, wrestling with nightmares of sirens digging their claws into my throat and dragging me into the crushing abyss of time.

Iris and Marigold were a-visiting, and both servants were enjoying their half day off, so for the first time in weeks Daisy and I had the whole house to ourselves.

The study windows were open, letting the breeze in to ruffle our hair and the corners of Daisy’s pages, banishing yesterday’s panic and fear. I finally had hair long enough to pile it up like the other women around me, and the air felt good on the naked skin of my neck as I dozed on the sofa.

Daisy was fidgeting more than she was writing. She had a habit of tapping her teeth and nibbling when she was working—on her cuticles, on the tip of her pencil, on the corner of her lip. The fidgeting was distracting. But not in a bad way. Her hand reached for her teacup, paused midair, and rerouted for her pencil. She scribbled, tapped, nibbled, reached for her cup, found it empty, set it down, and started the cycle over again.

I’d heard about artists getting distracted while creating but I’d never witnessed it firsthand. Writing my own essays in university had been a painfully slow and deliberate process. I’d never looked down to write one instant and looked up the next with thirty pages completed and six hours lost, like some of my classmates had. Like Daisy did.

About midmorning, Daisy sat back from her perpetual hunch. The long, lean lines of her were gloriously tempting as she stretched, and my mouth went dry.

“Break time?” I asked, hoping Daisy would say yes.

We’d been making a survey of the broad green walks around town, and there was a gated one by the river only for posh people. We’d been talking about sneaking over the fence. It seemed like a good day to flout a few laws.

“Decidedly,” Daisy agreed, rising and shuffling the pages she’d spread out to dry into order then tucking them into the leather folder that held the rest of the manuscript. “And I shan’t write tomorrow either.”

“No?” I asked, setting aside my schoolwork.

“No,” she echoed, crossing to the decanters. She poured two small glasses of sherry, sank onto the sofa with no small amount of relief, and handed me mine.

I held my glass up and she obligingly clinked. “What’s the occasion?”

Daisy flushed prettily as we sipped. “I have finished my book.”

“Babe!” I gasped, yanked her glass out of her hand and set them both on the floor. Then I pulled her into a hug. Daisy giggled as I wrapped my legs around her waist, making it a proper squish. “I’m so proud of you!”

Daisy chuckled and, with one hand firmly on my left breast, pushed me back down on the sofa, which gave me just the right alignment to get a beautiful handful of her skinny bum. She rocked the full weight of her body into the cradle of my thighs, her breasts pillowed warm and soft against mine, and plundered my mouth for a truly filthy kiss.

“Will you read it?” she gasped against my lips, voice trembling. “You will be honest with me, won’t you? Tell me if I—”

“Yes,” I said, biting at her lower lip, digging my fingers into her hair.

“You must understand, no one has read the full thing,” Daisy said breathlessly, as she scrabbled to push up my skirts, skimming her palms along my thighs where they laid against her hips. “I would very much treasure your opinion of it, if you will forgive that I have only just finished it and not had the opportunity to go back and rewrite.”

“I understand.”

“I lay myself bare before you, beloved,” Daisy said earnestly. “My soul is on those pages. My heart also. I give them to you.”

She framed my face in her hands and kissed me like it was her last day on earth, like it was the first kiss ever invented, like it was every kiss we’d ever had, and ever would have, rolled into one. It felt permanent and permeable; thin as gossamer and strong as steel cabling. It was a kiss written in ink that bleeds through all the layers of paper, from the first page of a tome to the last—visible on every leaf, overwriting everything that came before it, drying light enough that it could be overwritten with the next kiss, and the next, and the next, spooling out golden and vivid for the rest of forever. A palimpsest of kisses.

Daisy sat up, pressed one hand into the sofa beside my head, stroking my cheek with the other, and looked down at me like I was something wondrous. And how lucky was I, that I was the first person she has offered this trust? That she was willing to carve out a facet of her heart and hand it to me.

“I’ll read it.” I leaned up to chase her mouth with mine. “Tonight. I promise.”

“Now that I am no longer preoccupied by the novel, there is something else I should like to do. Something I have been dwelling on, quite ardently.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Sam,” she breathed, petting my head and shoulders. “I want. But I do not know what it is that I want.”

“I’ll teach you. Lay back.” I gently navigated her into the corner of the sofa, head up on the arm so she could watch. Daisy made that delightful little frustrated sound again and tugged at me until I lifted my face to hers. Her kisses were demanding and her body under mine surged like the tide, up and down, pelvis and spine rolling, uncertain what it was exactly she was striving for but trusting her instincts and my knowledge to guide her.

She was quite literally putting herself in my hands. It was humbling.

“Daisy, ah ,” I gasped, nosing at her chest until I could get her dress yanked down, my teeth and tongue on her nipples. She arched and shook. “Have you ever—ah!—um, there is literally no way to say this without sounding like a bad porno, Jesus . . . explored yourself?”

Daisy laughed and bit the shell of my ear before laving it with her tongue, then whispered into it: “I know what a cunt is, and I know what to do with mine.”

“Oh good,” I said with a shiver and a smirk. “So you have no issue with me doing this?”

I slid my hand from ankle to knee, slow and delicious, then knee to hip, keeping her gaze locked on mine so I would see the look on her face when I brushed the pad of my thumb across her clit. Daisy jerked, her eyelids fluttering and the corners of her lips curling up in possessive satisfaction.

“Only should you stop,” she said breathily, daring me on.

I sank back and dropped a kiss on the side of her knee, then ran my thumb up from the very bottom of her folds, pressing just hard enough to feel them part, to the top, ending with another little circle. “And this?” I asked, biting her wiry thigh softly.

Daisy’s head dropped back and she made a breathy sound. Deciding that humping her leg was maybe not the classiest way to get myself off during our first time together, I flipped my own skirts up as high as I could so Daisy could watch.

“How about this?” I asked, stroking her folds again, letting my humid breath blow over her skin.

“Lord almighty, Sam, your quim is wet,” Daisy moaned, curving over my shoulder, eyes drawn downward. “Don’t . . . please, do not stop.”

“Yours too,” I said. Then I purposely leaned close and blew a light stream of cool air against her entrance.

Daisy bucked so hard she bashed me in the chin with her pelvis, her thighs slamming closed. I got one hand up in time, but she kneed me in the neck with the leg she’d had braced on the floor.

“Darling! Apologies!” she said, trying to sit up, but I only laughed, and slung her knee over my shoulder. I pushed her back down, trailing licking kisses around her hip bones and thighs, working my way inward.

“I’ve had worse. It can get dangerous down here,” I teased.

“Dangerous?” Daisy asked, and then nearly jackknifed off the sofa when I ran my tongue up the same path my thumb had taken. I was prepared for it this time, and braced an arm across her hips, my own thighs splayed to pin her legs in place, my other hand working industriously between my own legs. “Good lord!”

“Should I stop?” I asked, switching to kiss her labia, nibble at the skin, brush my nose through her moist bush.

“Samantha Jayne Franklin,” Daisy growled. “If you do not continue—”

Her threat turned into a high trailing squeak when I pressed an open-mouthed kiss right on the lips in front of me, rubbing the tip of my nose on her clit, flicking my tongue inside just a bit. God, I had missed this taste. I’d thought I might have to spend the rest of my life without it.

“Can I put my fingers in?” I asked her, panting and delighted.

Daisy shimmied up a bit, and obligingly, I shifted into a bastardized yoga pose and tilted my hips forward so everything was on display. Ignoring the strain on my neck, I kissed her again, and that yanked her attention back to her own body.

“Whatever you like,” Daisy gasped, kneading her breasts. “Whatever you want. But please, don’t stop. Ah, my love, don’t stop —”

The L-word tipped me straight over the edge. As I pressed my tongue hard against her clit, my orgasm ripped through me swift and hard. I resisted the urge to bite down, mark her, make it clear whom Daisy belonged to.

My orgasm surged up again as Daisy reached down to slip one of her fingers inside me alongside my own. She twisted her finger, relishing, I think, the moans her touch plucked from my chest.

“You’re so warm,” she whispered, a delicious, delightful pink flush spreading down her neck, over her breasts and her cheeks. I snarled against her skin, pushed her back quick and hard, spread her thighs wide and buried my face between them.

I returned the favor, slipping one finger in, pressing down on the floor of her pelvis, rocking back and forth gently. My limbs were still shaking from the comedown even as I slipped in a second finger, crooked my fingers and, yes, there .

Daisy hooked her hands in my hair hard enough to scratch my scalp. I didn’t care, just kept at my task, letting her ride my face to her own completion. Daisy, steady and statuesque, came with her eyes screwed shut and her mouth dropped open; the only noise she made was a lovely, breathy grunt.

It was devastating.

It was incandescent .

We collapsed on the abused sofa, out of breath and damp. My chin was wet, and her fingers were in her mouth, curious. We settled in a messy tangle of loosened curls, wrinkled fabric, and slouched stockings, then immediately started giggling. I didn’t know what was so funny. Nothing was funny. It was . . . relief was what it was. Relief and joy and an afterglow that bubbled like golden champagne.

I crawled up Daisy’s body, flopped onto her bare breasts, kissed the nearest swell of the mound, and snuggled into the lovely creamy pillows, pleased with myself and the whole world in general.

“That was worth the wait.” I sighed blissfully.

“Agreed.”

“Now what?”

“Now we should wash and change, for I feel myself much energized, and if we stay indoors I fear I will rip the manuscript out of your hands and begin my revisions immediately.”

I sat up and helped Daisy get herself properly tucked back into her stays.

“I meant with the book, sweetheart,” I said, twirling a winsome curl around my finger before tucking it back up under her cap for her. “After I read it, and you make your revisions, then what? Do you just make a copy and send it to a publisher?”

Daisy made a face. “Yes. But I fear that it will not be considered. I am no Ann Radcliffe, with her Italians and Udolphos. I am very proud of what I have written, but what if no publisher wishes to take it on commission? I may be forced to sell the manuscript entire, and never see another shilling from it.”

“That doesn’t sound awesome.”

Daisy slumped against my shoulder. “Failing that, I may have to pay the publisher to print the book myself, though I have no concept of how I may afford to do so.” She chewed her thumbnail for a moment before the bitter taste of the ink stains made her wrinkle her nose. “I suppose I could open a subscription, but who would pay a penny for a chapter a week when I have published nothing else, and none know of me?”

I suddenly wished I still had something of value left to hock. My cell phone and watch had both gone to Fenton to buy my freedom, and his bride. I had nothing to give Daisy except my assurances.

“Trust me,” I said. “Someone will buy this book.”

She laughed, and it was such an ugly little self-deprecating sound that I was actually startled. “Nobody will wish to read the romantic nonsense of a silly woman.”

Fuck it. Tell her your last secret .

“Daisy . . . Margaret. They will. I know this.”

She sat back and her eyes went wide. “You know it?” she repeated, that clever brain of hers putting the pieces together like lighting. “My god. You know it. That explains the expression you wear when I read. You are familiar with it already!”

“Yes,” I admitted, intimate, whispering this final truth into the sex-perfumed air. “Do you want me to tell you what happens to it?”

“No,” she said immediately. “No, pray, tell me nothing of its reception. I dare not know if it is published, or brings me acclaim, or financial comfort, or, god forbid, fame. I only need to know that it is not in vain. That my hard work is rewarded.”

“It’s rewarded,” I reassured her.

“Oh, Sam!” she said, wriggling in delight, clutching me close and kissing me hard and fast. “I believe you! You have read my book in the future !”

“To be honest with you, it wasn’t me who was the fan. It was my ex. She would read me passages while I did the dishes, or we would watch dramatic adaptations.” I shook my head, smiled wryly, shrugged with one shoulder. “Besides, I always confused the plots of your books.”

“Books,” she repeated, filled with awe. “Plural?”

“Oh fuck.” I covered my face. “I’m a terrible, terrible time traveler.”

“I have more ideas,” Daisy enthused, and in a flash she was up and pacing, manic with glee. “But I have not done more than jot down notes. But now I’m uncertain. What if they are the wrong ones?” She stopped and turned to me, lip between her teeth, shy. “Which . . . ? Which book is your favorite?”

Of all the questions Daisy could ask about the future, about how well known she was, about any awards she’d earned or how many novels she’d published, this wasn’t one I was expecting. Still, I could answer that one without hesitation.

“ The Welshman’s Daughters ,” I said. “That’s everyone’s favorite.”

“ The Welshman’s Daughters ,” Daisy murmured. “Which one is that?”

I reached over to her writing desk, and, grinning, tapped the leather folder.

~

The rest of our morning free, we washed quickly and changed into clothes suitable for walking—me in my cream-and-rose calico, purple Chucks peeking out the bottom, and Daisy in pale olive with coral trim, with a sparingly decorated bonnet that Iris continually despaired of. Daisy looped my hand through her elbow as we passed the milliner’s and I peered through the glass at the hats.

“What’s this?” I asked, shaking our linked elbows gently.

“Me, touching you,” Daisy said smugly.

Our walk took us directly past Coopers, so I waved hello at young Thomas. He was behind the counter with an older man who couldn’t be anyone else but his father, counting out a handful of change for a serving girl. He caught my wave, grinned fit to break his face in half, and tried to return it, forgetting of course that he had a handful of coins. They went flying like a shower of sequins and I laughed, covering my face with my hand and wondering if this was the sort of instance where one needed a fan.

“Who is that?” Daisy asked as she tried to hide her own smile.

“That is Mr. Cooper. I buy our flour from him. Or, I guess it’s young Master Cooper, if that’s his dad, there. He says we’re friends.”

“And are you?”

“Sure, why not?” I shrugged.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” she said as we walked on.

“Oh, I am,” I said. “Do you know how long I’ve been cooped up while people did things to me? For me? I actually missed going grocery shopping, if you can believe it.”

“You were very independent?”

“I lived alone, yeah. No servants. Just me.”

“That must have been . . . ” Daisy sighed and squeezed my arm.

“What? Expensive? Nerve-racking? Busy? Hard?”

“Freeing.”

I laughed. “Yeah, it kinda was. I could leave my dishes in the sink if I wanted to or lounge around naked after a bath. There would be no new mess when I walked into the apartment besides the one I had left behind.”

We stopped at the top of a street, one of the many hilly protrusions that dotted Bath, and I gestured to the river below us, the rows of houses, the fiercely green fields and woods beyond. “But this? This is great. We don’t have anything like this.”

“No trees?” Daisy teased.

“The human animal is inclined to reproduce and sprawl,” I said with a shrug. “People generally don’t start building upward until they crash against their neighbors and have to. A little garden like yours is worth a pretty penny nowadays.” I frowned. “Then-a-days.”

Daisy frowned too. “I do not think I would like to visit your time, Miss Franklin,” she said, mirth evaporated. “I like open skies and leafy laneways far too much.”

“There’s still lots of green left. Just not in the cities. Not unless there’s a park carved out of the concrete. So little of it is untouched.” I waved at the forest encroaching on the edge of town.

Instead of breaking the law today, my talk of trees had Daisy longing for them. We made our way to Daisy’s favorite walk. It was covered with the arching branches of sturdy thick vines, giving it the feel of an arcade covered with emerald stained glass. The sun shone through gaps like arrow shafts, and, aside from the faint tweet of some sweet little bird or other, all the sounds of the world vanished, muted by the foliage.

Halfway through, I pulled Daisy aside to sit on a decorative rock so we wouldn’t stain our bums. I suddenly remembered Margaret Goodenough’s “green gowns,” and then tried very hard not to. We were too exposed, more’s the pity.

Daisy pinched a loose fold of my calico dress thoughtfully. “Daisies and sweet peas are both April flowers, you know. The month of rebirth and new beginnings. They are often illustrated entwined .”

She bit the tip of her tongue between her teeth and shot me a smoldering look.

Egad, I’d created a monster.

“Poetical,” I said. “You should be a writer or something.”

“Har-har,” Daisy quipped, in perfect imitation of my own flat deadpan delivery that it sent me into a flurry of giggles.

Maybe this was private enough, after all? I nosed at Daisy’s cheek and she turned obligingly to let me at her mouth. That sweet bud, indeed.

We jerked apart at the sound of someone calling Daisy’s name, and a breathless young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty, with a dark complexion and hair, skidded to a stop beside us.

“Well, Miss Margaret!” the interloper scolded us. “I swear, you are an impossibly deaf old woman!”

“Not that old,” I butted in, and the teenager rolled her eyes, but kept grinning.

Daisy stood. “Miss Wilhelmina Donaldson, may I introduce you to my companion, Miss Samantha Franklin?” Daisy cut a look at me, humored but already weary. “Miss Donaldson is the youngest sister of my brother’s friend Richard. What brings you to Bath, Miss Donaldson?”

“Well! Papa got a house for the season, finally —it’s taken him ages to see sense and that Bath is where one must be to catch a husband, now that I’m out!” I jolted at the phrasing, and had to remind myself that out meant “marriageable” and not “of the closet.” A shame we could never convince your father to host us when he was still with us.”

“Indeed,” Daisy agreed, and meant clearly the opposite. I could imagine how infuriating this chatterbox would be to Daisy as she tried to write, and how badly she would clash with Marigold, who preferred to be the sole arbiter of conversation.

“And you, Miss Franklin? Are you here to net yourself a lord? Perhaps even a duke? Then we will see a great wedding!” Wilhelmina enthused. “Well, Miss Margaret, you must have a new dress made for the occasion!” She turned to me. “She always dresses like such a fuddy-duddy.”

Daisy curled her mouth in a way that looked like a smile but that both of us knew very well was not.

“I’m content with what I have.” I tugged sweetly on the dangling ribbons of Daisy’s coral sash, where Wilhelmina couldn’t see.

“Well, then! Are you engaged?” Wilhelmina squealed. “Please, show me the ring, Miss Franklin! I’m ever so fond of the rings!”

“I . . . er,” I said, begging for help from Daisy with a pleading glance.

“What Miss Franklin means is that she is currently attached to our household, and is in no rush to establish her own,” Daisy said tactfully.

Wilhelmina snorted. “Well, then you have been spending too much time with Miss Margaret,” she told me. “The woman behaves as if she is a spinster already, doomed to a life with no romance, when she could have had Mr. Vaughn as easily as that.” She snapped her gloved fingers neatly.

“Mr. Vaughn?” I repeated, curious.

“No one,” Daisy assured me.

“A ‘no one’ Margaret was engaged to for a whole four months!” Wilhelmina pressed with another laugh, utterly failing to clock the sour look on Daisy’s face. Yeah, there was definitely a story there that I was going to ask for later, if Daisy was in the mood to share it. “Well, perhaps your brother will have other friends for you, now that Richard is engaged to Miss Worthing, and Judge Lewis is married.”

His name sent a jolt of long-forgotten terror up my spine. I must have made a noise because Daisy grabbed my hand hard, to keep me from bolting.

“Oh, and did you hear!” Miss Donaldson went on, oblivious to the change in our moods. “They had quite the falling out when your brother returned to London for his orders last week. ‘A bloody great row in the square,’ is how Richard tells it, for he was with the captain when Sir Lewis confronted him over ‘that woman’! Goodness, do you know who he meant? Not a mistress surely, what a scandal that would be, so soon after the judge’s marriage to . . . well, now what was the name of Lewis’s bride, again? It was ever so cleverly put in the papers—the adventuresome colonial.”

“No idea!” I cut in before Daisy could answer. “Probably best not to spread gossip, though.”

“I suppose. Marriages all around.” Wilhelmina pouted, the wind gone from her sails, twiddling her fan and fighting back an unhappy expression. “Well. For all but me, it seems.”

“You’ll find someone.” I cupped her shoulder sincerely. “I know you will. Someone who appreciates your enthusiasm and loves your, ah, verbosity. But trust me when I say, woman to woman, don’t say yes to just anyone simply because you’re afraid to be alone. That never ends happily.”

As I gave my little speech, Wilhelmina’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, until a spark of understanding was struck behind them.

“I see. Well!” she said again, smoothing down her gown. “Please pass my felicitations on to your brother, Miss Margaret. We long to meet the new Mrs. Goodenough when she visits you. We are staying on Avon Street, should you like to drop by for tea. I would very much like to further our acquaintance, Miss Franklin.”

“Same,” I said, surprised to realize I meant it.

Wilhelmina blinked at me, like most people did when I replied in a way they understood but didn’t expect, then curtseyed and scampered away, calling to another passing victim: “Miss Jemima! Oh, Miss Jemima, I say! Your new reticule is an absolute delight!”

“You really wish to deepen that acquaintance?” Daisy asked, as we resumed walking.

“She’s talkative, so what? She’s clearly down on herself. She’s probably been told her whole life that the entirety of her worth is tied up in her face and how rich the dude she bags is. Don’t you feel sorry for her?”

“I suppose I did not consider that.”

“I bet she’s a romantic,” I said. “Maybe she desperately wants to be in love. Wanting to have someone special, someone they can grow old with and—”

I was struck by a weird niggle of something I couldn’t quite name.

“And?” Daisy asked.

“I . . . sorry, I lost my thoughts there for a second. What was I saying?”

Daisy smiled, the genuine one that crinkled up the sides of her eyes, and I was slammed with that weird swoopy feeling again.

“You were expressing the understanding that marriage can be genuinely desirable for those who have a life partner they cherish.”

“Yeah. That.” Why was I suddenly all sweaty? “I mean, this Mr. Vaughn, you don’t regret . . . I mean, of course not, or you would have married him but, I—man, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

Daisy raised a curious eyebrow. “You’re not the only one who has had past chances,” she said. “Simply because I’d never been kissed before, please do not assume I was unwanted.”

“Of course not.”

The nebulous swoopy thing swirled as she regaled me with the story of meeting him at a house party and how interesting and kind she had found him. But how, ultimately, she had realized she would never be able to love him the way he deserved, the way she wanted to care for her life partner, and had released him.

The swoop resolved itself into a soft-edged cloud of jealousy. I rested my forehead briefly against the back of her shoulder when she paused to inspect a flower hanging at eye level, swallowing back the feelings clogging my throat.

“What is wrong, Miss Franklin?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “I’m just being a jealous bitch, honestly.”

Daisy laughed and it made something in me soar.

“Do not be,” she said softly. She pulled my hand up to her mouth and kissed my palm sweetly. It still made my blood fizz. “You are far more wonderful than any fellow who only sought to marry me to inherit my father’s living. I am also content with what I have.”

I’m in love , I realized, like the smack of a wet fish between the eyes. Like, honest to god, get down on one knee love. Holy shit. No wonder the marriage talk is making me squirmy.

I turned her quickly and grabbed her shoulders. “I wish—” I began, and then stopped. Because it wasn’t true.

No, I did not wish I had met Daisy in the future, in Barcelona, because I wouldn’t have cared. I would have shared a bottle of wine, a fuck, maybe a few days of smiles and tours, and then I would have left her. And missed out on this . The careful comfort, the ability to mean something to her, to be of use to her. The slow intimacies and the easy burn of her kisses. I wanted so badly to mean something to Daisy. To be irreplaceable. To make her mine and be hers forever and I couldn’t. I couldn’t .

“Daisy, I lo— I . . . I . . .”

Daisy waited, patient as granite and twice as supportive, for me to finish my sentence. I didn’t.

Her own eyes widened, cheeks pinking, reading my epiphany in my gaze like in one of her own fucking books.

My heart lurched toward hers.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Sam. Yes .”

I wanted to kiss her, and get down on one knee and tell her how much I adored her, and that I wanted to marry the hell out of her.

And how selfish was I, when I knew that this wasn’t how history was supposed to go?

Knew, and didn’t care.

“Let’s go home,” I said, trying to keep the smolder out of my voice. “Now.”

~

Miss Brown had returned early, and thwarted my salacious plans. Disappointed but energized by the day’s successes, Daisy threw herself into her own chores while I was given the shopping purse, the list, and a wicker basket with a handle large enough to loop over my arm. I lingered at the errands, reliving the phantom brush of Daisy against my arm, the taste of her, the humidity of her breath on my cheek, the way the hems of our skirts had flirted with one another as we walked, the little noise she’d made when she’d climaxed.

I love her , I love her , I love her , my heart thundered, so loud that I was surprised that passersby didn’t remark on it.

First I stopped outside of the milliner’s, to smile at the hats I could never have, feeling a bit like a kid staring at the kittens that Mom had already said no to in the pet shop window. Then I moved on to a stand filled with vegetables in season and shriveled little fruits out of it, the butcher’s, the dairy, and, lastly, Cooper’s general store.

“Miss Franklin!” he said as I entered, as he had every time I’d arrived, with his megawatt grin. I wondered if he ever turned down the voltage, or only used it on his female customers to charm them into buying more than what they came for. He finished serving a man in a footman’s uniform, and when we were alone added: “I saw you with your pretty friend today.”

“That was Miss Goodenough. I need many supplies.” I read the list of ingredients off of the paper, and he moved around the store like a choreographed dance to fill my order, stretching up to reach the tops of shelves, crouching low to reach others. I let my interest wander to a collection of bottles by the window, each label proclaiming them to be “Essence of” some herb or flower. I was learning every day in the kitchen with Miss Brown that what I considered delicious, the people here might not. And vice versa.

Eventually Mr. Cooper returned to the counter with my assembled packages, I paid, and he began to close up. I loaded the basket, careful to shift the veggies so the heavy flours and powders would not bruise them; it cut into my elbow but it was still manageable.

“Have a good evening,” I said to Mr. Cooper and walked out the door.

He caught up to me a few shops later, red cheeked and grinning foolishly, in such a rush that he hadn’t even changed. His white coat was practically phosphorescent against the twilight. “Please allow me to escort you again. Your basket looks heavy.”

“I’m fine,” I said. I was.

“Miss Franklin—”

“Mr. Cooper, I’m female, not feeble.”

He stuttered to a halt. “I did not mean . . . I apologize, Miss Franklin, if you thought that I . . . ah . . . I just want to accompany you. If I may.”

I stopped and looked into his face. It was wide and open everywhere Daisy’s was sharp and pouting. He was generically handsome. Ordinary. In another life I would have called him a himbo, bought him a drink, and asked him if he’d ever thought about getting pegged.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what, Miss Franklin?” he asked.

“Why do you want to walk me home?”

“It is . . .” He floundered, confused by the forthright inquiry. “It is merely polite. When one’s acquaintances are far away, and I do understand the bottom of the sea to be quite far indeed, it always benefits to make new friends. And friends walk each other home.”

I sighed and held out the basket. He grinned like a golden retriever, took it, and offered his arm again. I accepted it and we resumed. “When is it my turn to walk you home?”

The impertinence of the question startled that sweet belly laugh out of him. “But that would defeat the purpose, Miss Franklin, as I would have to promptly turn around to return the favor.”

“What, I can’t walk home alone in the dark?”

“No, Miss Franklin. It is not wise to do so, not even in Bath.”

“Plus ca change,” I huffed.

All the same, it was nice to have a friend outside of the house, and I liked hearing about all the dramas of his shop just as much as Mr. Cooper the Younger liked hearing about the upstairs/downstairs life of the Goodenough household.

As we passed the milliner, also closing for the day, Cooper excused himself to run a quick errand inside. He returned carrying one unfinished poke bonnet by the slash of blue ribbon sewn across the point where straw brim met the raw fabric tuft at the back.

“Mr. Cooper,” I said. “I’m not entirely certain that those ribbons are your color.”

“No, no,” he said, fumbling with the bonnet, looking at it, then me, then back down at it. He tucked it, shamefaced, behind his back, then blushed furiously and held it back out. “They are yours, though.”

“My . . . what now?”

“Your color, Miss Franklin,” Cooper said, but with none of the lightness his teasing usually came with. “The blue is the same shade as your eyes.”

“I suppose it is,” I admitted.

And then, of course, I understood.

Shit .

He flushed again and said, “Miss Franklin, I couldn’t help but notice you often peruse the wares at the hatmaker’s, and, well, I thought it would be an accurate token of my affection if I were to, uh, provide you with a bonnet. A lady ought to have a bonnet.”

I winced, more out of embarrassment for his stuttering confession than out of discomfort over the fact that the dude that I bought flour from every other night seemed to think that our evening walks were leading somewhere they were not.

Idiot , I scolded myself.

Of course that was what he would think about our strolls. I was a woman interacting regularly with a man, both of us single and unchaperoned. Where I came from, Harry could meet Sally with no orgasms required, but this was 1806 and Mr. Cooper probably had every right to think that I was actively attempting to, as the phrase in the dramas went, “attach him.”

No , no , no , abort , I thought frantically. I deliberately did not reach for the hat.

“Thank you, Mr. Cooper. But I fear I cannot accept your gift.”

He opened his mouth to argue, I saw it flash in his eyes. Then he changed his mind. “All the same, I should still like to walk you home.”

I wanted to say no.

“Mr. Cooper,” I said instead, hesitating. This is ridiculous , I thought miserably. I hadn’t resented being in this era so much as right in this moment, because I couldn’t just tell him I had a girlfriend and put an end to it.

“Please,” he said, and it was so sad that guilt bloomed in my lungs.

He offered me his elbow, then tucked the bonnet against his other side. I wouldn’t let him take back the basket. The rest of the walk was silent.

When we reached the garden gate, he held the bonnet out to me. “I have no use for it besides as a gift for you,” he said intensely. “No sisters, no mother. Please. Take it. As a friend.”

“It’s an extravagant gift, even for a friend.”

He looked crestfallen. “Please?”

“All right,” I croaked, plucking it from his hands. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Franklin,” he said. He leaned toward me—dear god, for a kiss —and I jerked out of range. He wrinkled his nose, looked away, and dropped a resentful little head bob.

“Good evening, Miss Franklin,” he said, and turned away. He was halfway down the road before I could say anything in return. When I looked up, Daisy was already at the door, Miss Brown behind her to take the basket. I followed them inside, and Miss Brown said nothing about the skeletal bonnet dangling by its ribbons like a dead cat. Daisy fled into the parlor.

Piano music, halting and slightly out of tune, wafted into the kitchen.

I hung the bonnet on the peg beside the door, hesitated, then called myself a coward.

“Daisy?” I said, softly, knocking gently as I entered. “I’ll help Miss Brown get dinner laid, do you want anything before I go?” She was silent for long enough that I thought perhaps she hadn’t heard me. “Daisy?” I asked again.

“I find that I do not like your Mr. Cooper,” Daisy replied, rising to glare out the window, down the street Cooper had gone down, winding the drapes between anxious fingers.

“Yeah. Look, sorry about that, I thought he was just a guy I hung out with, but it turns out he was girlfriend-zoning me this whole time.”

“You offered him no discouragement, Sam,” she hissed.

“I did,” I protested. “As soon as I figured out what he was after.”

Daisy chewed on her bottom lip, but after a moment, nodded and released the curtains to turn into me and press her face against my neck for a hug. “This is wretched. I dislike immensely that I must endure men swooping on you like vultures .”

“Totally sucks,” I agreed. “If it’s any consolation, I hate it every time your mom sets you up on a date too.”

Daisy groaned. “I long for a home for just us two. But I daren’t hope that my writing will be sufficient to fund such a thing.”

“It might. You never know.”

She pulled back to narrow her eyes, bright with unshed tears, at me. “Do you know?”

“I actually don’t,” I reassured her. “But it’ll never happen if you don’t finish it, and you can’t finish it until I read it, so I guess I better get on that, eh?”

“After your dinner,” Daisy said, stepping back to lead me to the kitchen. “I would have you at your full strength before facing that challenge.”

“How magnanimous,” I murmured, pinching the end of her coral sash and following in her wake like the besotted duckling I was.